WHEN for our country pleasure an entire day can be commanded, Crewe, ten or twelve miles from Chelford, and thirty–one from Manchester, marks the way to Combermere Abbey and Beeston Castle—places alike of singular interest, though of totally different character. To reach Combermere, it is needful to continue a little distance along the line which diverges from Crewe for Shrewsbury, booking to and alighting at Wrenbury. Two or three different routes may be taken thence, in any case by pleasant fields and lanes not difficult to discover. The shortest way is to go first across Mr. Wilson’s broad acres of model farm–land, cereals right and left; then along a lane with a mill–pond upon the left; then through a corridor of trees upon the right, the floor, green as their boughs, bordered like a missal, shortly after issuing from which we arrive at the beautiful water referred to in the Abbey name. More than a mile in length, covering one hundred and thirty–two acres, and much too irregular in outline to be seen at once in its full extent, Combermere, with its adjacent woods, yields as a picture only to Rostherne. The paths in every direction are full of landscape. Though the country is flat, we do not perceive it to be so, and what may be wanting in grandeur, is found in tranquillity and repose. The mansion, of which there is an admirable view across the mere, occupies the site of the ancient monastery—a Benedictine, founded in 1133. Strictly modern, plain and substantial, there is nothing about the exterior to preserve the memory of monastic times; inside, however, old and new are let shake hands, the library being an adaptation of the ancient refectory. The walls, the galleries, and the principal apartments contain great store of Indian trophies and curiosities, brought home by the renowned Sir Stapleton–Cotton, whose bravery in the Peninsular War, and afterwards at the siege and capture of Bhurtpore, gained for him the title first of Baron, and then of Viscount, now held by the Lord Combermere, his son.

A similar short ride from Crewe, now by the line which continues to Chester, conveys us to Beeston, the walk from which station to the castle, occupying less than half an hour, is again by lanes and fields. Lancaster Castle, excepting its incomparable gateway–tower, and a small portion inside, has been so much altered in order to adapt it for modern uses, that the past is lost in the present. Clitheroe Castle is all gone, excepting the keep. Beeston, happily, though itself only a relic, has suffered nothing at the hands of the modern architect. Even time seems to look on it leniently. As a memorial of the feudal ages, it is in our own part of England supreme and uncontested, and in any case one of the most charming resorts within the distance for all in Manchester who care for the majestic, the antique, and the picturesque. This famous and far–seen ruin is seated upon the brow of a mighty rock, which, rising out of the meadows on the eastern side by a regular and at first easy, but afterwards somewhat steep incline, terminates, on the western side, in an abrupt and absolutely vertical precipice, the brink of which is three hundred and sixty–six feet above the level of the base, or of almost precisely the elevation of the High Tor at Matlock, and of the loftier parts of St. Vincent’s. Hence, in the distance, viewed sideways, as for example, from Alderley Edge, the outline is exactly that of a cone–shaped mountain toppled over and lying prostrate. The broad green slope, dry and velvety, furnishes an unsurpassed natural lawn for rest and pic–nic. Mounting it to the summit, the ruins, which now consist chiefly of ivied bastions, tower above our heads with an inexpressible and mournful grandeur that recalls the story of Caractacus in the streets of ancient Rome. The mind runs back to the time when the walls were alive with armed men, and shouts rose from the turrets, now discrowned. Not that the castle was ever actually assaulted, for a glance at the entrance is enough to convince any one that as a military post in the feudal times it was impregnable. Of military incidents connected with Beeston, there is indeed no record whatever. All that history has to tell is of one or two changes in the holding, brought about by treachery or want of vigilance. But from the time of the building, in 1220, by Randulph de Blondeville, sixth Earl of Chester, on his return from Palestine, there can be no doubt that for four centuries the old castle was the scene of much that was imposing.

Everything has vanished now, and for ever. Up on that wonderful crag to–day, where the scene is so still, and the “heavens’ breath smells wooingly,” we feel far more profoundly than in streets and cities, how grateful is the dominion of peace compared with the turbulence of war. For, looking over the westward parapet, at our feet is Vale Royal, a warm and smiling plain that stretches, literally, to the rim of the landscape. Randulph looked upon those far away Welsh mountains, the Frodsham hills, the estuaries of the Dee and the Mersey, all so beautiful as ingredients in the magnificent prospect. To–day we have that which he did not see, and probably never imagined. Scattered over this glorious map are villages, homesteads, orchards, gardens innumerable; the vast breadth of bright emerald and sunny pasture laced with hedgerows that in spring are blossom–dappled, and streams, of which, although so distant, we get twinkling glimpses among the leafage. If it be autumn, the scene is chequered with the hues of harvest, every field plainly distinguishable, for one of the peculiar charms of the view from Beeston Castle rock, granting a favourable day, with lucid atmosphere, is that while the country is brimful, every element is well–defined. Later still, we may watch October winding its tinted way through the green summer of the reluctant trees;—this, no doubt, it did just in the same sweet old amber–sandalled fashion five centuries ago, but the trees did not then, as now, cast their shadows upon liberty and civilisation. Two periods there are when Beeston calls upon us to remember, with a sigh, that there are forms of beauty in the world in which we may not hope to revel many times, perhaps, in their perfection, not more than once or twice. One is mid–winter, when in the great hush of the virgin snow the landscape becomes a world carved in spotless marble; the other, when the corn is waiting the sickle, and the vast plain is steeped in sunset such as August only witnesses. Watched from this tall rock, the wind–sculptured clouds that an hour before were glistening pearl slowly change to purple mountains, while the molten gold boils up above their brows; these go, and by and by there are left only bars of delicate rose, and veils of fading asphodel, and at last we are with old Homer and the camp before Troy, “when the stars are seen round the bright moon, and the air is breathless, and all beacons, and lofty summits, and forests appear, and the shepherd is delighted in his mind.”[15] So that, adding all together, the value of the grand old stronghold has in no wise died out, but only taken another shape. Instead of inspiring awe and terror, it supplies the heart with noble enjoyments, and with new and animating incentives to seek the rewards that attend love of the pure and beautiful.

When at Beeston, on descending from the castle, we visit, as a matter of course, Peckforton, a mile beyond, the residence of Lord Tollemache.

This splendid edifice restores, in the finest possible manner, the irregular Norman style of architecture prevalent in the reign of Edward I. Occupying a space of not less than nine thousand square yards, and not more remarkable for the superb proportions than for the perfect finish of every part, in Cheshire it has no equal. Peckforton has peculiar interest also in the circumstance of the walls being entirely devoid of paint and paper, thus presenting a contrast to the dressed surfaces favoured in modern times that for the moment is overwhelming. The hill upon which it stands is covered with natural wood, and in the remote parts gives way to heathery wilderness. To pursue this for any considerable distance, when half the day has already been given to Beeston, of course is not possible. Begun early enough, we find it almost continuous with the heights reached by way of Broxton.

After the bastions and the gateway of Beeston Castle, the curiosity of the place is the ancient well, sunk through the rock to Beeston Brook, a depth of three hundred and seventy feet, but now quite dry. A trayful of lighted candles is let down by a windlass for the entertainment of visitors who care to see the light diminish to a speck. On the way to Peckforton, it must not be overlooked, either, that in a pretty garden upon the right will be found Horsley Bath, limpid water perpetually running out of the rock, and in restorative powers, if the legends be true, a genuine “fountain of rejuvenescence.”