Ancient Britons — St. John’s Church — Magdalen Hospital — Punchbowl — Chilcombe — St. Peter’s Cheesehill — Twyford — Monoliths — Brambridge Avenue — Otterbourne — Compton — “Oliver’s Battery” — Hursley — Tomb of Keble — Merdon Castle — Farley Mount — The Hampage Oak — Tichborne.

Chilcombe!—in the Domesday Book Ciltecumbe—what a deliciously Celtic name! It reminds us of the time when “Gwent” also was only a group of beehive huts. We can see such in Cornwall at the present day.

“Gwent” (whence Venta Belgarum[102] and Winchester) signified an opening. A river beneath a grassy hill was a cheering sight to the early inhabitant of Britain. The chalk downs here afforded a clear expanse by which he could reach the interior of the country without any fear of losing his way among trees or being attacked by wild beasts. The forests then abounded with large stags, wolves, bears, and wild oxen.

No doubt the choice of the site was partly determined by the convenience of the Itchen. On its breast we see successively the canoes and coracles of the Britons, the galleys of the Romans, and the royal ships of the Saxons and Danes, with their many oars, pictured sails, and formidable figure-heads. In the time of the Normans it became more crowded, and without it the Cathedral could not have been built, as the stone came from quarries in the Isle of Wight. Even Wykeham obtained materials from this source, and the river must have presented a busy scene in the palmy days of the fair, when merchandise was arriving from distant shores. The river was afterwards disused, obstructed apparently by the construction of mills, for when the city was in a dilapidated condition in Henry VIII.’s time, the Mayor and Corporation suggested that the mills should be “pulled up, so that barges might come to the city as formerly.” In recent times a canal has been made, called “the navigable Itchen,” a name which, as we look at its silent and deserted course, seems to have a sound of mockery.

Chilcombe is a large parish, and reaches nearly into Winchester. Cynegils in the seventh century gave it to the monastery. But on the high ground above Chilcombe Lodge, the present parsonage, was lately found a curiosity which carries back our retrospect far beyond all such modern history. In sinking a well an aËrolite was discovered imbedded forty feet in the chalk! Can we imagine the time when this bolt fell hissing into the sea, and lodged upon some of the shellfish, whose remains formed these white rocks? The “everlasting” hills did not then exist, and the most important inhabitants of the earth were huge and hideous lizards. Does the thought occur to us that in the cycles of ages the time may return

if it does let us banish it.

Crossing Soke Bridge and passing Water Lane I came, on the same side, to St. John’s Street. Close to this, on the slope of St. Giles’ hill was the original school where Alfred was instructed. We find, in the Close Rolls, King John ordered William of Cornhill, to make one “Jeffery” attend school at Winchester, and provide him with necessaries for the purpose.

Proceeding along the street I came to the Church of St. John. It has no chancel, and is nearly square—would have been perfectly so, only for the road which passes it. This was the old Roman road from Canterbury, and this was the first church pilgrims came to in the suburbs of Winchester, hence we find a Decorated niche outside the east wall in which stood a figure of the Virgin for their benefit. Inside the church are many little niches, a very pretty triple one has just been discovered near the altar. There are also two “squints.” The tower, which may be partly Saxon, is a mass of chalk six feet thick. There were at one time some frescoes on the north wall, in which the devil was a principal character, but for more than twenty years they have been decently plastered up, and there is nothing now to offend the eyes of the worshipper unless it be the large crucifix over the rood screen. A new stained east window has lately been inserted in memory of a curate who died here at the early age of twenty-five. He took great interest in the church, and bravely continued his work until within four months of his death. The centre of the window contains what I was told was a good likeness of him.[103]

Near the end of the street I came to an ancient wooden cottage with heavy beams, which had formerly been the “Blue Ball.” Opposite stands “St. John’s Croft,” a large red-brick edifice, adorned with wood-carving on its porch, and with some cut stone bosses from Magdalen Hospital. A few yards behind this there is a row of four brick-and-tile cottages—the last remains of that celebrated foundation.

Passing in front of St. John’s Croft I came to a pathway on a bank beside the high road, and soon, as I proceeded up the hill, a fine view opened on the left over the valley and the rich fields through which the Itchen meanders—and then the country on the right became visible, and I reached a breezy down spangled with harebells and eyebright. Here I came to Victoria Hospital; and on the right hand, about a hundred yards this side of the farmhouse beyond it, stood the Magdalen (“Morn”) Leper Hospital. I am able to speak with certainty, for a lady told me that an old gentleman, who died twenty years ago, pointed out the spot to her and showed her some tiles that had fallen from the roof. A well was lately found in the field opposite. I am sorry to say that this establishment was badly treated in 1643 by the Royalist soldiers, who burned the gates and consumed the provisions.

A picture of the four pointed arches and lofty windows which stood here at the end of the last century can be seen in the Winchester Museum. It is interesting now that every vestige of this hospital has disappeared—except the archway in the Roman Catholic Chapel in St. Peter’s Street—to read in the Harleian Manuscripts (328) of the ornaments it once possessed—the silver pix and cups, the vestments and books, the green carpet powdered with birds and roses, the Spanish cloth, given by William of Basing, and the standards to be carried on Rogation days. This hospital was founded in 1174 by Bishop Toclyve, whose signature to a document is a great curiosity in the British Museum. The ruins were removed at the beginning of this century, as they had become an harbour for mendicants not belonging to religious orders.

The distance is about a mile and a half from the Butter Cross, and this seems to have been thought anciently, as it is now, a safe position for the location of infectious and contagious diseases.

Returning, and passing the Victoria Hospital a few hundred yards, I struck right across the downs and saw on my left five mounds, which brought other sad memories of disease, for here the bodies of those who died of the plague were thrown into pits. It was on these downs that King John hypocritically fell down on his knees before the Pope’s prelates. Here they, weeping, raised him up, and all proceeded to the Cathedral singing the Fiftieth Psalm.[104]

Looking southwards I saw under me the Petersfield road, to which I descended, and walked on it right away for more than a mile to visit the Punchbowl, a circular hollow in the downs, almost capacious enough for that thirsty Dutchman who drank the Zuyder Zee. From thence, if I had desired, I might have marched on for three or four miles to the beautiful woods of Longwood. I well remember having once walked through them on a summer evening, when the sunshine was casting a chequered glow through the oaks and beeches—such scenes are not easily forgotten. Lord Northesk still retains the old family mansion, though a handsome new residence has been built beside it.

On this occasion I was not so enterprising, so returning nearly to where I took the road, I turned to the left towards Chilcombe, which I saw lying in a nook among the hills shaded with large trees. This hamlet is still nearly as small as it was in the time of the ancient Britons. After reaching and passing by the half-dozen cottages which compose it, the road decreased to a lane, and became steep as I approached the church. This was truly the “church in the wilderness.” There was no house near it at which I could obtain the key, so I had to turn back to the village. On my way I met some little children playing, one of whom, a girl of about twelve, regarded me through her dark eyes with undisguised curiosity.

“Can you tell me who has the key of the church?” I inquired.

“The clerk has it,” she replied; “but he’s dead.”

This answer well-nigh threw me into despair; but I determined to inquire at some neighbouring cottages. At one where I applied, the fair occupant also gave me a vague reply, saying that, “If it’s anywhere, Mrs. Solomons has it.” I observed that this little dwelling was in a very decrepit state. The ceiling, which a tall man might reach, was innocent of plaster, and made a sad exhibition of “ribs and trucks.”

“This seems to be an old house,” I said.

“Oh yes, sir, very,” she responded. “It has been for a long time falling down through the chimney,” she added, pointing to the wide hearth.

Following her advice, I went to the former parsonage, close at hand, which I reached under a snow-white mass of fragrant clematis. There I obtained what I required and returned to the church.

This tiny sanctuary has a wooden bellcot for a tower, and the smallest east window I ever saw, inserted within the original Norman opening. There are three Norman arches here, some fifteenth-century tiles, and an old flat monumental slab, from which all but a large cross has been worn off by the feet of generations. And this is all that remains of the nine churches which once adorned Chilcombe!

The lane leading to the church gradually dwindles to a footpath and crosses the downs to Morestead—a pleasant walk. I met some boys coming along it, carrying wallets full of nuts, with which the wayside abounds.

On my return I diverged to the right along a green bridle path, and thus made a circuit of the hamlet.

Before reaching Winchester (two miles) I passed a large tree standing up quite dead, a piteous skeleton, shining and bleaching in the sun. It had been struck with lightning, I was told. I never before saw such a sight; but in Australia, where the settlers pay the natives to ring-bark the trees, you may see forests of them raising up their bare arms to heaven, as if appealing against the treatment they had received.

Passing Chilcombe Lodge, with its cypresses, I came to an old inn called “The Brewers Arms,” and was told that a hostel formerly called “The Drum” had stood on this site for four hundred years. Close to it is the church of St. Peter’s Cheesehill. The people call it “Chisel”; it is named from gravel like the Chesil Beach near Weymouth. The church is square like St. John’s. It contains some handsome chalk niches, with heads carved under them, and there is a curious grating high up in the west wall for those in the adjoining house to hear the service.

A pleasant walk leads from the bridge along the bank of the river to Twyford—three miles distant—but I started in that direction through Southgate Street, which is part of the Southampton Road. After passing St. Cross and proceeding on for about a half-mile, I came to a bifurcation and a signpost, and took the lower road to the left, walking by grassy banks golden with fleabane. I crossed the Itchen, and soon a branch of that river—fringed with a line of wild foliage, purple willow-herb and hemp agrimony. Then I reached Twyford Lodge, the residence of Colonel Bates, and farther on took the right-hand turning to the church. It is modern except the window, but stands on a ring of prehistoric monoliths, preserving the old sanctity of the place. The graveyard is adorned with some magnificent coniferÆ, specimens of the Wellingtonia, deodara, picea pinsapo, cypress, and cedar; but the pride of the whole is an immense yew-tree which rises in the centre in ancient majesty. It is of great girth, and withal as sound as a bell, and it is cut into the form of one—or, I might say, of Robinson Crusoe’s umbrella. Go beneath it and gaze up into its maze of branches—a wondrous sight!

On leaving this shrubbery I turned round to the left, and, had I desired, I could have walked through “silken grass,” across a couple of fields, to the railway station, passing by the woods round Shawford Park (Sir Charles Frederick’s), and over the river, which is here divided into three parts.[105] But I sat down to rest upon a seat placed by some fairy godmother at the first bridge, and looked down into the Itchen, where the long green foliage was waving like the hair of water nymphs. Does not Tennyson speak of our life swaying “like those long mosses in the stream”? I seemed to be looking down into a clear agate and the liquid murmur was only broken at intervals by the jumping of a trout.

Before me lay two elephantine blocks of stone, brought by some of our unknown predecessors. I amused myself with conjuring up pictures of the past, and thinking that here—

and while I fancied I could still hear his low chanting, my mind wandered off to reflect that this neighbourhood is sacred to a real modern “druid.” There was a celebrated school at Twyford and among its pupils was Pope. His satiric talent brought, as usual, disgrace, for he was sent away for writing a squib on the master, who had become a Roman Catholic.

Returning to the church, I regained the high road, and immediately on my right saw a large red-brick house, which had an air of old-fashioned importance. I was anxious to find Shipley House, where Franklin, as a guest of Bishop Shipley, wrote his life. I could find no one to inquire from, but soon a labouring man came along, and I asked him if this was Shipley House.

“No, sir,” he replied, “this is Twyford House. Shipley House is nearly a mile further on.”

I was surprised to hear this.

“Is it an old house?” I said.

“Oh yes, sir—it was built in 1860.”

This then was not the object of my search, and I found that the mansion I was looking at was the old Shipley House.

Passing by a school on the left, and entering the street of the little town, I saw in the centre of it a blacksmith’s shop with another megalith in front of it. Dean Kitchin has given the great stones, with which this place abounds, their full weight, and considers that Twyford may be so called from Tuesco, the deity we commemorate on Tuesday. Further on I came to a brewery, evidently not for small beer, for it had a triumphal arch with a profusion of embellishments which must irritate the feelings of good teetotalers. There are besides these new structures some timber-crossed cottages in the village, with old-fashioned hollyhocks, blue campanulas, and masses of phlox. Before leaving, I may observe, that this “Queen of Hampshire villages” ought to be in high favour with the fair sex as many of them have become Young by residing in it.

Proceeding straight on into the country, I came to the Manor farm with several old arches in front of it, suggestive of a monastery. A little beyond this is the lodge of the present Shipley House, with two tall cypresses (LawsonianÆ) in front of it. Then, coming to another finger-post, I took the beautiful road to Brambridge,[106] overhung on both sides with trees. And now a long wall of gravel and mortar skirts my right along Brambridge Park.[107] The avenue here is said to be the finest in Hampshire. It consists of four rows of lime-trees. The double line on each side is a study for an artist, the outer branches drooping down and resting on the ground, while the inner, being close together, have been drawn up, so that they rise on either side like the columns of a cathedral. The house belonged to the Fitzherbert family, and it is locally supposed that George IV. was privately married in the old chapel attached to it.

Turning round the park on the right, I again crossed the river, or rather canal, saw a pretty cascade caused by the old lock, and soon reached the little old church of Otterbourne—forsaken and neglected—standing in the midst of a yard full of mouldering gravestones. Many a large and handsome monument—thought much of in its day—is here entirely concealed in ivy; as completely obscured and lost to view as those to whose memory it was erected. Proceeding to the north, I entered the village of Otterbourne, with its neat new brick cottages and large green common. In its centre some children were playing round a large horse-chestnut tree, whose leaves had been touched by the rosy fingers of autumn. At the right-hand corner is an old house of comfortable dimensions, covered with a variety of climbing plants. This is the quiet village home of Miss Yonge, the authoress of the “Heir of Redclyffe.”

From this point I regained the Southampton Road, and in about a mile turned up to the left to visit Compton, which consists of a few picturesque tiled cottages. The tiny church stood in a bed of luxuriant grass. The fine old oak porch was taken down by some Vandals fifty years ago, and the present unsightly one substituted. Lately some of the parishioners wanted the rector to have a new door, a request he happily withstood, saying he was proud of the existing one, which is of great age and of massive oak. On the lock can be seen the marks of the axe with which it was rudely shaped. The entrance arch is Norman, adorned with half-a-dozen lines of zigzag carving. There is, as at St. Bartholomew’s, a kind of reflected arch behind it. This church is an anomaly, inasmuch as it has no foundation; it merely stands on the chalk, of which the dressings of the window are also made. Towards the altar there is on the wall a fresco representing a bishop with a crozier standing beside the gable of a church, perhaps intended for the Cathedral. A stone coffin, containing the skeleton of a giant measuring six feet to his shoulders, was found here in front of the altar.

This church stands only a few hundred yards from the Southampton Road, by which I returned (2 miles) to Winchester.

Now for a round of fourteen miles. Passing through the Westgate, I turned to the left by the barracks and crossed the railway cutting, proceeding on the road which leads toward the magnificent Norman church of Romsey, which is twelve miles distant. On the left I soon came to the Catholic Cemetery, with its high wall, built in 1829. It contains many tombstones whose inscriptions are worn away by age; one preserved by lying flat under the turf is to a member of the Tichborne family, dated 1637. Farther on, upon the right, behind a beautiful belt of trees and some bright flowers stands concealed the grim arch of the County Gaol. Nearly opposite is the Infirmary. Farther on, I passed a large school and waterworks; these buildings are handsome, and of red brick.

I continued on up the long ascent known as “Sleeper’s Hill.” The country people tell you that here seven men fell asleep in a field when the Cathedral was commenced, awoke when it was finished, and, after going to inspect it, came back to their cold bed and crumbled into dust. In about a mile I saw a clump of dark fir-trees on the left, standing on a spot called “Oliver’s Battery.” (Any one wishing to visit it should take the first turning to the downs, for you cannot cross the fields farther on.)

This entrenchment was really constructed by Hopton, though named after Cromwell. On this ground, the highest near Winchester, we stand in the centre of a grand panoramic scene. Below lies the city—its red houses, green trees, and grey Cathedral. It looked more formidable when this camp was made; the castle stood at its head, and the long wall extended down, crowned at intervals with round towers. There were no suburbs then, and it seemed among the surrounding pastures like “a quaint old mosaic in a ring of emeralds.” After leaving the “Noll” and rejoining the road, I continued towards Hursley, and observed on the right a monumental structure just peeping over the hill. On inquiring I found that this was not a memorial to a hero, but to a horse! As I go down hill with fine plantations skirting the road, I observe that I am in the country of yew-trees, which here replace the “hedgerow elms,” generally characteristic of England. Sweet marjoram and masses of wild foliage rise on either side, and above it gleam in rich profusion the scarlet clusters of the “dogwood.” On the left is a hill prettily dotted with small yews and junipers.

The church of Hursley is large and handsome, and the graveyard beautifully adorned. Inside, at the west end, we found a brass, not much larger than an octavo page, recording the name of John Wolkland, who was keeper of the neighbouring Castle of Merdon in the fifteenth century. Close to it rose a large stone slab, commemorative of many members of the Cromwell family. Richard Cromwell, the Protector’s son, married one of the Major family here, and became possessed of the manor. At his death the place was purchased from the daughters by Sir W. Heathcote, who took down the old mansion, saying, I am told, that “the roof which harboured a Cromwell was not fit to shelter an honest man.” These reminiscences of fame and decay are somewhat melancholy. A brass corresponding to that of Wolkland has a sweeter sound. It bears the following inscription:—

Sternhold lived in the neighbouring village of Slackstead. He was Groom of the Robes to Henry VIII.

Passing through the southern door into the graveyard, we find in the grass two flat stones side by side with crosses on them and the name of Keble with that of his wife. He was vicar of this parish. Although we see here the cold and polished granite under which he lies, we feel that there is no man more truly alive among us. He lives in our hearts and memories—on our tables, and in our churches. A friend of mine—a clergyman who passed early to his rest—was accustomed to play and sing every night with his family that inspiring hymn, “Sun of my soul.” This large and handsome church is Keble’s monument, for it was built out of the proceeds of “The Christian Year.”

From this I return back a short distance to “Standon Gate,” where a turnpike stood, to visit Merdon Castle. I pass up a steep hill between nut-trees to the keeper’s Swiss chÂlet. Entering the enclosure, I find vast grassy mounds standing about on all sides, covering the ruins of the walls and towers. In one place over the deep fosse a huge tower of flint masonry remains, the upper part of which is concealed in ivy. This castle was built by De Blois in 1138, and fell to decay in the fourteenth century. A tragic scene took place on this spot at an earlier date. At “Meretune” King Cynewulf was murdered by Cynehard in 784. The former had deposed the brother of the latter, who was soon afterwards murdered, and Cynehard determined to be revenged. He lay in wait for some time among these woods until his victim should come here with few attendants to visit his mistress. Then he surrounded the house and killed him.

After leaving Merdon I took another turning to see the monument on Farley Mount. It is in the form of a pyramid, and stands on such a high point of the downs that Salisbury spire is visible from it in clear weather. Inside there is a room where wayfarers and picnic parties may rest and be thankful. On the wall we read that the horse of Paulet St. John leaped into a chalk pit and not only was unhurt, but won the plate at a race the next year!

Many a good man is overlooked in this world for want of a “horse.” This animal not only bore its master nobly during life, but has carried his name to posterity after death. Thus in Olympic times did Aura immortalize the Corinthian Phidolas, who raised a statue in her honour.

The sun was sinking like a ball of fire before I left this spot, and the shadow of the pyramid was lengthening into a spire on the smooth down. Descending, I walked along a wire-netting put up to circumscribe the “bunnies” who swarm in this neighbourhood, and then came to Crab Wood. Thence I reached, by the old Roman highway, Tegg Down, where the soldiers were practising at targets, and soon was back on the main road near “Oliver’s Battery.”

The ancient “Gwent” was surrounded by a sea of foliage. Only in one direction was there an opening—over the chalk downs westward. This vast forest was part of the great Andreds wood which clothed the chief part of Kent, Sussex, and Hampshire. Different districts in it had local names. Southwards from Winchester it came to be called Bere Forest, and afterwards Waltham Chase. Roman roads from “Venta Belgarum” pierced it in several directions.

There is a story about part of it connected with the building of the Cathedral. Bishop Walkelin found himself in want of timber, and applied to the Conqueror to let him have as much timber as he could carry out of Hanepinges Wood in four days and nights. William at once granted the request. The astute bishop then collected all the woodmen in the neighbourhood, and they managed to cut and carry the whole wood within the appointed time. When the King returned to Winchester and went into the district he exclaimed—“Am I bewitched, or have I lost my senses? Why I thought I had a most delightful wood here?”

The cause of the clearance was explained to him, and he was angry; but Walkelin pacified him by falling on his knees and offering to resign his bishopric. “I was too lavish a donor, and thou wast too grasping a receiver,” he finally replied.

There is a tradition that one tree was spared in this general clearance—an oak under which St. Augustine had preached. I was anxious to see this venerable relic, and inquired where Hanepinges Wood was. No one could give me any information. At last I came to a man upon whom the light seemed suddenly to break.

“Hanepinges? It must be ‘Hampage.’ There is the Hampage oak, to the south-east, near Itchen Abbas. It is rather more than five miles off.”

Wishing to make a round, I walked again to King’s Worthy, and, keeping to the right, passed on my left hand Miss Turner’s handsome new residence; and, on my right, a fine old house with a kind of tower, which I heard, to my surprise, had been the old parsonage. A little further on a larger house with a long faÇade is that of King’s Worthy Park.

A road pleasantly fringed with trees leads to the Itchen Abbas station. By taking the train I might have saved four miles of my walk.

Near this point, a little to the left, on a hill, a Roman pavement was discovered some years ago. It was a fine specimen, adorned with the heads of Medusa, Venus, Neptune, Mercury, and Mars. A house was built over it for its protection, but was not kept in repair, the rain came in, the mice and the tourists arrived, and when I saw it there was little left; what there is has now been earthed up. Thus what had lasted nearly two thousand years was destroyed shortly after it was found.

From Itchen Abbas station I made my way to the Plough Inn—a little distance in front towards Easton—and passed over the river fringed with its “long purples.” Then I entered Avington Park, through a wood of lofty trees, and obtained, across a sheet of water, a view of the house.

This mansion stands on the site of one of old renown, which belonged to the princely Brydges, Dukes of Chandos; and where the “Merry Monarch,” when sojourning at Winchester, often came and held high carnival. It was graced or disgraced by a lady of note; for the first Brydges, being a man of courage, married that Countess of Shrewsbury, who, disguised as a page, held a horse for Buckingham while he killed her husband in a duel. The last Duke of Chandos built the present house, and also the brick church—to which we soon came—in memory of his wife. Their daughter, a descendant of Mary Tudor, Henry VIII.’s sister, became Duchess of Buckingham, and her son sold this property to Mr. Shelley, the present owner’s father.

Nearly opposite the church is a handsome sarcophagus to the late Mr. Shelley. The plantations around the domain are magnificent, the avenue being two miles in length. After leaving the church I came to a baker’s shop, and saw a pretty person standing in the doorway with “Goodchild” inscribed in large letters over her. This seemed promising, so I asked her if she could tell me where to find St. Augustine’s Oak.

“Oh, you mean the Gospel oak?”[109] she replied. “You must go through the wicket-gate a few yards above this, and keep along the line of the fence for about a mile. None of the children here know it. I doubt whether any of the villagers do. I am sorry I cannot accompany you, but I am engaged.”

I thanked her. Old Syrus says that a pleasant companion is as good as a carriage, but as I had no such conveyance on this occasion, I trudged on in solitary silence. Following the instructions given, I soon came to a line of lime-trees, between which and the fence I walked for half a mile. I began to fear that I might miss the tree, and go on for an indefinite distance. There was no one to inquire of, and nothing to break the stillness save when a wood-pigeon was heard cooing, or, startled by my approach, burst out of a tree with great commotion. Thus I tramped on, over turf sweet with thyme and starry with cinquefoil. I felt so lonely that I was glad to see a squirrel which ran along the top of the railing beside me, and would stop now and then as if looking back to see if I was following. Was it—

I know not, but soon he reached a tree up which he ran, and lo! behind it stood the Hampage Oak. It was a mere shell about twelve feet high, and kept together with an iron hoop, but duly honoured by having an iron fence round it. Among the green, luxuriant trees it looked like an emblem of death. I observed that it stood in the centre where two green alleys crossed. It may have been in this state of decay for centuries, for oak is very durable, and Augustine may actually have preached under it. I should think, from its standing on the cross roads, that Saxon “moots,” or meetings, may have been held here, and the chief man may have taken up his position under it.

Returning to the main road, I proceeded through the village to Tichborne, about three miles farther on—the name has become so celebrated that I could not omit it.[110] About a mile beyond it lies Cheriton, where the engagement took place between the Royalists and Roundheads, which ended in the former being defeated and pursued all through a dreadful night.

The name of Tichborne is supposed to have sprung from the soil, or, I should say, from the stream which winds along the park. The church in the village is most interesting. It retains high oaken pews, many of them enriched with carving. One side is entirely occupied by the Tichborne chapel, in which generations have been laid to rest, but the earliest memorial is a brass dated 1569. There is a curious little old effigy of a baby in a red frock, and a very handsome monument of marble or alabaster to the Tichborne and his wife of the time of James I.

There is a piece of ground near the house which, by the unpleasant name of the “Crawls,” commemorates a most noble action. The lady of Tichborne in Henry I.’s reign was famed for her liberality, and, when aged and dying, wished to establish a dole of bread to be given to all comers on every Lady Day. Her husband, who perhaps misliked such indiscriminate charity, replied that she should have as much land for the purpose as she could herself walk round while a torch was burning. Nothing daunted, she rose from her bed, commenced her pilgrimage, and on her hands and knees actually encircled several acres before her flame expired. The dole of 1,900 loaves continued to the end of the last century, when old Sir Roger’s misgivings were justified, and as a substitute money was given to the parish poor. There can be no doubt about the substantial character of the gift, but a few regard the story of the “Crawls” as somewhat airy, and even connect the name with our old friends the crows.

A magnificent festival was held here lately when the present baronet came of age. It lasted three days, and at night the avenue of enormous elms and beeches shone with thousands of variegated lamps. Rich and poor were entertained, and many old Winchester people said, and deliberately too, that they did not think there ever was a more splendid spectacle.

THE END.