Introduction — The High Street — The Castle — King Arthur — Historical Reminiscences — Executions — The Civil War — Charles II.’s Palace — The Westgate — Wyke — Littleton — Crawley — Lainston — Sparsholt.

“Would that the George Hotel had an old gable, or even an Elizabethan window,” I said to myself as I unshouldered my knapsack; “but perhaps the ordinary visitor thinks more of creature comforts than of artistic effects.”

“Is there anything of antiquity about the house?” I inquired, turning to the waiter.

“Not that I know of,” was the reply; “but it is a very ancient establishment. There is a fresco two hundred years old in one of the rooms,” he added, with a little pride.

I took out my notebook and pencil, and was shown into a ground-floor room in the western and earlier part of the hotel to see this curiosity. Alas! it proved to be nothing but an old paperhanging.

“Not very remarkable,” I said, carelessly.

“Indeed, sir!”

“I am expecting some friends by the next train,” I continued. “We shall require dinner for three. What can we have?”

The waiter was pretty well acquainted with the productions of the culinary department, which had not much charm of novelty, and after settling that important business, I sallied forth to purchase a guide-book. This was not the first time I had been at Winchester, and much of the information it contained was not new to me; but I wished to refresh my memory on some points, as the friends I was expecting looked to me to be their cicerone during the few days we were to spend here together.

Reading some and skipping more, and glancing at the well-known illustrations, I thought myself fairly acquainted with the subject, especially as I had rummaged up something from old books and manuscripts in London. I wished to stand well with the old gentleman and his daughter for certain reasons which I shall not mention—because I may be unsuccessful. Well—we shall see.

Here they are!—warm greetings—the luggage is lifted down, and by degrees the small articles which accompany a lady’s travels were brought in, counted, and arranged. Do the number and variety of them cause me to hesitate or to reflect that in single blessedness—

No, not for one moment.

Conversation soon becomes more connected, and, in due course, allusion is made to the object of our visit.

“Now, mind you tell us everything about Winchester,” said Miss Hertford, with a smiling emphasis, which showed that she intended to be obeyed.

“Everything, and some other things,” I replied, submissively; “but perhaps you under-estimate the extent of the mine which is here beneath our feet. You are an enchantress, and if you wish to become the idol of antiquaries, turn Winchester upside down for a few hours.”

The present “George” is not inspiring architecturally, but still possesses a fragrance beyond that of mere soups and joints. Here successive generations have been accommodated and regaled,

ever since the days of Edward IV. Had a Visitors Book been kept, what a rare collection of autographs would it have contained! In the twentieth year of Henry VIII. we read of the “In of the George” being leased by the Mayor to one Stephen Boddam, on condition that he pays the rent fixed and forty shillings towards the new making of the chimney.[1] The name of the house was taken from the patron saint of England, pork-dealer, bishop, and dragon-slayer; to whom we find a chapel in Winchester dedicated in Henry IV.’s time.[2]

The stable at the back is the oldest part. It has a dingy aspect, and an unpleasant association. When Waller was here making demands upon the citizens in 1643, one Master Say, a son of a Prebendary of the Cathedral, directed his servant to conceal his horses. Betrayed and brought before Waller, he was questioned, and his answers being deemed unsatisfactory, was handed over to the Provost Marshal to extract a confession. He was forthwith taken into the “eighteen-stall stable,” a halter was placed round his neck, and, as he still refused information, he was pulled up and down to the rack until nearly strangled. All the spectators retired in disgust—they could not stand the sight.

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Hertford. “Did the poor man die?”

“It very nearly finished him,” I returned; “but people were pretty strong in those days. However, he had, as a result, a dangerous illness.”

There is no better starting-point than the “George,” in the centre of the High Street, for exploring Winchester. This was the chief street in Roman times, and perhaps terminated in such a round arch as we see at Lincoln. In the palmy days of the city good houses probably adorned the street. There seems to have been a fashionable tailor here in the days of John and Henry III. His cut was evidently appreciated, for he was not only employed by the King, but given wood to repair his house, Limafelda, the rent of which was a grey pelise for the King. We may conclude there was also a grand harness maker: for John ordered the Mayor to give the constable of Corfe Castle a handsome (pulchra) saddle, with a scarlet saddle-cloth and gilt bridle.[3]

The scene had greatly changed by Henry VIII.’s time. The houses, mostly wooden and thatched, had gardens in front of them, of a somewhat Irish character, for the walls were dilapidated,[4] and they contained few flowers, but many sweet—pigs. A civic order was now made that householders should no longer keep “hog-sties” within the boundaries of the “hie” street. Those were times of darkness—there were no town-lights, and some apprehension was felt that even the supply of candles might run short. And so, in the fifteenth year of Henry VIII., it was ordered by the Winchester “assemble” that the chandlers “should make” good and well-burning candles, and “should see there was no lack of them.”[5] In Charles II.’s time the citizens were bidden to hang out lights while the King was in residence.

Now let us come to a nearer date, and imagine this street a hundred years ago. An open drain ran down it, and lines of gables and overhanging storeys nodded across at each other in grotesque infirmity. A pretty picture they made, and there was one night in the year on which they seemed to me to be sadly missing—the fifth of November—when tar barrels were lit at the Westgate and kicked down the street by an exulting mob. A grand scene it was of riot and wildfire, and only wanted the quaint, irregular buildings to complete the effect.

“When Keats was here in 1819,” said Mr. Hertford, “he found the place much modernized and ‘improved.’ He says the side streets were excessively maiden-lady-like; the doorsteps were always fresh from the flannel, and the knockers had a staid, serious, almost awful quietness about them. Never did he see such a quiet collection of lions’ and rams’ heads.”[6]

The first object that attracted our attention on our walks was the Westgate, which crowns the High Street, and is beautiful with its ivy, arches, and two Decorated windows. There is a warm semi-domestic character in the fortifications of a town—a charm distinct from that of the colder grandeur of the Castle and Cathedral. As we approach the gate, we pass the Star Inn.

“That unpretentious building,” I said, “stands on holy ground.[7]

“Graves of unknown age, Roman coins and vases were found there when digging for the foundations in 1885. It is thought that a palace of Queen Emma stood on or near its site. There was a hostel named ‘La Starre’ in Winchester in the reign of Henry IV.”

We now approach and stand before the gate. Had we been here in the fourteenth century—on a Sunday morning—during the fair, we should have found ourselves surrounded by a chattering crowd, buying bread at the stalls here erected; while close to us on the left (south), would have risen a grim tower in haughty grandeur. It stood just in front of where are now the stairs of the office of the Hampshire Friendly Society—a slight inequality in the road can be observed over the foundations. This was a part of the ancient castle, which some say was built by FitzOsborne at the Conqueror’s command, while others[8] observe that we have no allusion to it till the days of Henry I. In Henry II.’s reign it is often mentioned. Some say that previously the Saxon palace stood here. This palace has been well jolted about by topographers, most of whom place it in the Square behind the Butter Cross. The result is that we have here a couple of prisoners, and do not know where to put them. One of these is Stigand, Bishop of Winchester, and afterwards archbishop. His treasures were not entirely in the other world, but he kindly kept a correct account of them, and wore his key on a chain round his neck, so that on his death in 1070, William had no difficulty in turning his store into the royal coffers. The other sufferer was a young Saxon of the name of Meaw. It appears that the Conqueror’s wife, Matilda, was not so busy with her Bayeux tapestry and Abbaye aux Dames as to forget all about this aggravating person. He would care nothing for her, and she determined to be revenged. So she had him shut up somewhere in Winchester, that he might have leisure to reflect on the advantages of being “willing and free.” Prisons were not then as they are now—some of the best warmed and ventilated places—there were no good food and attentive doctors, and after a short time poor Meaw was beyond the reach both of love and hatred.

In this Castle was the “exchequer,” that is, the depository of records and treasure. Among the valuables it contained for a considerable time was the celebrated Domesday Book, or a copy of it, which is first mentioned as the “Liber de Thesauro,” appealed to in a case argued before Queen Matilda “in the treasury of the Castle of Winchester,”[9] about the year 1108. The original rolls disappeared at an early date, perhaps in some conflagration, but the Winton book, that describing this locality, is a more full copy from them than is the larger Domesday Book for the whole of England. Authorities differ as to when this book was removed from Winchester. In the seventh year of Henry II., there appears a charge in the Pipe Rolls for conveying the “arca” from Winchester to London, and in the London Record Office there is a curious chest in which this book was kept at Westminster. It is about five feet square, formed of iron nearly an inch thick, and strengthened with heavy girders and studs. This may have been the very ark above mentioned.

“In order to see this castle we must ante-date our existence three hundred years.”

“I wish we could,” said Mr. Hertford, “then we should have no trouble about Home Rule or County Councils.”

“Suppose then,” I proceeded, “we are standing in front of the old tower I have mentioned, and admiring its handsome mouldings of cut stone. If we are allowed to enter and explore we shall find beneath it three subterranean passages radiating in different directions—one to the east, passing into the town, with a view probably of taking sanctuary in churches; another to the south, leading towards the hall; and a third to the west, ending in a sally port outside the town. Passing through this entrance tower we have on our left an embattled wall (where the paved walk now runs) meeting the end of the hall,[10] and on our right another wall (along the course of the iron railing of the Friendly Society), extending to the State apartments—the site of the present County Offices. The original Norman Castle—a tower fifty-two feet square and fourteen thick, which stood where the Jubilee Queen now sits in front of the hall—was demolished at an early date. The succeeding castle had round towers, between thirty and forty feet wide, and from eight to ten thick.[11] Beyond the hall was an inner court, or ‘pleasaunce,’ with four towers, one at each corner; one is still visible, and one stood where the officers’ quarters are; one probably belonging to the Castle, but somewhat distant, and perhaps detached, was found in the railway cutting.

“A remarkable, if not fabulous event, took place ‘in the hall of Winchester Castle’ (or palace) in Edward the Confessor’s time. The story goes that one of the serving-men in bringing in a dish slipped one foot, but saved himself with the other. Earl Godwin being in good spirits, perhaps, at the termination of the almost endless grace, attempted a joke—a somewhat hazardous venture before the Confessor. ‘So should one brother support the other,’ quoth he. Edward was down upon him in a moment. ‘So might I have been now assisted by my brother Alfred, if Earl Godwin had not prevented it.’ The Earl protested that he had no connection with that murder; ‘might the next morsel be his last if he had.’ He ate and tried to swallow, but the food and the lie stuck in his throat, and he fell dead under the table.”

“I have read, somewhere,” observed Mr. Hertford, “that there is no truth in that story beyond the fact that the Earl died suddenly at a banquet here, and was buried in the Cathedral. It has a Norman flavour.”

We find that Henry II. bought a place in Winchester for his mews, which remained in the hands of John and Henry III.[12] John in his fifth year gave to Matthew Wallop “the custody of our house and castle gates and gaol in Winchester for the service of his keeping at his cost our birds put in the Castle to be mewed, finding one servant to mew them, and keep throughout the mewing time. And he shall find three hare hounds for each season.”[13] John also ordered a Columbarium to be made in the Castle.[14]

While we were admiring the exterior of the hall I thought of the grim ornaments with which the Castle was once adorned. Here was placed by Edward I. a quarter of the last native Prince of Wales. Here Queen Isabella exhibited the head of Earl Despencer. As I was musing, a labourer came out, and we were enabled to enter the building.

“Magnificent!” exclaimed Mr. Hertford. “What a length and height; and look at those tall, blue shafts of Purbeck marble!”

“Those pillars and aisles,” I replied, “have led some to mistake it for a church. But although we read of four chapels in the Castle—the chief of which was to St. Josse—this was not among them. The length is 110 feet. The old entrance to the hall, the mouldings of which are still visible, was used towards the end of the last century, and corresponded with that still existing on the south side.”[15]

At the west end are the remains of a daÏs, and a curious orifice, supposed to be for communicating by word of mouth with the State apartments. Over this, like a large target, hangs the famous “round table” of King Arthur—a mystery for centuries. In the reign of Henry III., who was much here, and had his birth-room in the Castle coloured with fresh green, when there were statues in the porch, marble pillars, and a painted chamber, there were also here a “Mappa Mundi” and a “Wheel of Fortune.” The latter seems suggestive, and the Round Tower, built by Wykeham, at Windsor, and called the Round Table, may have been taken from this; but we hear nothing of it till Henry VI.’s reign,[16] and the present painting dates from Henry VIII., who specially showed the work of art to the Emperor Charles V. Round it are inscribed the names of Arthur’s knights, and in the centre is a picture of a king in voluminous robes, much more like a Tudor monarch than a British warrior.[17] Tradition says that Arthur founded this Castle. He and his companions, when divested of their French motley, represent the conflict which raged between the Christian Britons and the pagan Saxons. It is said that he gained a great victory in this neighbourhood, and so fondly did the conquered and oppressed natives recall the memory of their beloved champion, that they fancied he would come again—

Henry VII. was not above superstitious or worldly considerations, and the legendary foundation of the Castle induced him to bring Elizabeth to this city to be delivered, and to call his first son Arthur.[18]

Great improvements were made in the Castle by Henry III., for which the forest of Bere was mainly contributory. The order is extant in which the verderers are commanded to sell the underwood and give the money for the construction of a great hall at the Castle,[19] and oaks were to be cut for forming the roof.[20] This forest, extending from Winchester to Southampton, would be able to furnish ample money and material. The stone for building and repairing the Castle was to be brought from “Kerebroc,” in the Isle of Wight.[21]

Twenty-five thousand slates were placed upon the roof, and the queen’s chamber was panelled with Irish oak. By the time Elizabeth came to the throne, the Castle was in a somewhat dilapidated state. From a letter of the Commissioners in 1570, we find that the ditch and rampart on the west part of the Castle was overgrown with moss and small bushes; it contained three acres. The Castle green was let, together with the “old walls and ruinous void romes” there—the lessee to keep it clean for Sessions and Assizes. The Mayor had lately repaired the roof of the hall; the Queen had spent much money on its south aisle, but the north aisle was so greatly decayed that the whole edifice was in danger of falling. After this report,[22] some repairs were probably undertaken.

“Do not we see,” I continued, “as we stand and gaze at this splendid structure, the pomp of history sweep slowly past? Here advance Henry I. and his bride Matilda of Scotland,[23] and Coeur de Lion returned from captivity. Henry the Third and the three Edwards were more frequent in their visits and banquets.[24] Here is the studious young William of Wykeham, secretary to Sir John de Scures, Constable of the Castle. What is all this bridal array?—Henry IV. and Joan of Brittany. Here the warlike Henry V., who may be claimed as a Winchester boy, is receiving the French ambassadors[25] who came with three hundred men; and here his gentle son obtains less perishable honours as he lays down the plan of Eton College on the lines of Wykeham’s foundation. Here is the bluff and jovial Henry VIII., holding high festival for the handsome young Emperor Charles V.; and here is melancholy Mary, doating on her faithless Philip.

“James I. gave the Castle to Benjamin Tichborne—a name recalling a recent contest; and Charles II. demolished most of it for the construction of his more luxurious palace.

“In Edward the First’s reign the Bishop of St. Andrews though only a prisoner of war who had opposed the King in Scotland, was confined here in irons. It was then the rule rather than the exception for such prisoners to be chained. A Parliament was held here by Isabella and Mortimer, and a cruel scene then followed the incarceration of Edmund of Woodstock. He was brought out in front of the main entrance to the Castle (through the city wall) to be executed. There he was kept “from morn till dewy eve” in a state of painful suspense, for, to the credit of all, no one would be induced to do the cruel deed. At last a prisoner, to save his own life, decapitated him.”

“I have often wondered,” observed Mr. Hertford, “how any one could be induced to perform this odious office against the lives of celebrated men. We know the difficulty there was in the case of Charles I., how disguises were used and what suspicions there were as to who were the two executioners.”

“We have another sensational scene here,” I proceeded, “before the time of Charles. When James I. came to the throne the Castle Green was again reddened with blood. Eleven persons, among them Raleigh, were tried for conspiring against the King and State. Several were condemned, as were Lord Grey de Wilton and Lord Cobham, who were tried in this hall.

“I can see,” I said, “two men pacing up and down here in great mental perturbation. Three have already suffered on the Green, and Markham and Lord Grey, having been led forth in all the pomp of woe to execution, have been respited for a couple of hours and turned into ‘Arthur’s Hall,’ to gain what cold comfort they can from it. Then Cobham was led forth, and Markham and Grey were brought out to meet him. Reprieves were given—a great shout from the assembled multitude rent the air—and the pardoned looked at each other and felt as if they were alive from the dead. Raleigh saw all this performance from his prison, and was agreeably surprised to hear that he also was not to be executed. The Court was in the Castle during this sensational period, and the ladies were amusing themselves with small games such as ‘Rise pig and go,’ and ‘One penny follow me.’ Lady Arabella Stuart was with them in whose behalf the conspiracy was said to have been formed.”[26]

We now come to what happened here at the end of the Civil War, when Charles was within Carisbrooke Castle, in the Isle of Wight. When the Commissioners left, Hammond, who was in charge of him, dismissed all the royal attendants. This became known in the neighbourhood, where the people were Royalists, and caused great indignation. Thereupon a Captain Burleigh, a man of good family in the island, who had been captain of one of the King’s ships and afterwards a general of ordnance in the army, had a drum beaten in Newport, and called upon the people to take arms and storm the Castle. It was a rash and childish project, and sensible people held aloof from it. Burleigh probably thought that he could not be much punished, and no one had yet suffered for treason in supporting the King. But the Parliament took a new departure. Hammond arrested him, and sent him a prisoner to Winchester Castle, and soon a ferocious judge, whose name was Wild, was sent down to condemn him. Sentence in the usual form was passed, and the unfortunate man sentenced to be hanged and quartered here.

Shortly afterwards Charles himself passed a night here on his road from Hurst Castle to Windsor, whence he took his last journey to London. Many of the gentry and others came to meet him, and the Mayor and Corporation prepared an address; but Lieutenant Cobbett warned them, and having fresh in their memories the tragic end of poor Burleigh, they desisted and craved forgiveness.

At no period in its history did the Castle occupy so conspicuous a position as during the Civil War. From 1642 to 1645, there was frequently a conflict raging here between the red scarf and the buff. In the first-named year it was in the neglected state into which it had gradually fallen, and the Cavaliers who took refuge in it, found it an inadequate place of safety, as there were no cannon on its walls and Waller’s troops “beset them with musqueteers and Horse, and lay perdues under the wall so that not a man of them could stir.” At eleven at night the Cavaliers sounded for a parley—in vain—and the besiegers next morning, lacking artillery and petards, prepared a quantity of faggots and tar barrels to burn the Castle gate. Then negotiations commenced, and it was agreed that Lord Grandison should surrender the Castle with all arms, horses, and money, the garrison being granted their lives. A scandalous scene of pillage ensued, contrary to conditions. The men were stripped of their clothes “four or five pulling at one cloak like hounds at the leg of a dead horse,” and the officers were robbed of their purses. Waller left Lord Grandison and some prisoners in the Castle, under a small guard, but he found means to escape to the King at Oxford, and suggested to Sir William Ogle that he should try to rescue the prisoners. Sir Richard Tichborne assisted, and in three days they were in possession both of the Castle and of the arms and ammunition of the enemy. Sir William now strengthened the Castle, and made it “as inaccessible as art could invent,” considering it the key to the whole Western country. He was assisted by the Mayor and citizens, and put the defences of the city into a better state than they had been for years. Soon afterwards the Royalist Western army of 3,000 Foot and 1,500 Horse entered the town under Lord Hopton. Winchester was generally a loyal town, but there were some weak-kneed people there, who replied to the King that “they could not be justly blamed for endeavouring to secure their lives and to keep their wives and daughters from rapine and destruction.”

After the city had been three times plundered by Waller it again held out for the King, and was finally taken by Cromwell at the end of September, 1645. He advanced against it with three regiments of infantry and 2000 cavalry. This strong force and the memory of past defeats caused the resistance to be half-hearted—indeed, the Mayor said he would try to bring about a capitulation. After the gate was fired, the Roundheads entered and the Royalists fled to the Castle, which was soon surrounded. Mines and batteries were immediately commenced. “We have cooped up in the Castle 120 Horse and 400 Foot, and all the malignant gentry and clergy of this Hampshire and Sussex, with many Papists and Jesuits.” Doctor Curle, the Bishop of Winchester, remained firm to the King on this trying occasion, and suffered accordingly. Cromwell gave him permission to leave the city, but he refused to accept it, and went into the Castle with the soldiers. But next day, Thursday, when the batteries were placed opposite the walls, the Bishop thought he would as soon be somewhere else, and sent to Cromwell to say he would accept his offer. This advance was refused, and he was told he would be treated as any other prisoner of war.

On Friday the battery of six guns was perfected, and on Saturday it began to play. Lord Ogle hoisted a red flag of defiance. Notwithstanding Cromwell’s Puritan views, he did not make Sunday a day of rest, nor did he keep it holy, though he intermingled prayer and preaching with battering—firing altogether two hundred cannon balls in the day. The Royalists replied; sometimes firing into the High Street, which became unsafe for passengers, and at one time making a sally and beating the Roundheads from their guns for the moment. But the storm proved too severe, the red flag was carried away by a shot, and granadoes did great execution—one breaking through into the hall and killing three men.[27] A wide breach was made near the “Black Tower” and the Royalists called out “A parley, a parley for God’s sake! Let us have articles! Will you not hear us for a parley?”

We might have expected a more stubborn defence, for the Castle was strongly fortified. If the besiegers had entered the breach they would have had six distinct works and a drawbridge to pass over. Moreover victuals were abundant.

Cromwell now wrote the following unctuous letter to Fairfax:—

Among the spoil were three or four hogsheads of French wines and a hundred and twelve hogsheads of strong beer. The Cavaliers felt a natural reluctance that all this good tipple should go down rebel throats, and seem to have done their best to prevent such a calamity. The enemy were by the articles to enter at eight on Monday morning, but the surrender had to be delayed until after two, owing to the intoxicated state of the garrison. “Viscount Ogle was as drunk as a beggar,” writes an eye-witness. “I had come sooner had not my Lord Ogle and his company been so unwilling to part with their sack and strong beer, of which they drank so liberally at their farewell that few of them, as it is their manner, could get up on their horses without help.” The Bishop and his chaplain came out in their long gowns and cassocks, and were granted an escort to protect them from insult. Dr. Curle died a few years later in poverty.

The Castle was conferred by Parliament on Sir W. Waller, brother-in-law to Sir Henry Tichborne, to whom it belonged. It had been in the Waller family, who were connected with the Tichbornes. Waller sold the Hall to the County and the Castle to the Corporation of Winchester.[28]

The Parliaments of England sat occasionally in this Hall for four hundred years after the Conquest. Since Henry VIII.’s reign county business has been transacted here, and from Cromwell’s time the Law Courts have been established, the space being divided, the upper part devoted to the Crown Court, and the lower to Nisi Prius. Generations of judges here shivered on the Bench, but at length a successful demand was made that New Courts should be constructed at the east end, and that this hall should be only the vestibule and waiting-room. During a long period the graceful pillars we now behold were portly and shapeless, encased in cement a foot thick, but in course of time the witnesses, plaintiffs, and defendants who were kept kicking their heels here by “the law’s delays” did some good, for they knocked off the lower part of the cement and the marble became visible. About fourteen years ago it was determined to try the effect of removing the incrustation, and the operation having proved successful on one of the pillars near the door, the rest were soon “translated.”

Passing through the south door we found ourselves beside the one remaining tower, massive in strength and looking down from the height upon a garden where once ran the castle moat. On our right rises the high wall of a very different structure—Charles II.’s red brick palace. The proportions are magnificent and the whole effect worthy of its great designer, Wren. The main entrance with its six lofty pillars, acanthus-leaved capitals, and heavy entablature surmounted by the royal arms is scarcely visible from any point in the town, owing to the conglomeration of houses below it, but a glimpse can be obtained from a stable yard in Trafalgar Street, turning out of the High Street.

Charles II. laid the first stone in 1683. Evelyn writes in that year that the palace was estimated to cost £35,000, and the surveyor was purchasing land for a park to be ten miles in circumference. There was to be a cupola over it visible at sea. After Newmarket was consumed by fire, the King was more earnest to render Winchester the seat of his autumnal field diversions. Two years later Evelyn was here, and observed that £20,000 had been expended on the palace, but his Majesty (James II.) did not seem to encourage the work. Queen Anne surveyed it in person, and would have completed it for the Prince of Denmark had he lived. The first use made of it was for the incarceration of French prisoners of war in 1756. It must have been at that time a dreadful place; there were sometimes as many as five thousand prisoners in it. In 1792 it was occupied by a number of the exiled French clergy,[29] and a few years later was fitted up as a barrack, for which it has been ever since used.

Returning from the Castle to the Westgate we found that the keys of the Tower were kept at St. John’s Hospital at the other end of the High Street, and that it was necessary to obtain the permission of the civic authorities. This caused some delay, but when I returned we entered, and, ascending the rugged stairs, came to a cell where prisoners were until lately confined. Proceeding higher we reached the chamber over the arch—a handsome room with an ancient carved mantel-piece. The cause of the precautions taken with regard to visitors now become intelligible; for here are the archives of the city—volumes of records beginning with Philip and Mary, and piles of ancient vellum rolls. I observed a fine charter of Elizabeth’s reign, commencing with an etched portrait of the Queen, as a young girl, and a grandiloquent reference to Mary and Philip, as sovereigns of England, Scotland, France, Naples, Jerusalem, and Ireland. The rarest of these old documents were for a long time thought to be lost, but when, some ten years ago, inquiry was being made in a solicitor’s office in Peter’s Street, for a charter of Richard II., one of the clerks said: “Oh, we have a box full of these old things,” showing some parchments. And here, upon examination, were found twenty of these ancient records!

In this room is the huge old city chest, nearly ten feet long by four wide. It has three locks and different keys, and long chains and rings by which it could be carried about like the Ark of the Israelites.

“From what we read of the propensities of the Jews,” said Mr. Hertford, “I should say they would have preferred such an ark as this to their own.”

“Well, some of them would, perhaps,” I replied. “Their ark carried the law and holy things, but this contained the coin, and also the gold and silver plate of the city.”

It was heavily drawn upon in Charles I.’s reign for the King’s benefit. On December 30, 1643, there were taken out for the maintenance of the army:—

Previously they had sent him £300 raised by sale of plate.

“Why, the good aldermen could scarcely have left themselves a cup for drinking the King’s health,” observed Mr. Hertford.

“Nor had they much wine for that purpose,” I added. “They had sent the King already a sum of £1,000, and the Roundheads tapped them pretty freely.”

This large chest reminds me of another there is at Upham, in which, when at Marwell Hall near this, a girl playing hide-and-seek concealed herself. She could not raise the lid, and nothing was known about her mysterious disappearance until years afterwards when her skeleton was found—a melancholy treasure.

Passing through the gate I admired the exterior. There was machicolation over it for giving assailants a warm reception, perhaps because there was no ditch in front of it. There was a moat on each side, but on account of the difference of level, they did not meet here. Milner says that there was part of a Saxon chapel adhering to this building.

As we were about to move on, the magic of history brought a scene before my mind. Stay! what is that concourse and cavalcade before the gate? I hear a voice proclaiming—

“Let no merchant or other for these sixteen days, within a circuit of sixteen leagues round the Fair, sell, buy, or set out for sale, any merchandise in any place but the Fair, under a penalty of forfeiture of goods to the Bishop.”

The Mayor is presenting the keys of the gate, but what sour countenances have he and his fellow citizens! Is not this what took place in the fourteenth century, on the eve of St. Giles’ fair?

As it was a fine autumnal day I now strolled right away by myself for a country walk. Just before me was an obelisk raised to commemorate the Plague of 1666, when the markets had to be placed outside the town. It stands upon the very stone on which exchanges were then made, the money being dropped into a bowl of water to avoid contagion. I saw in large letters on the obelisk that it was erected by the “Society of Natives,” somewhat suggestive of oysters, or of some primitive race descended from them, but I found the reference was to an association formed immediately after the plague, with the benevolent object of assisting the widows and orphans of those who had died.

An old man told me that when at work in a cellar near this, in Newburgh Street, he found, seven feet down, about a hundred rusty old swords. He was told they were Saxon, and that if he had sent them to the Queen he should never have had to do another day’s work, “a consummation,” according to his views, “devoutly to be wished.” Some of them were sent to the Museum, but as I could not find them there, I doubted whether they were really Saxon.

Proceeding towards the country I saw on my right the Church of St. Paul’s in course of construction—the work seems to have fallen into a state of chronic debility. It stands on the foundations of the old Church of St. Anastasius, and this district which seems fresh and cheerful is mostly historical from disease. It was depopulated by a pestilence in 1348, and never until lately recovered. At the end of the fifteenth century this church, and one with the pleasant name of “St. Mary’s of the Valley,” were taken down, and Wyke Chapel made the parish church.

On the left I passed a red brick building, with some handsome trees beside it. This was the Union Workhouse—a bright, comfortable-looking edifice, which ought to cheer the hearts of any farmers and landowners who are thinking of soon entering it. At the back they will find a public recreation ground, called “Oram’s Arbour,” with seats, where they can rest and reflect upon their past fortunes, and bless Oram, who, having a lease of great length, generously surrendered it on condition that the ground should be free to the citizens for ever. There were, forty years ago, on the western side of it, where houses have been built, a fosse and bank, probably made by the Royalists in Cromwell’s time, though some have regarded them as a part of the old British defences of the town.

Farther on I passed a row of cottages with brightly flowering gardens, and after continuing up the hill between hedges white with “travellers’ joy,” for about half a mile, descended beneath overhanging larches, and came to the village of Wyke, with its little boulevard of pollard lime trees. Having obtained the keys at an adjoining cottage, I entered the tiny church beneath the Norman arch, and looked at the East window, which contains bits of old glass and has coloured scroll work round it.

The chapel is mentioned by Henry de Blois, but was rebuilt in Henry VIII.’s reign. Within the chancel is a stone in the wall about eighteen inches square, in memory of Dr. Harpesfelde, who died in 1550. This person was a nephew of Johanna, Viscountess Lisle, who bequeathed to him as a “scholar of Bologna,” twelve pounds, six silver spoons, a silver cup, and a gown. He was made by Wolsey Commissary-general of the diocese, and assisted at the enthronement of Gardiner. Towards the end of his life he lived here, and went about in a horse litter. The engraver has made his inscription conspicuous by forming the chief letters very large and inserting the others inside them—an early suggestion of shorthand.

The greater part of the present building is of Henry VIII.’s time. There are here abundant monuments to the Godwin family. I was somewhat amused at one, which, after setting forth a long catalogue of virtues, ended by bidding the exhausted reader—“Blush, if you do not venerate the name of Thomas Godwin.”[30]

Just opposite the door there is in the wall a curious little brass, about a foot high and six inches wide. Many people come to take rubbings of it. Here is represented St. Christopher carrying the infant Christ. The saint is wading through a stream, and in his anxiety to behold the face of his sacred burden seems to have dislocated his neck. The inscription beneath runs as follows:—

I observed that z is here twice put for y—and the fact reminded me of the pronunciation of the agricultural people here.

As I left the quaint little sanctuary I found an old labouring man standing outside gazing at it wistfully in an attitude of meditation. I was glad to see this. “The poorest,” I thought, “can appreciate the ancient and the beautiful.” But his reflections were more practical. As I passed he gave me a curious look, and said, with a twinkle in his grey eyes—

“Richest living about Winchester, zir.”

“Indeed,” I replied. “How much do you make it?”

“Eight hundred and fifty, zir.”

“The rector would be glad to receive half that,” I returned.

Resuming my walk I soon came in sight of a white cylindrical building with a globular top, on the high ground of Harestock. As I saw my agricultural friend trudging after me I stopped to ask him about it.

“What is that?” I inquired.

“That? Oh that is a place for looking at the stars. It belongs to Captain Knight; he is a great astrologer.”

As I did not want my horoscope cast I passed on, and proceeded along a hilly road between high banks, where grew the blue scabious and long spikes of yellow agrimony and mullein, till in two miles I descended into the village of Littleton. The church has been restored and thus lost much of its interest, but there is here a dark square font of massive stone, by which we think we can see the immediate descendants of the Norman invaders standing to have their children christened. There is also a brass on the floor in front of the chancel dating from 1493. Opening into the churchyard is an old cottage parsonage, in which the clergyman formerly lived when he was—

On one side was the large, low kitchen with its wide hearth; on the other, the little room which was the parson’s drawing-room, parlour, and study.[31]

Two years ago there was a great conflagration opposite this church, a number of cottages were burnt, and some of the villagers had narrow escapes.

This is three miles from Winchester, and a mile further on I came to Mr. Carrick Moore’s house, his large stables for racehorses, and a field laid out with jumps for training steeplechasers. The racecourse is not far from this on the right. Racing has long been a favourite amusement at Winchester. In 1634 a cup was provided by the city; and again in 1705, when Queen Anne was here, the kindly civic chest was not appealed to in vain. This was an improvement on the old sport of bull-baiting, for which it had been ordered that two Winchester butchers should provide two or three times a year one “sufficient fighting bull,” the other butchers contributing 6d. each a year.

At this point there is on the left a distant view of the woods of Mr. Vanderbyl, and passing on along grassy banks, spangled with rock cistus, I came to a pool at the commencement of Crawley. The village runs up a hill, at the top of which is the church adjacent to the beautiful grounds of Crawley Court (Lord Kinnaird). The church is reached through an avenue of limes: it contains some small Norman pillars, a brass recording diffusely the virtues of a rector named Reniger, who died in 1606, and a chest which once performed the double service of strongbox and communion table.

From this point I returned to the pool, and taking the road to the right came in about two miles to the woods of Lainston on the right, and a double avenue of limes opposite the lodge of Mr. Vanderbyl. A mile farther on a loftier avenue opens, at the end of which stood Lainston House. I cannot say that I saw it clearly for the sun dazzled me, setting directly behind it.

Close to the house stand the ruins of Lainston Church, picturesquely situated in dense woods. Here one fine August morning, in 1744, the gay Miss Chudleigh was privately married to Hervey, a naval officer, who became third Earl of Bristol. Notwithstanding this, and her having two children, she continued to be called “Miss Chudleigh,” and to be a maid of honour. George II. affected to be in love with her, and even went so far as to kiss her at a party. Twenty-five years afterwards she contracted a bigamous marriage with Pierrepont, Duke of Kingston, which was set aside. She was a prominent figure in Ranelagh Gardens, and her dress seems to have harmonized with her performances. Walpole says that on one occasion she appeared at a masquerade as Iphigenia, but “as naked as Andromeda.”[32]

In this vicinity, but lying off the high road and consequently little visited by strangers, is the scattered village of Sparsholt, with its two inns, one shop, and post office. It was perhaps a more important place in ancient days, for Roman relics have been found here. The church is small; its architecture varies from transitional Norman to Perpendicular. During the late restorations the tomb of a priest was opened, and with him were found a chalice and paten of latten, now in the vicar’s possession.

The village water supply is obtained from a well of unusual depth. Over it is placed a large broad wheel, and the ropes by which the buckets are lowered and raised are coiled round what may be called the axle. The water drawer steps on the stairs of the wheel to raise the bucket, and if unused to the treadmill—which no doubt these happy rustics are—must be well tired before his efforts are crowned with success.

Down the road is a stile by which one may enter what is locally known as the “Avenue,” a lovely piece of woodland scenery, abounding in noble trees. Here we may pleasantly rest for a while, and listen to the cooing of wood-pigeons or watch squirrels at their merry gambols. Through this a path leads to the high road, along which, past Harestock and Wyke, we reach Winchester again.