On the 23rd of September the King entered Chester; and the next day his troops gave battle to the Parliamentary forces. Charles, with Sir Francis Gamull the Mayor, here watched the progress of the contest; and when at last all hope was gone, and his soldiers fled before the fiery Puritans, he turned from the melancholy spectacle, descended the steps of this Tower, and the next day with great difficulty made his escape from the city. This defeat was but the precursor of worse misfortunes. Within three years from that day, a crowd was gathered in front of the Palace at Whitehall. A man in a mask severed at one blow, the King’s head from his body, and another, holding up the ghastly countenance to the view of the weeping spectators, cried aloud, “This is the head of a traitor!” England was not many years discovering who were the real traitors. Charles had left Chester in worthy hands. “If you do not receive relief in eight days,” said he to Lord Byron, who was in command, “surrender the garrison.” The appointed time passed away, but no relief came. Day after day for four months, the citizens of Chester, with a courage and determination that claim our admiration, refused the oft-repeated summons to surrender. But there was an enemy within the walls, far more formidable than the troops without. Famine proved more powerful than the sword. When the provisions were exhausted, as a last resource the horses were slaughtered and given out in small rations. Dogs and cats were eaten as dainties; and many of the inhabitants perished from the dreadful hardships which were brought to their homes. The men were not alone in this gallant defence. “The women,” says an old chronicler, “like so many valiant Amazons, do out-face death and dare danger, though it lurk in every basket; seven are shot and three slain—yet they scorn to leave their matchless undertaking, and thus they continue for ten days’ space; possessing the beholders that they are immortal.” At last, reduced to the utmost extremity, and all hope of relief being gone, the city surrendered on condition that the public and private buildings should be unharmed by the Parliamentary troops. The churches still bear melancholy witness to the manner in which this solemn compact was regarded; and the organ and choir of the Cathedral were broken and defaced, with a Vandalism whose traces yet tell of the horrors of civil war. So much then for the Phœnix Tower, and its historical associations. We must now move on to the westward, taking note on our way of UPTON CHURCH and spire, lying just upon the northern confines of the city.