CHAPTER IX.

Abbey Square, Deanery, and Palace.—The Abbey Gates.—Chester Markets, and Abbot’s Fair.—Northgate, and old City Gaol.—St. John’s Hospital and Blue School.—Newtown, and Christ Church.—Railway Tunnel.—St. Thomas’ Chapel.—Training College.

Thesmell of sanctity yet fresh upon us, let us now continue, as best we may, our peregrinations northward.

Yonder, at the lower end of this Street, we catch a glimpse of theWalls; and, turning ourselves about, take a rapid look atAbbey Square(the only Square old Chester can boast!) with itsDeaneryandBishop’s Palace,—the former occupying the site of the ancientChapel of St. Thomas, nay, resting indeed on the foundations of that sacred edifice. The latter is a gloomy-looking pile of red sandstone, erected by Bishop Keene in 1753; but within it have resided as goodly a fellowship of mitred heads as ever graced the episcopal bench. Markham, Porteus, Cleaver, Law, Blomfield, Sumner, and last not least, Graham, our present amiable diocesan, have each in turn found here their house and home.

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 principalGatewayof theAbbey, 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 thebonhommieof 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 thearchway, 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 thatGeorge 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.” Thehereticsof one age are not unfrequently thesaintsof 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 EpiscopalRegistry; 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 somewillin 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 ofMarshand his martyrdom in her mind, became seriously alarmed. Having however, like most women, a “willof 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 whichanother sarcastic genius, the late Mascie Taylor, Esq., added this couplet:—

Since women are so fond of men,WithSpeedshe will fly up again!

Let us now pass on.

Leaving behind us theAbbey Gateand its bygone associations, we are once more inNorthgate Street, and may stay to cast “one withering glance” at those melancholy-looking buildings on either side, theFowl,Butter, andButchers’ Marketsof 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 annualFairat 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 theAbbot’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 theLittleorHigher Abbey Gate; and from it, in days past, ran the wall of the Monastery in a direct line southward to the GreatAbbey Gate; the wall itself has now given way to a row of shops and other valuable buildings.

Nearly opposite to theLittle 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!

In a step or two we are passing the higher end ofKing Street, formerlyBarn Lane, at the corner of which stands an ancient hostelry, yclept the “Pied Bull.” Here again we have before us the degenerate type of those strange old Rows, which so filled you with amaze in our earlier rambles. There can be no doubt that, originally, these wondrous piazzas ran continuously along the four great streets of the city, except where they verge upon the confines of the Abbey; but these isolated portions are gradually disappearing before the “march of improvement.” Doctors differ, alas! in Chester, as elsewhere, about the actual wisdom of this aforesaid “march!”

Again we move onwards, passing under a substantial arch of white stone, referred to in our “Walk round the Walls” as theNorthgateof the city. While the other three Gates were vested, by serjeantship, from time immemorial, in various noble families, this, theporta septentrionalis, as anciently belonged to the commorant citizens. Prior to 1808, when the present arch was erected, theNorthgate, if we may credit the engravings handeddown to us, was a miserably effete and incongruous erection. What made it appear more so was the Gaol, or common prison of the city, which occupied a great part of the space around, above, and below it. A prison existed here from the earliest period; it is quoted in documents of the Norman earldom, and was at the time of its demolition a terrible specimen of legalised corruption—an establishment defying even the besom of a Howard to purge or purify. The city sheriff here saw execution done on all criminals capitally convicted within the county; here again the unfortunate debtor got “whitewashed,” and relieved of his “little odd scores;” and here were practised those “tortures thrice refined” which might put even the Great Inquisition to the blush. Far away from human gaze, fathoms deep in the solid rock, were chambers hewn, dreadful to survey, horrifying to think upon. Of these, two bore the distinguishing titles of “Little Ease,” and the “Dead Man’s Room.” The latter was the spot where condemned criminals awaited their execution, and was “a dark stinking place” in which snakes and other venomous reptiles gambolled at discretion. The “Little Ease,” as we read from a contemporary work, “was a hole hewed out in a rock; the breadth and cross from side to side was seventeen inches from the back to the inside of the great door; at the top seven inches, at the shoulders eight inches, and at the breast nine inches and a-half; witha device to lessen the heightas they were minded to torture the person put in, by drawboards which shot over across the two sides, to a yard in height, or thereabouts.”

In those blissful times when Oliver Cromwell ruled England with an iron sceptre, these two “pleasantly situated furnished apartments” were in great request by the Barebones magistracy; and it is matter of record that,

Locked in their cold embrace,

numerous unoffending, peaceloving Quakers endured the rod of persecution for conscience sake. And yet, forsooth,thosewere your oft-vaunted days of civil and religious liberty! Away with them all, say we! The Gaol, with its attendant miseries, has gone, but the dungeons we have pictured abide there still, beneath the ground we are now standing on,—though filled up, it is true, and for ever absolved from their ancient uses.

Having just passedunderone arch, we are now walkingoveranother which spans an abyss formed by the deep cut of theEllesmere and Chester Canal. Yon little parallel archway, a few yards to the westward of us, is theBridge of Death,—the path along which the felons about to die usually went to receive the “last consolation of the church” in the Chapel of St. John, on the opposite side of the gulf.

Northgate, and Bluecoat Hospital

Pass we on once more for a few yards, and then turning round, a prospect awaits us the very similitude of that depicted in our engraving. To the left we have theNorthgate, and portion of theWalls—those rare old Walls!—while the foreground to the right is occupied by that useful charitable institution, theBlue-Coat Hospital. For centuries prior to the great Civil War there stood, on this site, a venerable asylum, founded by Randal, Earl of Chester, for “poore and sillie persons,” under the name of theHospital of St. John the Baptist. In the reign of Edward III., a jury of free citizens was sworn to report on the “vested rights” of this house, and the verdict these worthies returned was this:—

“That there ought to be, and have accustomed to be, in the said Hospital, three chaplains to say mass daily—two in the church, and the third in the chapel—before the poor and feeble sustained in the said Hospital; and that one lamp ought to be sustained at mass every day in the said Hospital, and to burn every night in the whole year; and that thirteen beds, competently clothed, should be sustained in the same Hospital, and receive thirteen poor men of the same city; whereof each shall have for daily allowance a loaf of bread, a dish of pottage, half a gallon of competent ale, and a piece of fish or flesh, as the day shall require.”

Not bad fare this for the thirteen brethren, “poore and feeble,” who, from all we can judge,

Must have gone to bed merry (as who could fail),On their foaming “half-gallons of competent ale!”

Thus matters sped with this thriving community for several hundred years; and even at the Reformation, when other and similar institutions foundered in the gale, St. John’s Hospital appears to have weathered the storm. It might, indeed, have retained until now its original position, had not England got entangled in that horrid Civil War. Then it was that, with characteristic loyalty, the men of old Chester declared for the king—then it was that the suburbs of the city became a ruinous heap—and that this venerable Hospital was razed to the ground, lest it should serve as a cover for the artillery of the enemy. But the city, which had so bravely withstood one foe, had, like the Kars of our own day, to succumb before another; for famine at length achieved what the deadly cannon had failed to accomplish! The tale of theSiegehas already been told; suffice it then to say, that order and the monarchy being once more restored, the site of the Hospital, and the lands belonging to it, were granted by Charles II. to Colonel Whitley, and at his death to the Mayor and Corporation of Chester, as permanent custodians of the charity. How the Corporation abused their trust, and mismanaged the Hospital; how they sold its estates, and squandered the proceeds; and how, after all, “like leeches satiate with evil blood,” they had to disgorge their plunder, is, we can assure you, a very pretty story, which we might tell, if we chose, but we are mercifully inclined.

A Blue-Coat Hospitalwas established in Chester in 1700, under the auspices of Bishop Stratford; and, seventeen yearsafterwards, the liberality of the citizens erected in its service a “local habitation,” on part of the site originally occupied by the Hospital of St. John. But bricks and mortar, like everything else, will not last for ever; so the old premises having gone to decay, benevolence has again put its shoulder to the wheel, and, in 1854, restored the fabric in the handsome manner we now behold it. That graceful little statue over the doorway—a portrait of one of the “Blue Boys”—is a study from the life by Richardson, of London. There are thirty-one scholars on the foundation, all clothed, fed, boarded, and educated at the cost of the charity; besides which, there is a probationary or “Green Cap” School, from which those who have “attained the purple” are usually selected.

As for the “thirteen brethren, poore and feeble,” of the original foundation, their number, which, from causes already hinted at, had dwindled down to six, has recently been restored,—their cottages at the rear of the Blue School rebuilt, and fitted with every convenience,—while each brother and sister now receives an allowance of ten shillings per week. Thus, thanks to Lord Brougham and his charity commissioners, thirteen poor souls—

From chilling want and guilty murmurs free,

here rest their aged limbs; and as they, in turn, go down peacefully to the grave, others will step into their shoes, to the perpetual honour of theHospital of St. John, and of its Norman founder, the good Earl Randal.

The steep lane running westward from the Hospital isCanal Street, leading down to the canal, and the “banks of the Dee.” You don’t care about going down there, just now? Very well, then, we’ll refrain; but, uninviting as it seems at first sight, a ramble upon the Navigation Cop, at the first flow of the tide, is an enjoyable sort of treat, as you’ll find if you have time to avail yourself of it.

Nearly opposite to the Blue School isGeorge Street, anciently calledGorse Stacks, a wider and more commodious street than the last, leading away to the Cattle Market and Railway Station, as also to the populous and increasing suburb ofNew Town. We can remember this locality when it was little else but green pasture—theLion’s Fieldwe believe it was called—but how changed is it now! its verdure has fled,—it is country no longer; for the once open fields now swarm with innumerable homes of men! Nearthe bottom ofSt. Ann Street, the oldest and still principal street of this suburb, standsChrist Church, a neat little cruciform structure, with diminutive spire, and small lancet-shaped windows, erected in 1838, to meet the spiritual wants of this growing neighbourhood. The Church has sitting accommodation for about 600 worshippers.

Proceeding alongUpper Northgate Street, we soon reach Egerton House, formerly a seat of the Cheshire family of that name; but recently converted into a first-class ladies’ school, under the efficient management of the Misses Williams. Stay here an instant, for we are just over theTunnelof the Chester and Holyhead Railway, which science, art, and convenience have combined to make the great highway between England and Ireland.

A little farther on, and our street branches off in two almost parallel directions,—the way upon our right being the old coach road to Birkenhead and Liverpool, and that upon our left—but stay! we are travelling a “leetle” too fast, for we haven’t quite done with our presentlocale. Before us stands a lofty house, crowned with a lanthorn-shaped observatory, and at present the residence of Mr. Fletcher. It occupies the site of an older house, called at different periodsGreen HallandJolly’s Hall, destroyed before the Siege of Chester, for the same reasons which dictated the fall of other portions of the suburbs. This house, again, had usurped the place of an older tenant of the soil; for here was situate theChapelandCemeteryofSt. Thomas à Becket, founded, no doubt, soon after that prelate’s murder and canonisation in 1170. This Chapel gave name to the manorial court in connection with the Abbey, to which jurisdiction the tenants of the Cathedral are even now subject. Until lately, the bailiff of the Dean and Chapter held his annual court for this manor in the Refectory (now the King’s School), impanelling his jury from among the Cathedral tenants, who, by that “suit and service,” acknowledged the prerogative of this ancient court. Now let us pass on along the roadway to our left.

What is this Elizabethan building we are so rapidly approaching? Surely this has no antediluvian tale to tell—no musty connection with mediæval times? No, truly: here we have a creation of the present age—a noble institution,—one which, from its character and objects, deserves at least some notice at our hands. This is theDiocesan Training College, the same building we saw and admired at a distance, in our “Walk round the Walls.” Erected mainly by public subscription, in 1842, fromthe designs of Messrs. Buckler, of London—established for the training and qualifying of masters for the Church Schools of the diocese,—presided over by the bishop, and more immediately by the talented principal, the Rev. Arthur Rigg,—this institution “pursues the even tenour of its way,” by annually preparing a number of young men fitted for the duties of parochial schoolmasters—men firmly attached to the Church of their forefathers, and able to impart to those intrusted to them the blessings of a sound, religious, and useful education.

TheCollegehas a resident principal and vice-principal, the former, Mr. Rigg, having held his appointment since the first starting of the project. In its infancy, and while the present handsome edifice was in building, theCollegefor awhile “hid its light under a bushel” in some dreary-looking premises in Nicholas Street, but was removed hither in the autumn of 1842. In addition to the ordinary details of scholastic training, the students are instructed in various branches of manual labour; they are taught how “to handle the chisel and the saw, the mattock and the spade.” They have on the premises a blacksmith’s forge,—at which they manufacture all their own implements and tools;—turners’ lathes, steam-engines, lithographic presses, power looms, and a host of other appliances, are at the mercy of the “happy family;” and it is wonderful to see to what proficiency these amateur craftsmen attain,—and all, be it remembered, during their intervals of leisure from more important duties. Subordinate in some measure to this “school for school-masters,” there is also a Lower School, upon the ground floor, for the children of the poor. Here the incipient masters in turn officiate, and gradually learn, under the superintendence of their worthy chief, the practical duties of their responsible profession. Under the same paternal roof exists another school, more private and commercial in its character and aims, under the special eye and control of the principal, for the sons of the higher and middle classes of society. Of this latter arm it is sufficient to say—

And higher praise ’twere hard to give,Unjust to offer less,—

that it is conducted on the same scale of intelligence and liberality which distinguish the other main branches of the institution.

Some years after the building of theCollege, a Chapel was erected at the south-east corner, for the use of the students; and a chaste little edifice it is, inside as well as out; worthy—if aughthere below, indeed,canbe worthy—of the holy purpose for which it was designed,—the glorious worship of the triune God. The internal fittings and decorations, which are many and beautiful, are almost wholly the work of the industrious students; and, while honourable to their taste in design, reflect the highest credit as well upon their hearts as on their hands.

Beyond, and to the right of theCollege, stands the CheshireCounty Lunatic Asylum; but, this being without the confines of the City, is, by the same token, beyond our pale.

We have now reached the extent of our wanderings northward, for a narrow brook, a short distance away, determines the limits of the city jurisdiction; so, bidding “a long, a last farewell” to the ChesterCollege, and to the enchanting prospect its site commands, we will return, nothing loth, to the heart of the city, and to those ravishing chops so anxiously awaiting us at our own hotel.

Llwyd, the Welsh Antiquary.—Chester Fair.—Tennis Court and Theatre.—The Justing Croft.—The Bars.—Steam Mills.—Ragged Schools.—Boughton and St. Paul’s Church.—The Spital and George Marsh.—Roman Altar.—St. John Street, and Mechanics’ Institution.—Roman Catholic Convent.—St. John’s Church and Ruins.—Jacob’s Well, and the Anchorite’s Cell.—The Groves and the Dee.

Whata strange old place thisChesterof ours is! As we retrace our steps under theNorthgateand theWalls, we seem as if roaming through a city of the middle ages; so oddly does everything around us arrest our attention, and “excite our passing wonder.” Those overhanging gables, with darksome pathways burrowed out beneath them, and whose builders were subjects of “Good Queen Bess,”—those two rugged Gateways still marking the course of the old Abbey wall,—the crumbling Abbey itself, more venerable still, and incomparably “richer and rarer” to look upon; these, and yon marvellous Rows, which nobody has ever seen, or ever can see, anywhere but in Chester, afford us ample subjects for contemplation until we arrive at theEastgate.

The first street we come to on leaving the Gate isSt. John Street; but, the good old rule of “first come, first serve,” must for once be set aside, since we intend to reserve the locality for the close of the present chapter.

Just opposite to St. John Street, is Bank Place; the house at the top of which was long the residence of Richard Llwyd, the Bard of Snowdon, and the author of “Beaumaris Bay,” a zealous, amiable, and intelligent Welsh antiquary. The poet died here in 1835.

Moving away eastward, then, past the end ofFrodsham Street, already noticed on our way from theRailway Station, we discern, upon our left, a long passage, leading up to theCommercial Hall; and, on the right, a heavy block of buildings, one hundred and sixty feet long by ninety-two feet wide, rejoicing in the name of theUnion Hall. TheseHalls were erected, the former in 1815, and the latter in 1809, by the Lancashire and Yorkshire merchants, who used formerly to inundate the city with their wares during the continuance of the two great Chester Fairs, in October and July. When first built, these “marts of foreign commerce” were always thronged at the privileged season with both buyers and sellers; but the world is wiser than it was; and even the Cestrians have discovered that one of the worst things they can buy is “a pig in a poke;” and that their own tradesmen sell articles every whit as cheap and as good as did those itinerant pedlars.

Eastgate

Not far from the Union Hall is the oldTennisorBall Court, where Penn the Quaker once preached to his admirers, and which was afterwards occupied as aTheatre, until the perversion of St. Nicholas’ Chapel (now theMusic Hall) to the like use. Here the productions of “rare Ben Jonson,” and the “immortal Will,” together with the minor frivolities of Congreve, Cibber, andVanbrugh (the latter of whom is claimed as a native of Chester), were doled forth to the patrons of “the legitimate drama.” Chester is now destitute of a Theatre; but whether it has suffered materially by the loss, shall be left, so far at least as we are concerned, an open question.

A little farther, upon the left hand, liesQueen Street; its higher or northern portion being anciently known as theJusting Croft. Beyond the mere name, history has bequeathed us no record of this spot; but, though England’s bard has tritely enough exclaimed—“What’s in a name?” there is something inthisone of more than ordinary significance. It is clear that at one time this was the mimic field on which the youthful chivalry of Chester wielded the lance, battle-axe, and sword; that this was the proud arena where, after their return from the wars of Palestine and of France, the belted knights of Cheshire tried a friendly lance with each other, in the presence of their assembled sweethearts and dames; and here, at “tilt and tourney,” met the would-be champions of their county, the Calveleys, the Dones, the Egertons, and the Cholmondeleys, and, mayhap, too, the Grosvenors, the Warburtons, and the Leghs. We could weave—but we won’t, for our time is getting short—a page or two of romance about this once favourite haunt. Let us hurry away, then, first casting a glance at two Chapels in this street—opposition establishments, but near neighbours withal,—theRoman Catholic Chapel, lately transformed into a Cathedral; and the larger and much handsomer meeting-house of the Calvinists, orIndependents.

Once again in Foregate Street, we are soon at the head ofLove Lane; why so named is a mystery; at all events, its mission of love is now confined to the manufacture oftobacco-pipes. At its eastern corner is a handsome house, with spacious area in front, until lately the city residence of the Barnstons of Crewe Hill, a Cheshire family of high lineage and repute. In the area before this house, March 19, 1804, the colours were presented to theLoyal Cheshire Volunteers, by the lady of Colonel Barnston, commanding officer of the corps. The house is now converted into theAuction Martof the Messrs. Churton, the knock of whose professional hammer vibrates at intervals through its noble rooms.

Onward again pastSeller Street, and the Octagon Chapel, where the Reverend John Wesley once preached, we are not long arriving at a steep road upon our right hand, calledDee Lane, running down to the river side. Near the head of this lane stood an ancient Gateway, stretching right across the main street, bearingthe name ofThe Bars. From a curious plan of the city in the reign of Elizabeth, this Gateway appears to have had a circular turret on either side; but no trace of these remained at the time of its demolition in 1770. From the Bars extended, to the left and right, the outer line of fortifications which encompassed the city during the period of theSiege.

Once clear of the Bars, we have passed into Boughton, having Russell, Steam-Mill, and Stevens Streets, all upon our left hand.Steam-Mill Street, ancientlyHorn Lane, derives its present name from the largeSteam Corn-Millsof Messrs. Frost and Sons, occupying the whole of the northern portion of the street. This is a mammoth establishment, employing a large number of hands, and has been long and successfully carried on by the present proprietors. The premises were destroyed by fire in 1834. Close to these Mills flows theCanal, on the opposite side of which we have a prospect of another hive of industry, theLead WorksandShot Towerof Messrs. Walker, Parker and Co., already noticed in our earlier rambles.

Returning to the main street, we soon arrive, through “poverty, hunger, and dirt,” atHoole Lane, the corner of which is now embellished with a neat little structure, known as the ChesterRagged Schools, for the use of those tattered little specimens of humanity ever found about the streets of all populous towns.

The Street widens out at this point, disclosing, upon our left hand,Richmond Terrace, a row of handsome suburban residences with neat gardens in front, overlooking the Dee and the Welsh side of Cheshire,

A prospect fair, of river, wood, and vale,As ever eye could wish for!

The declivity on the right is calledGallows Hill, from its being of old time the place where malefactors paid the sad penalty of their misdeeds. But what is this white conventicle-looking edifice which crowns its heights? Surely it is the refuge of some Mormon congregation—the temple, perchance, of some pagan fanaticism? Nay verily, good sirs,—assuage your indignation, for this is a Church of your own communion, a sort of Chapel of Ease to the parish of St. John. The architect was “abroad” when this building was designed; for one less becoming the outward character of a Church it is impossible to conceive. It is dedicated toSt. Paul, and was opened for divine worship in 1830.

Some twenty or thirty yards farther the road divides in twain—that upon the left being the great highway to Nantwich and London in the days when “flyingmachines” went hence to the metropolis ina couple of days!—the disciples of Watt are now ready to convey us thither in six or seven hours! The right-hand road would lead us to Whitchurch and Shrewsbury, if we wanted to go there; but we have not yet done with “rare old Chester.” This little plot of land on the right is extra-parochial, forming part of that ancient Hospital forLepers, the ancient lazar-house of St. Giles. In the ’Spital, as it is now by corruption called, George Marsh was burnt for his firm adherence to the Protestant faith in the days of Queen Mary; and in the little Cemetery of this Hospital, near which we are standing, his calcined remains now quietly rest “in sure and certain hope.”

Beyond this lies the township ofGreat Boughton, and a Chapel, once presided over by the Rev. P. Oliver, a somewhat celebrated nonconformist divine. Near this Chapel, in 1821, a Roman Altar was dug up, in splendid preservation, and about four feet high, bearing the following inscription:—

NYMPHIS ET FONTIBUSLEG. XX. V.V.

the which, being translated, would in English read thus—“To the Nymphs and Fountains, the 20th Legion, the invincible and victorious.” So much forBoughton, and its past and present condition; we will now retrace our steps to the head ofSt. John Street.

Moving rapidly down this street, leaving behind us thePost Office, and the entrance to the Blossoms Assembly Room, we pause before a house on our right-hand, approached by a flight of steps, and having a lofty stuccoed front. This is theMechanics’ Institution, and is consecrated to the instruction and healthy amusement of that important class of society whose name it bears. In addition to a Library, comprising several thousand volumes, this Institution enjoys the advantages of a News-Room, liberally supplied with the leading daily and weekly papers; together with sundry classes for the special behoof and instruction of the members. During the summer months also, members have the right of free admission to theWater Tower Museum, which we described at some length in our “Walk round the Walls.” What a marvellous fact it is, that with these benefits within their reach so few mechanics, comparatively, avail themselves of this,their ownInstitution!

Beyond this lie the Schools and minister’s house of the Wesleyan Methodists, divided only by a path to the Walls from theWesleyan Chapelitself. The principles of Wesleyanism found their way into Chester as early as 1760, the first congregation being held at a house in Love Lane. Fifteen years afterwards, the Octagon Chapel in Foregate Street was erected for them, and continued to be their place of worship until the completion of the present edifice in 1811.

But what is there to see within those large folding-doors at the bottom of St. John Street? Are anyRoman remainsto be met with in there? Yes, indeed; but far different, in every point of view, from those we have hitherto been exploring. This is anoli me tangeredomain; for the elegant mansion and grounds ofDee Househave recently developed, ’neath the double enchantment of money and zeal, into aConventof Nuns. Of the constitution and management of this veiled religious order we are not competent to speak, our sympathies being allied unto quite another creed: but from the specimens we have seen flitting noiselessly about the streets, we may but little expect to hear any of them singing—

Oh, what a pity such a pretty girl as IShould be pent in a Nunnery to weep and to cry.

Let us leave then these recluses to the quiet enjoyment of their lot,—whether it be the nursing of the sick, the feeding of the hungry, or the schooling of the ignorant children of their communion,—and, “pursuing the even tenour of our way,” move quickly forward alongLittle St. John Street. The little row of Almshouses erected by Mrs. Salmon in 1738—the premises of Messrs. Royle and Son, builders—and the resuscitated fabric ofSt. John’s House, almost destroyed by fire in the summer of 1855, will each in their turn salute us on our progress, until the eye rests subdued before the silent grandeur of theChurch of St. John.

St. John’sis the only Church with any pretensions to antiquity now left to the city outside the Walls,—the minor fanes of St. Thomas, St. John the Less, and St. Giles, having each disappeared ’neath the hand of the destroyer during the great Civil War. In Roman and early Saxon times the land to the southeast of the city, on both sides the Dee, was most probably a forest—the home of the wild deer, the fox, and the wolf—the genius of civilisation finding ample field for employment withinthe Walls. In those latter days, Ethelred, son of Penda, being king over Mercia, and withal an amiable and pious prince,

Myndynge moost the blysse of Heuen,

journeyed towards Chester, on a visit, it may be, to his virgin niece, the holy St. Werburgh, then Abbess of Chester. While there, we are told that, being admonished by God in a vision “to build a Church on the spot where he should find a white hind,” the king and his nobles engaged in the chace, and straightway coming upon a white hind at this very place, the royal hunter, in 689, founded and erected the SaxonChurch of St. John the Baptist. A more beautiful site for the erection of such a Church could scarcely have been chosen. Seated on an eminence overlooking the river Dee,—the rock it rests on washed by a stream of far nobler proportions than the river ofourday,—its banks studded with primæval woods, above which, and far beyond, the peaks of the Cambrian hills just showed their giant heads,—the yet nearer mountain ranges of Beeston and Peckforton,—the city itself, engirdled by the Walls of their Roman predecessors,—such was the prospect that gladdened the eyes of the good King Ethelred and the chaste Werburga, as they watched the progress of their newly-founded Church.

What were the actual dimensions of the SaxonSt. John’sis now, and must ever remain a mystery;—whether any and what portion of the present edifice may be properly referred back to that remote age is, in like manner, doubtful. There are, however, many who believe, like ourselves, that much of the older work, here and there perceptible, belongs to a period anterior to the Norman conquest. The brothers Lysons, (no mean authority, you’ll say) pronounce much of the nave and east end of the church to be late Saxon work—portions, no doubt, of the structure re-edified by Leofric, Earl of Mercia, in 1057. Originally the steeple was in the centre of the Church, at the point where the transept intersects the nave; but in or about 1468, it suddenly gave way, and destroyed in its fall great part of the choir and east end of the Church. This tower was soon after rebuilt, and another erected at the west end of the nave:—the former again fell in 1572, and this time the parishioners declined to restore it. The west steeple shared a similar fate in 1574, destroying the whole of that extremity of the fabric. Look up, from our present position at the Gateway of the Churchyard, and the effectsof this mishap will be at once apparent,—the steeple, one hundred and fifty feet high, stands isolated from the main body of the Church, that portion broken in by the fall having since been suffered to remain so by the authorities of the parish. If we pass round to the west side of the tower, we shall see midway a canopied niche, in which stands the statue of the abbot king Ethelred, caressing at his side the “white hind” of his vision. This statue originally decorated the centre tower; but being foundmiraculously unhurtamongst the heap of rubbish created by that structure in its fall, was removed by the parishioners to its present lofty and dignified position. This steeple enjoys a set of eight peerless bells, by far the most melodious of their kind in the city. Six were cast in 1710, and the other two in 1734, having replaced an older peal, which existed here at least as early as the reign of Henry VII. Doubtless, therefore, during the great Civil War, when the news of a royalist victory reached the ears of the loyal citizens,

Merrily, merrily rang the bells,The bells of St. John’s church tower.

And “merrily, merrily” ring they still, as the bridal procession issues from the porch, as well as on days of public rejoicing—whenever, in fact, loyalty, love, or patriotism need their witching strains. So much for the outside ofSt. John’s Church,—now for a hasty glance at the interior.

Passing through the “old church porch,” adorned with an arch of most beautiful character, the mouldings of which spring from little delicately formed shafts, we enter the sacred edifice at its north-western extremity. Here a prospect awaits us enough to disgust even an out and out Puritan. Hideous galleries of giant build, through which the light of heaven can scarcely find its way,—long rows of high wooden boxes, by those in authority facetiously termed pews!—curtains of green exclusiveness, separating the rich from their brethren the poor—such, alas! are our first impressions of this venerable Church! With such incentives to drowsiness, no wonder the parishioners are so sleepy about their Church, and so painfully apathetic about its much-needed restoration!

Threading our way, so well as we can in the gloom, to the bottom of the centre aisle, we now begin to see, despite these grievous drawbacks, something of the original glory and magnificenceof this ancient fabric. Following the line of sight eastward, we feast our eyes on the massive pillars and horse-shoe arches of the Saxon, or it may be early Norman architect:—noble ideas of strength and symmetry had the builder of those days! Above these, the double Triforium of later work stretches along the whole length of the Nave, giving to it an elegance and variety claimed for no other sacred edifice in Cheshire. Originally the Nave was just double its present length, boasting eight of those massive semicircular arches on either side, of which four only now remain,—the other four vanished ’neath the crash of the western steeple.

Having arrived at the east end of the Nave, we find ourselves standing between the four lofty piers which, previous to its demolition, supported the great central tower. At this point the transept divides the nave from the choir, and though shorn of its fair proportions by modern reparations wholly devoid of taste, yet contains enough of the original work to give us an idea of its ancient grandeur. Eastward lay the Choir,—now for the most part in ruins, and shut out from the present Church by an interpolated window of very moderate pretensions. The space beneath this window, once part of the choir, has now become, consequent on these alterations, the Chancel of St. John’s.

To the right of the Chancel is another horse-shoe arch of very early work, disclosing, behind, a “fayre chappell,” once the burial place of the Warburtons, an ancient Cheshire family. A fine sketch of this Chapel, in his own masterly style, will be found in that now scarce work, Prout’s “Antiquities of Chester.” The floor is strewed with a number of incised slabs, discovered at various periods in the church or churchyard: three of these have been illustrated by Mr. Boutell, in his valuable works on the history of Christian Monuments. On the opposite side of the Chancel rests a sculptured slab, bearing the recumbent effigy of an ecclesiastic, robed in the chesuble and other priestly vestments of the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The slab, which is somewhat defaced, and without inscription, was found, in December 1855, some feet below the surface, on removing the house on the east side of the porch. This is the third or fourth relic, of a similar character, rescued from destruction by the intelligent zeal of the present rector, the Rev. W. B. Marsden. To the left is the Vestry; and near by, ignominiously stowed away in a corner, lies the crosslegged figure of a warrior, of the twelfth century perhaps, clad wholly in mail, and supposed to represent a redoubtablehero of the Carrington family. Close beside, but totally unconnected with it, lies another incised slab, commemorating one of whom all we know is that inscribed on the stone itself, “Hic jacet Johennes le Serjaun.” Most modern “Guide”-mongers have ignorantly supposed the mailed figure adjoining to be thisJohennes le Serjaun; but this is an error, for the two relics were dug up in different parts of the churchyard! Numerous other monuments, of more or less interest, lie scattered around; but as we are now arrived at the north chancel door, we will bid adieu to the interior ofSt. John’s, and again emerge into the open air.

In the graveyard before us, to the left of what was originally the extreme north of the Transept, stood until the last century an ancient house, called theWoolstaplers’ Hall, of which all trace has now passed away. Over the churchyard wall we can see the upper portion of theGrosvenor School, a charitable institution, erected and endowed by the first Lord Westminster, but now supported by voluntary contributions. Farther still to the right is the Rectory House, abutting upon Love Street and Barker’s Lane, neither of which possesses any charms for us sightseers.

Turning away to the right from the Church door, a few paces will bring us to a decayed and half-ruined wall, in the centre of which is a small pointed arch, known as the entrance-gate to thePriory. This arch originally formed part of theNunnery of St. Mary, near theCastle, and was placed in its present position on the demolition of the ruins of the former establishment, about thirty years ago. The ground within is, strictly speaking, private; but permission being courteously afforded to visitors, we will quietly step into the interior, and ponder awhile on the scene which now presents itself. The genius of desolation reigns dominant here; this spot, once the holiest of holies, thesanctum sanctorumof the Church of St. John, is now a roofless and floorless waste. We are standing on the site of the original choir, whose walls oft resounded with purest melody:—but wherenoware the white-robed train? The occupation of the chorister is gone—the voice of the priest has hence for ever died away, and the hymn of praise, of matin and evensong, no longer echoes along its richly vaulted aisles! Here we see the effects produced by the fall of the centre steeple, in 1470, and again in 1572, laying the whole east end of the structure in ruins. Yet still, amid the general decay, for everything here seems crumbling into dust, the rich old chancel arch (call it Saxon or Norman, whichever you will) maintains erectits venerable crest,—the ivy that clasps it, the trees that overshadow, the mould that corrupts it, serving but to increase and develop its charms. Passing under the arch, we are straightway in the Chancel, and close to the spot where the high altar ofSt. John’sof old time stood. Here, it may be, the censor of the priest wafted aloft the incense at the daily sacrifice;—here the anathemas of the church were pronounced against excommunicated sinners;—and yet, here, after a lapse of some four hundred years, rank weeds and grass now desecrate the ground, while the owl and the bat hold their midnight levies in this once “holy place.” Cast your eyes o’er that fragment heap, now formed into a sort of rockery,—every stone there, could it but speak, has its tale to tell;—here a shattered niche, there a sepulchral slab, yonder a broken font, there again an image defaced—all rich and glorious in their time, but surrendered now to undeserved decay! Pass we on into one of the chapels, where high up in the wall, snugly housed withinthe masonry, stands an ancient oak coffin bearing the appropriate inscription of

Dust to Dust.

St. John’s Rains

The Priory House was built on the ruins of the priests’ houses, but has of itself no other claim to our notice, being little in character with aught else around. Thus, then, have we inspected these venerable ruins, so typical of the vanity of everything human; let us now, all unwilling, tear ourselves away,

And thence returning, soothly swear,Was never scene so sad and fair!

Perhaps the best general idea of the Church and Ruins is obtained from yonder gateway at the east end of the yard, where the eye embraces the whole at one view. During the Siege of Chester,St. John’s Churchwas taken and garrisoned by the puritans.

From hence we proceed along a narrow pathway to the right, turning round, as we do so, to take a last fond look at the south side of the Ruins, which, from whatever point viewed, are distinguished alike for their sublimity and beauty. Slightly to the westward, on this side of the Church, stood formerly theChapel of St. James, which the brothers Lysons assert was the original parish church. If this be true, it was probably while St. John’s was the Cathedral of the united sees of Lichfield, Coventry, and Chester; in which caseSt. James’smust have been even of greater antiquity than the present Church of St. John. There is now no trace existing of this venerable Chapel. Yon block of buildings at the extreme west of the churchyard is known asDee Side, and the two mansions comprising it were erected on the site of the Bishop’s Palace and Deanery of the episcopal foundation.

From thence a flight of steps leads down to theGroves, near a spring of great repute, calledJacob’s Well; over which is engraved the warning of Christ to the woman of Samaria,

Whoso drinketh of this water shall thirst again.

Moving along to the eastward, we see a curious old house, crowning the edge of the cliff on the left, and known as theAnchorite’s Cell. Here it is traditionally affirmed that King Harold, merely wounded, not killed, at the Battle of Hastings, was conveyed by his friends, and lived the life of a hermit for several years. This is an articleof faith which you may believe or reject, as the spirit moves you; for ourselves, we are tainted with the leaven of unbelief!

PassingQueen’s Park Hotel, at the foot of the Suspension Bridge, we see the richGroveof trees which has given to the present locality its name. We are now close to the river side, and feeling, moreover, somewhat tired with our long walk; let us, therefore, with appetites sharpened by exercise, step into theDeva, a handsomeHoteloverlooking the river, and lay violent siege to its well-stored larder. Take care to lay in a plentiful stock of both liquids and solids ere you quit the Hotel,—and, “would you know the reason why?” Our next chapter will treat us to a “Row on theDee,” and a visit toEaton Hall,—neither of which, as you’ll presently see, are feats to be accomplished on an empty stomach!

The River Dee.—Chester Rowing Club.—The Earl’s Eye.—Villas on Dee Banks.—The Water Works.—Eccleston.—Eaton Lodge, and the Iron Bridge.—Eaton Hall.—The Grosvenor Family.—The Belgrave Lodge.—The Interior of the Hall.—Eaton Gardens.—Grosvenor Lodge.

Havingfinished our repast at theDeva Hotel, and tested the merits of Huxley’s prime ale (we should like to know where you can meet with its equal!), we are now fully charged for a “Row on theDee.” Talk of your Thames and your Tamar, your Tyne and your Clyde! To our minds a quiet little “row up theDee” has a charm superior far to them all! Yonder gaily-decked barge, adorned with the “red, white, and blue” of old England, is the craft of our choice. While, then, mine host is summoning the oarsmen, and arranging the cushions and seats for our reception, a word or so touching the source of the Dee, and its progress towards Chester, will not be out of place.

Rising in Merionethshire, not far from Dolgelley, a modest little rivulet, fed by a score of tributary brethren, elbows its way through many a chasm and rocky dell, until it reachesBala Lake. We have so far been tracing a mere mountain stream; but gathering strength and increased impetuosity as it passes through the centre of this beautiful Lake, our little Welsh brook, twin sister of the Wnion, developes into a River, and henceforward assumes the “local habitation and name” of theDee. Still, as from its source, a pure Welsh river, the “Druid stream of Deva” gambols cheerily on, through the rich Vale of Corwen, ’neath the frowning ruins ofCastell Dinas Bran, by the side of the beautiful Abbey ofValle Crucis, and so throughLlangollen, “that sweetest of vales.” Winding its way thence, through Overton and Bangor,—the latter the scene of the massacre of the British monks,—our river proceeds by a series of zigzags on its course towardsHolt; before reaching which, it serves as the boundary line between Denbighshire and Cheshire. On the Welsh side of the river stand the town and castle ofHolt, an important postin the Anglo-Welsh wars. On the opposite side isFarndon, connected with Holt by an ancient stone bridge; and from this, theDeepassesAldfordandEatonon its way toChesterand the Irish Sea.

River Dee, and Groves

But see; “our bark is by the shore,” and the boatmen are awaiting us; let us, then, take our seats beneath its awning, and launching out into the stream, cast a momentary glance at the landscape behind us. In the foreground is theDeva, “our marine Hotel,” half hidden from view by yon rich Grove of trees stretching along the river’s edge. Behind, and far above it, the tower ofSt. John’s Churchproudly shows its rugged form. To the left is the Queen’s Park Suspension Bridge, more particularly noticed in our “Walk round the Walls.” Away under the Bridge we can see a small portion of theWallsnear the Wishing Steps; and beyond that, again, theDee MillsandBridge, of ancient fame. Talking of the Dee Mills, of course you knowthe song, the rare old song, of the “Miller of the Dee,”—that “miller hale and bold,” the burden of whose song

For ever used to be,—I envy nobody, no, not I!And nobody envies me!

How few millers there are, who can say as much nowadays!

At length we are off, at a stately pace, for “steady’s the word,” in a Chester barge, and soon we leave theGrovesand the Queen’s Park Villas behind us in the distance. Having rounded Aikman’s Gardens, we are opposite the grounds of theRoyal Chester Rowing Club. We take a pride in our rowing, we citizens of Chester,—and not without reason, for in 1855, our “crack crew” were twice victors at the Henley Regatta, and then and there acknowledged “Champions of the Isis and the Thames!” Whew! there go the “Royals”—the champion crew, old Chester’s pride!—at a spanking pace, which nought but sterling metal could possibly maintain! They are out for their daily exercise, under the care of their trainer; the smile on whose face betokens the delight with which he views their performance. They are bad ones to beat, are those amateurs of Chester!

Here isBilly Hobby’s Field, with its Well of pure water, bearing the same obscure but euphonious name. The meadows on our right were anciently known as theEarl’s Eye, and used to be covered with water at every tide. A few more strokes of the oar, and we are scudding it past a second grove of trees, overshadowing the river for a considerable distance. TheDeehere forms a magnificent crescent, its left bank studded with handsome villas,—foremost among which, “embosomed in foliage,” standsDee Hills, the residence of Mr. Titherington; while, farther on, we see the new and elegant range of villas, recently erected by that gentleman, calledSandowne Terrace. To these succeed Richmond Villas, and Barrelwell, the sloping gardens of which form a pleasing object in the landscape.

We are now speeding along in front of theWater Works, an establishment which has literally worn itself out in “the temperance cause,” and now, in a great measure, superseded by the New Works lately erected in higher Boughton. Just above isSt. Paul’s Church, of which we told you enough in our last chapter.

Onward again, past West Mount and Dee Banks, we are soon in front of another range of villas, of recent construction, calledDee View, from the long stretch of the Dee which the site commands. This part of the River takes the name of theLong Reach, until we come toIron Bridge, vulgarlyHeron Bridge,—yonder house amid the trees—the pleasant residence of C. W. Potts, Esq.

Yonder is the tower ofEccleston Church; and as we are now nearing the village, we may land, if we choose, and indulge in a hasty stroll of inspection.Ecclestonis the pet village, and wholly the property of the Marquis of Westminster, whose elegant mansion,Eaton Hall, we are so soon about to visit. Every house in this village is a picture of itself, clothed in woodbine and choicest evergreen, and adorned with small, but sweetly smelling gardens. TheChurchis a modern structure of red sandstone, having taken the place of an older temple in 1810. The interior has recently been altered and re-decorated by Lord Westminster, and is now a pretty little model of a village sanctuary. The space above the altar is occupied by Westall’s grand painting, “Joseph of Arimathea begging the Body of Jesus from Pilate.”

It is now time to retrace our steps, and row glibly on towards theIron BridgeandLodge, the former erected, in 1824, by the late Lord Westminster, at a cost of 8000l.Another course, and one we ourselves prefer, is to row merely to theEaton Lodge, a short distance up the river, and there, leaving our friendly barge, take the road along the Park,

’Twixt avenues of proud ancestral trees,

till we find ourselves suddenly close to the western entrance toEaton Hall, the princely seat of theMarquisorWestminster.

It is no part of our present business to assume the herald’s place, by painting the genealogy of the noble house ofGrosvenor; else might we show that the family trace back, in the direct male line, to the Norman Conquest,—how that Gilbert leGrosveneur(or theGreat Hunter), nephew of Hugh Lupus, first Norman Earl of Chester, came over with his uncle in the train of King William,—that Robert le Grosvenor, a “red-cross knight,” fought with much distinction under Richard I. in the great Crusade,—how that another Robert covered himself with honour at the battle of Cresy,—that his grandson Robert was defendant in the famous “Scroope and Grosvenor suit,” concerning the ancient arms of those two great families. All this we could show,—and that later still, in the Great Rebellion, when other magnates joined the traitorous band, the “House of Eaton” remained steadfast in itsloyalty, and, in the person of Sir Richard Grosvenor and his son Roger, raised theposse comitatusof Cheshire, and gallantly therewith did battle for the King. But we must forbear,—for see, we are now approaching the entrance porch at the West Front of theHall.

TheEatonestate passed to theGrosvenorsin the fifteenth century, by the marriage of Raufe le Grosvenor with Joan, daughter of John de Eaton; previously to which, for two centuries, the family had been settled at Hulme, near Northwich.

A mansion of considerable importance existed here long prior to the seventeenth century, being then usually known asEaton Boat, from its proximity to the ancient ferry of that name, across the river Dee. Sir Thomas Grosvenor, however, son and grandson of the two ardent royalists already mentioned, took unto himself a wife, in the person of Mary Davies, of Ebury, county Middlesex; through whom he acquired her father’s valuable estates in Westminster. The lady, it would seem, admired not the humble palace atEaton Boat; for Sir Thomas soon after erected in its stead a nobler mansion, from designs furnished by Sir John Vanbrugh, the celebrated architect and dramatist, who is confidently affirmed to have been a native of Chester. This Hall, which was of brick, with a heavy lanthorn roof, was pulled down, in 1803, by the late Lord Westminster, who at once set to work with the magnificent fabric we see now before us. It is built of white freestone from the Manley quarry; Porden being the architect originally consulted. Nine tedious years and a mint of money were exhausted in its erection; and in 1823–5, two new wings were added, so as almost to double its original length. Critics now began to complain that its height was wholly dis-proportioned to its length, and impertinent scribes picked all manner of holes even in the architecture itself.

These and other considerations moved the present worthy Marquis, in 1845, to attempt the remedying of these defects. With his accustomed sagacity, he called in the professional aid of Mr. Burn, an eminent London architect, to whose ability and judgment his lordship confidently entrusted the work. How that gentleman fulfilled his mission it skills not for us to declare,—let the edifice before us speak for itself. Erected and adorned regardless of expense, tasteful and grand in design and execution, this princely pile, Gothic in every material characteristic, is a model of all that is rich and elegant in domestic architecture. Look up for a moment at the gracefully light yet massive structure,—at its sculptured niches, its crocketted pinnacles and embattled parapets, its windows filled with gorgeous tracery, every available space upon its surface bristling with shields charged with the heraldic crests and quarterings of the Grosvenor family,—and say if the sight, rich even to profusion, and wholly indescribable, savours not more of a palace of fairy land than of the house and home of a retiring English nobleman! TheHallitself exceeds four hundred and fifty feet in length; but in addition to that we have the Stables and outbuildings continuing the line, in the same Gothic style, their centre crowned with a lofty Clock Turret of chaste design. The entire length of the Hall and offices is nearly seven hundred feet. But we must not any longer linger here, for it is high time we were turning our attention to the interior of theHall.

Mounting the flight of steps under the porch,—from the top of which, through that dark vista of trees just a mile in length, we see theBelgrave Lodge,—we present our tickets of admission to the attendants, and are forthwith ushered into theEntrance Hallof certainly the most magnificent mansion in Britain. This is an apartment eminently calculated to prepare the visitor for the gorgeous splendour everywhere pervading this far-famed Hall. In height it extends to two stories of the house, the floor being composed of the most richly varied tesselated marbles of the utmost rarity. Imagine a floor, less than forty feet square, costing its noble owner sixteen hundred guineas! Glance up at the chaste and elegant groined ceiling, the intersections relieved with foliated bosses and heraldic devices,—foremost among the latter being the arms of the Grosvenors, “azure, a garb or,” confirmed to the family after their bootless legal suit with the Scroopes. From the centre of the ceiling depends a gorgeous brass chandelier lamp, of exquisite workmanship. Opposite the entrance runs a Gothic screen of most elaborate character, supporting and half hiding an open gallery, which leads from the upper apartments on the north to those on the south side of the Hall. This screen is furthermore decorated with fourteen heraldic coats, in high relief, representing some of the numerous quarterings of the Grosvenor family. On the right and left are two chaste and beautiful white marble chimney-pieces, corresponding in design with the rest of the apartment. Above these, and on either side, are rich canopied niches, eight in number, in which are placed stalwart figures of warriors, clad in belted mail, and other ancient armour. In the lower recesses of the screen are twomassive vases and pedestals of Peterhead marble. Four marble statues give a finishing grace to this nobleEntrance Hall,—that on the right representing “Telemachus Arming,” by Bienaimé; opposite to it, on the left, being Rinaldi’s classic group, “Ulysses Recognised by his Dog.” The other two present to us Gibson’s conception of “The Wounded Amazon,” and the equally meritorious “Dying Amazon,” by Wolff.

From theEntrance Hallwe pass through the Gothic arch upon the left, along theGreat Corridor,—a handsome gallery, near five hundred feet in length, enriched with numerous portraits of the Grosvenor family, as well as a recumbent statue, in marble, of aSleeping Bacchante,—to the private orDomestic Chapelof the mansion. This is reached by a short gallery to the left, the two gothic windows of which are adorned with medallions ofThe Resurrectionand theMadonna, in richly stained glass. TheChapel, which measures about 40 × 30 feet, has a handsome groined roof, tastefully relieved with floriated bosses and circular finials, adorned with sacred monograms and other devices. The light of day shines into the Chapel through three rich pointed windows, upon the west side, each filled with stained glass of pristine beauty. In the centres of these we see eighteen vesica-shaped medallions, depicting scenes and events in the life of Our Blessed Lord, viz., in the left-hand window,—“The Annunciation,” “The Virgin and Child,” “The Wise Men of the East,” “The Shepherds Watching,” “The Presentation in the Temple,” and “The Flight into Egypt.” In the right-hand window we have—“Christ giving Sight to the Blind,” “Blessing Little Children,” “Raising the Dead Lazarus,” “The Woman of Samaria,” “The Baptism of Christ,” and “Christ Walking on the Sea.” The subjects in the centre window are—“The Last Supper,” “The Agony in the Garden,” “Christ bearing His Cross,” “The Angel declaring the Resurrection,” “Christ appearing to Mary,” and “The Ascension.” Contrary to usual ecclesiastical rule, the reading-desk and communion-table, of carved oak, are at the south end of the Chapel. Near by is the stall of the noble Marquis, which, together with the rest of the seats, is of oak, appropriately carved, under the superintendence of Mr. Morison, then clerk of the works, but now permanently employed by Lord Westminster in a higher capacity. On the north wall formerly hung the painting now decorating the east side, representing “St. Michael’s Contest with the Dragon,” a copy by Evans from the original by Guido. A handsome window has recently been introduced intothe north wall, and filled with embossed fleur-de-lys quarries of plate-glass, producing an admirable effect. Over the communion-table we perceive Weiser’s spirited copy of Rubens’ “Descent from the Cross.” The servants’ entrance is by another door upon the left, leading away to their apartments on the basement story.

Leaving the Chapel by the door at which we entered, we repass through the lobby, observing in our course the fine bust of Our Saviour, in marble, upon our right-hand. Thence crossing the Great Corridor, we move along, through a short passage, into theDining-Room. This is a splendid apartment, chastely beautiful in all its details, and though less profusely gorgeous than some of its companions, is yet sufficiently so to justify its position as the great Banqueting Room of the mansion. The ceiling is a combination of rich and delicate tracery, dotted here and there with the coats armorial of the family, and radiating almost imperceptibly towards the centre, whence depends, from its elaborate boss, a massive chandelier. Three richly-carved mahogany sideboards, and a splendid mirror in five Gothic panels, add a grace to this room, the walls of which are caparisoned in maroon and gold on a white ground. Each corner of the room has a chaste canopied niche, adorned with statuary from the studio of Sir R. Westmacott,—those at the north end representing the Crusader, “Sir Robert le Grosvenor,” in mail armour, and “Mary, Lady Grosvenor,” the heiress of Westminster. At the south end we have “Sir Gilbert le Grosvenor,” the Norman patriarch of the family, and “Joan de Eaton,” afterwards Lady Grosvenor, a chaste and graceful conception of the sculptor. Over the rich marble fireplace is an originalchef-d’œuvre, of Rubens—“The Meeting of David and Abigail,”—on either side of which are full-length portraits of the first Marquis and Marchioness of Westminster, painted by Jackson.

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