Jewry Street and the Jews — Hyde Abbey — St. Grimbald — Destruction of Tombs — Headbourne Worthy — King’s Worthy — The Nun’s Walk.

The west side of the George Hotel is in Jewry Street, the ghetto, a name recalling the wealth, rapacity, and persecutions of this peculiar people. They managed to obtain property and to increase in this city, apparently in the thirteenth century, previous to which this street was called Scowertene Street. In 1232 a story was circulated that a boy had been tortured and murdered by them.

“Invented, perhaps, by their debtors,” suggested Mr. Hertford.

In Henry III.’s reign there was an order that the Jews in Winchester should be taxed according to their ability, as in London; but when the barons sacked the town they are said to have extirpated them. In 1268, however, one of them was made a member of the Merchants’ Guild here, the only fact, as far as I know, that corroborates the statement of Richard of Devizes, that “Winchester alone, the people being prudent, spared its vermin.” We have seen what became of “Aaron’s land,” and that of the “son of Abraham” did not escape confiscation, for we find that in Edward I.’s reign—“Thomas de Palmere was granted a messuage in the great street of Winchester, valued at four shillings a year. It had belonged to Benedict, son of Abraham the Jew, and had been forfeited to the King.”[59] At a Parliament, held here in 1290, the Jews were expelled from the country.

Proceeding up the street, we pass on the right-hand side the old stable in which “Master Say” was tortured in the time of the Civil War. A little farther on, if we look up over the shops on the other side, we shall plainly trace the outlines of a large building. This was once the city gaol, built by James I., rebuilt in 1771, and the central portion of it, where there is now an ironmonger’s shop, was the governor’s house about twenty years since, and boasted a haunted chamber, in which one of the debtors committed suicide. It was afterwards used for the Museum until the Guildhall was built in 1873, and the gaol and bridewell were removed to the Romsey Road. Farther on stands the Corn Exchange and Cattle Market.

Crossing the City Road we went straight on into Hyde Street, which seems like a continuation of Jewry Street. On the right Fossedyke House commemorates the city walls and ditch. Farther on I noticed a relic of the past—a small shop with a gable, very low rooms, and windows scarcely more than a foot high. Two steps descended into it, a proof of age—as either the soil outside has risen, or the owner has been, like the Irishman, “raising his roof.” On the other side, we came to the large malthouse of Mr. Dear, with walls of cut stone, formerly a barn belonging to Hyde Abbey.

Opposite, we see through a side street the “Soldiers’ Home.” This was about fifty years ago the celebrated school of Mr. Richards, at which were Deans Garnier and Gaisford, Lord Liverpool, George Canning, Wolfe the poet, and perhaps Disraeli who was at a boarding school in Winchester. It was afterwards the Museum, and is now used for Salvation meetings. The Army has been “bombarding” Winchester for some time, and now marches through the streets with Salvation guernseys, hallelujah bonnets, and scarves white, red, and blue, to the music of drums, trumpets, and cymbals. All this noise and dramatic show is attractive: whether it makes people religious I cannot say, but it promotes the cause of teetotalism. I went one day from curiosity to a “free and easy” at the Corn Exchange, and observed that the congregation were mostly men. Their attention was kept by the variations in the service, by “knee-drill,” singing on the knees, clapping the hands, and singing with the eyes shut. The preacher, an eloquent man, said they wanted money to build a barrack in Parchment Street, which was to be somewhat larger than the Cathedral! (a titter.) He added that some considered that the Salvationists could do nothing right, nothing properly. They even thought they could not make a collection properly, and he was almost inclined to agree with them, when he saw the miserable contributions there were last Sunday.

A Roman urn was found in this street; and in turning to the right, down Alfred Place I noticed a corner-stone of a “Druidical” character. In a few yards, we came to the little church of St. Bartholomew, with a Norman entrance arch, rich in zig-zag—one-third restored. Here is a stoup, and the lancet windows in the nave are in their original positions. Close beside the churchyard is a building with an arch, apparently the entrance to the monastery. On either side of the arch is a head, much decayed, but the drawn-back hair can be traced, and the crowns of Alfred and his son Edward, it is supposed. These carvings seem older than the arch, which is only Tudor. In the massive wall of an adjoining garden a low window was pointed out to me, now half hidden in the soil; and until lately there was an arch visible beside it, which is now walled up. Passing through the gate into the farmyard I came to the stream which rises at Headbourne Worthy, and here runs under a very primitive arch, which has some of the old monastery wall still remaining on it. The rivulet flows round the black fence of the Steam Laundry into a street, called from it, Upper Brooks.

I found that the road past the monastery ended immediately, and learned that the reason of this was that for a short time the Bridewell, for which the ruins of Hyde Abbey were despoiled, stood till late years at the termination.

This information I obtained from a mechanic whom we met with. I was desirous of obtaining local information, and asked him if there were more ruins here.

“Well, sir, I think there’s some of the old tackle up there,” he replied, pointing in the direction of the barn.

“Do you belong to this place?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied; “and for forty years I belonged to the devil.”

I stared at him, for he was a most respectable-looking man.

“Yes, sir, I did,” he continued. “But what a difference it makes to a man when he has his eyes opened! I never used to pray. I used to eat and drink and work, and go once a week to the organ-loft of St. Bartholomew’s there, and have a sing, and thought that was all that was necessary. How differently I feel now!”

“Much better, no doubt,” I returned. “Have any ancient remains been discovered here?”

“Something less than twenty years ago a man was digging about the site of this bridewell wherever they would let him. He was a long time at it, but he had read books, and knew exactly where to go. He was a strange sort of man, fond of bones and coffins, which he found and put into the church.”

Hyde Abbey, called the New Minster, previous to Norman times went on its travels like the other Winchester institutions. It was founded by Alfred close to the northern side of the Cathedral. He bought ground for the chapel and dormitory, and perhaps built them, but left the main work to be completed by his son. It was called the Monastery of St. Grimbald. When Alfred went to Rome with St. Swithun, he stopped for some days on his way at the convent of St. Bertin, in France, and there sat, a lovely and studious child, at the feet of Grimbald. He not only profited by the religious teaching, but conceived a great affection for this gracious president, and sent for him to superintend his new foundation. Grimbald came in 885, and the King and Archbishop Ethred received him “as an angel.” A meeting was called, and Grimbald made an effective speech, strongly condemning the sins of unchastity, covetousness, lying, murder, and theft. He also spoke of pride and gluttony, “through which our first parent was driven from his flowery abode.” Alfred followed with a speech commending study to his nobility, who were very illiterate at the time.

Learning was then at a low ebb in England owing to the ravages of the Danes, and in Winchester the churches had been despoiled, the priests murdered, the nuns outraged, and Christianity nearly abolished. Alfred resolved to reinstate it, and Grimbald was to teach the children of the thanes as well as to give advice about the proposed monastery.

Alfred died fifteen years after Grimbald’s arrival in England, and the Annals tell us he was buried “becomingly, and with kingly honour in the royal city of Winchester, in the church of St. Peter’s. His tomb is still extant, made of the most precious porphyry marble.” Although unwilling to say a word against the good monks of Hyde, I fear that it must be admitted they were now guilty of a little trickery. The canons of St. Swithun “foolishly thought they saw the disembodied spirit of King Alfred moving about their habitation,” and I am afraid we must conclude that some of the monks of Hyde, to obtain the valuable body of the King, dressed themselves up as the ghost and frightened the poor canons. Thus the corpse was transferred to the New Minster.[60]

The monastery soon obtained another melancholy acquisition. The building was finished in 903, and, Ponthieu in Picardy having been ravaged, the inhabitants fled, and nobles and religious people came swarming like bees to St. Grimbald, and brought with them the bones of the sacred confessor St. Josse—a British prince. Grimbald received this consignment with great honour, with a brilliant retinue of clergy, and an immense concourse of the faithful. Miracles soon appeared, and the dry bones brought life and livelihood into the monastery. At the dedication of the basilica to the Sacred Trinity, St. Mary, St. Peter, and St. Paul, there was a brilliant assembly, and farms were bestowed by the King and nobles. Queen Emma afterwards gave the head of St. Valentine.

Grimbald, “a good singer and most learned in holy Scripture,” had a conflict with the old scholars at Oxford, and was not well pleased at the impartial manner in which Alfred decided it. As he became old he withdrew himself, and lived privately in this Abbey at Winchester, intent only upon psalms and hymns, and unwilling to speak of anything secular.

The New Monastery fared badly after the battle of Hastings. The Abbot at this time was unfortunately an uncle of Harold. When he heard of the Norman invasion he persuaded twelve stalwart brethren to take the Saxon helmet, and, raising twenty additional men, marched to Hastings with his little company. They took the sword in place of the crucifix, and used it with such effect that they became conspicuous in the conflict. The Abbot fell close to Harold. Perhaps their costume attracted attention, they may have had gown and sword, but at any rate William’s attention was attracted to them, and he determined to take vengeance on an establishment whose members gave him so much trouble. He confiscated some fifteen manors belonging to them—about 17,000 acres of land, and he built his palace in such a position as greatly to inconvenience them, shutting up the communication by St. Lawrence’s into the High Street.

It now became clearly recognized that the New Monastery was too much confined, it was so close to St. Swithun’s that the ringing and singing were “like sweet bells jangled.” The monks resolved to move outside the city to Hyde Mead, though the ground in that locality was so springy that they had to bring a quantity of clay, and to cover it, in some places, four feet deep. The old site was given to St. Swithun’s, which in return gave some land and some additional days at St. Giles’ fair. In 1110 the fraternity moved in solemn procession, with all their worldly goods, consisting mainly of the cross of Cnut, body of Alfred, and some other old bones, into what promised to be a peaceful abode.

But thirty years afterwards, on the occasion of the conflict between Stephen and Matilda, the establishment was destroyed, as I have already said, by Bishop de Blois sending fire balls at it out of Wolvesey. From the representations now made to the Pope we learn how magnificently adorned the church was, and how successful had been the miracles there wrought. The flames melted the gold and silver, and the bishop compelled the monks to give him the precious ashes, especially those of the great cross, given by Cnut, which contained sixty pounds of silver, and fifteen of gold, that king’s revenue for a year.

There were three diadems of gold and precious stones worth £118, two images adorned with gold and gems, worth £49. Of silver there were many other valuables, the seal of the house, two patens, a vase for holy water, and two lavers, nobly adorned with gold and gems, said to be of Solomonic work, perhaps in imitation of those in the Jewish temple, and worth £35. De Blois had endowed his hospital of St. Cross out of the spoil, and the whole amount of damages claimed was not less than £4,862, which might be multiplied by twenty to form a right estimate of it at present.

In consequence of the complaints sent to the Pope, the warlike bishop had to make some restitution. But it was not till twenty-six years afterwards (1167) that a goldsmith’s copy of the cross[61] was executed and presented to the Convent. The restoration of the buildings was gradual, and in 1312 part was still in ruins.

Hyde Abbey, though planned by St. Grimbald with such excellent intentions, was not free from the weakness inherent in all human institutions. There was from 1182 such a flow of miracles from the altar of St. Barnabas there that the monastery was sometimes spoken of as if dedicated to that saint. Crowds of poor, sick, and infirm people congregated there, and as the place declined in morality it grew in celebrity, so that in 1390 William of Wykeham authorized the abbot to use a mitre, ring and pastoral staff.

In 1507 the vices attendant on wealth and luxury became so conspicuous as to require rebuke. The good monks were making free use of the taverns, and were bringing into the monastery women who were not of a saintly character. The last abbot of Hyde, John Salcot, was “a great cleark, and singularly learned in divinity.” He became Bishop of Bangor, and then of Salisbury, and his principles were of the willow pattern. At Windsor he tried three reformers, and condemned them to be burnt, and burnt they were; but under Edward VI. he himself became a reformer, and gave the Duke of Somerset several church manors. In Mary’s reign he averred that his compliance with Edward’s wishes had been caused by threats and from fear of his life, and sentenced Hooper and Rogers and three others to the stake, where they were burned.

Wriothesley writes in 1538, being the chief acting commissioner here: “About three o’clock a.m., we made an end of the shrine of Winchester. We think the silver will amount to near two thousand marks. Going to bedsward we viewed the altar. Such a piece of work it is that we think we shall not rid of it before Monday or Tuesday morning. Which done we intend both at Hyde and St. Mary’s to sweep away all the rotten bones, called relics, which we may not omit lest it should be thought we came more for the treasure than for avoiding the abominations of idolatry.” Wriothesley was granted several of the richest manors of Hyde, and having a lease of the site, pulled down the abbey and sold the materials. He made over the site to the Bethell family. The lands he left to his children, but a failure of male descent, which no doubt the Roman Catholics regarded as a judgment, caused the abbey manors to be distributed to many families. Some of them went to Lady Rachel Russell, a daughter of Thomas, Earl of Southampton. She lived much at Stratton, where her letters were written.

In 1788 the magistrates of Hampshire bought the site of the abbey to erect a bridewell. Dr. Milner writes: “At almost every stroke of the mattock or spade some ancient sepulchre or other was violated, the venerable contents of which were treated with marked indignity.” A crozier, patens, chalices, and rings, and “fantastic capitals” were now found, stone coffins were broken and bones scattered. Three superior coffins were found in front of the altar, and a slab, probably the base of a statue of Alfred, which is now at Corby Castle, in Cumberland. It is impossible to determine what relics were then destroyed.

The bones found in 1867 lie under a stone marked simply with a cross, beneath the east window of St. Bartholomew’s Church. They belonged to five persons, supposed to be Alfred, his queen and two sons, and St. Grimbald. The four first mentioned were found in a chalk vault, at the east end of the church of Hyde Monastery. The bones of St. Grimbald were in another chalk vault, under the chancel, near the north transept, which extended where there is now a timber yard, on the east side of the present church. In Milner’s time, the ruins of the church nearly covered a meadow. St. Bartholomew’s was probably like the church at Battle, built for the tenants and servants of the abbey. The cut stones, with which its walls are studded, give it a chequered or chessboard appearance, and suggest the spoliation of some earlier building. But a portion at least, of the church existed long before the destruction of the abbey. The alternation of squares of stone and flintwork is an example of what was in times past a favourite device, now known by architects as “diaper work.”

Returning into Hyde Street, my friends went home; and I, walking on towards the country, came to some pretty outskirts of Winchester. Here are bright villas, covered with flowering rose-trees, and a thatched cottage swathed in ivy. The road gradually becomes overshadowed on both sides by beeches and elms, which soon give place on the left to corn-fields, dotted over with children “gleazing,” while on the right appears the long wall and fine plantations of Abbots Barton—an old monastic farm.

Just before coming to Headbourne Worthy, I passed two semi-detached cottages of red brick, with ornamental windows. These cheerful dwellings stand on a site of dark memory. Two years ago, a hayrick was here, under which a couple of young sailors, tramping along the road, took refuge at night from a storm. Though in this uncomfortable position, they managed to quarrel about money—with which neither was well provided—and at last the discussion grew so hot that the elder—twenty-seven years of age—pursued the younger, a boy of eighteen round the rick, with an open knife in his hand. The latter cried aloud, but the wind and rain prevented his being heard, except by a dog at a neighbouring cottage, who raised his voice in vain. At last the deed was done, and the murderer took three shillings from the body, which he covered up with hay. He then made off, but was captured and executed.

I now descend a hill between high grassy banks, and reach Headbourne Worthy—the stately designation only signifying a village. The church has a somewhat modern appearance outside, but, according to some, has Saxon portions. At the west end, we find a small Norman arch leading into the vestry, where there is a bas-relief, almost obliterated, of the Crucifixion and two Marys, larger than life. It is supposed that these figures were originally on the outer wall of the church, and that the room in which they now are, in which an upper floor and piscina are traceable, was a chapel built round them. There is in the church a handsome piscina and some sedilia. But the chief pride of the little sanctuary is a brass, said to be in a certain sense unique. It dates from 1434, and is in memory of a boy who died when one of the scholars at “New College” in Winchester. He stands here, with closely-cut hair and a gown fastened down the front, giving a good idea of the appearance of the scholars of that day. A scroll proceeds out of his mouth, with the words, “Misericordiam Dm inetm cantabo,” which is supposed to mean that he will sing the school chants eternally.

I returned the keys to a small house, a few yards off, in the garden of which I observed some of the finest “everlastings” I had seen in this country. Beside it ran a grass-carpeted lane, down which a pedestrian wishing to return to Winchester in a mile, and able to face an easy fence, might turn to the right across a field and walk beside a bank gay with knopweed, fleabane, and St. John’s wort, until he reached the Nuns’ Walk. I, however, continued up the hill, and, passing a red-brick house, with four splendid lignums in front of it, came to King’s Worthy—once Crown property as the name denotes.

There is nothing remarkable about the church, except a Norman arch at the west entrance. The tombstones outside are sadly gay with wreaths and floral crosses. Short-lived they are, for the fences not being perfect cows stray in, and, unable to read of the virtues of the deceased, munch up and trample on the offerings in a most unsentimental manner. The body of the boy Parker, of whose murder I have spoken, having been refused, as I was told, burial at Headbourne, was interred here on the south-west side, and a headstone raised to his memory by subscription.

Crossing the graveyard to return home, I found myself in a field, where stand two elms of immense height and girth. Then—in and out—under old ivy-mantled trees—over a stile, and under the railway arch, I come into a large oozy field, which eyebright loves, and where sleek cattle are grazing; then I reach the clear Itchen, dozing and gleaming in the sun. Here I am beside the river of Isaak Walton. I fancy that I can see on the bank opposite, the quaint figure of the piscatorial draper, who was always ready to exchange his yard stick for his fishing-rod, and whose writing flows along as clearly and smoothly as the stream he gazed on. Those who wish to know something of his bodily presence may look at his statue by Miss Grant.

Awaking from my reverie, I cross by a plank bridge the rivulet which passes Headbourne Church and rises just above it. This stream, which accompanies the Nuns’ Walk, is said by some old writers to have been conducted into Winchester by Æthelwold. It was evidently turned artificially, perhaps by that eminent man; whoever directed it seems to have raised the Nuns’ Walk to bank up the stream.

Another rivulet running close beside it, drawn from the Itchen and used for irrigation, is called the Mill Stream, from an old mill which stood near: both flow in old water courses, as the willows along them testify. I crossed over to the last mentioned, which was set with the spears of bulrushes and gemmed with blue forget-me-nots, and walked on beside it upon fronds of silver weed, gathering watercresses at times, which seemed refreshing under the hot sun, till I crossed back into the Nuns’ Walk. It is difficult to understand why this name was given to the path, perhaps from its beauty; for it was far from the nunnery, though close to Hyde Monastery. If the nuns frequented it, they must have met the monks here. Let us hope on these trying occasions they kept their eyes rivetted on their books, or “commercing with the skies.” In the earlier period, however, the brethren were canons and mostly married. Would that we could picture here the stately figure of Bishop Æthelwold, whom their worldliness so deeply grieved!

Continuing along the walk by the clear stream, and occasionally startling a trout, which shot under the shade of the bank, I passed Abbots Barton farm, with its mullioned windows and old sun-dial. Farther on, I came to three little boys, fishing with landing nets—would that Gainsborough could have seen that group! I asked them whether they were successful; to which they replied—

“Oh, yes, we have caught several minnows, and some dog-fish.”

“Dog-fish? What may they be?”

“Some call them trotters,” they returned, and showed me the can in which their take had been deposited; but although I looked attentively, I could see nothing. They assured me, however, that they were there safe enough, and I was glad they enjoyed the sport, though I could not say much for the fry.

Trudging on in the chequered light which the sunshine cast through the glossy leaves of witch elms, I came to a man feeding ducks. It was one o’clock, and he was eating his dinner of bread and cucumber, with a clasp knife. Every minute he was throwing in pieces of bread, and watching their scrambles. I stopped as I was passing. He looked at me with a smile, and said—

“I think they are getting nearly as much as I am.”

“You seem very liberal to them,” I replied.

“Yes; but they ought not to be here. This is a nursery, and they eat the small fish.”

“Are there any large fish in the stream?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, very often; but I take them out and put them into the river. The Itchen is the place for the large fish.”

“What sized fish have you there?”

“I have seen trout there of six or eight pounds, but one was caught a few weeks ago that weighed sixteen pounds; and you can see it now, stuffed, at Mr. Chalkley’s, near the Butter Cross.”

“He must have been an old fellow.”

“Oh, very. I should say, twenty years. I had known him in the upper water for three years; but one time, when the hatch was open, he got into the lower water and was then, in fact, in the town. Plenty of people went out to try to catch him, but he escaped them for eighteen months; but at last was taken off his guard.”

“Have you any other fish here?”

“There are a few perch in the river, but we don’t want them; there ought to be none at all in it. Lower down, at Twyford, there are some grayling; and at Bishopstoke, some salmon-ladders have been placed to lead them up here, but they will not come.”

The capture of the large trout to which he alluded had made quite a sensation in Winchester. Not only was it stuffed and exhibited, but its portrait was taken. It seems remarkable that though the fish had been hooked so often, there were no barbs found in its mouth—this is generally the case, they come out by some kindly provision of nature. I need scarcely say that this veteran, when cooked, was not found particularly tender.

To the east of the walk on which I stood, a rich pasture land extended, looking very tempting for a stroll. It is divided into two farms—one entered under the Hyde arch; the other by the Mill, at the farther end of the town. The ground is intersected with dykes and rivulets, and especially by one large clear stream, which enjoys the unsuitable name of the Black Ditch. This feeds the “middle and lower brooks,” being led along the streets so called. The “upper brook” street is supplied by the stream which has travelled beside us from Headbourne, and, being spring water, is thought better than the rest. My impression is that the work of Æthelwold consisted in making the small canals or “brooks,” which flow into the town from a few yards behind the City Road, and perhaps some cutting across the meadow, and that the Headbourne stream was banked up at a later period, after the building of Hyde Monastery, through which it took a remarkably convenient course.

The southern part of this pasture land was the scene of the famous combat between Guy and Colbrand. Passing by some cottages covered with ivy, and some gardens flaming with phlox, I found myself back at St. Bartholomew’s Church.