Southgate Street — St. Cross — Dr. Lewis — Regulations — St. Catherine’s Hill.

This day I proceeded in the direction of the Hospital of St. Cross, which is one mile from Winchester. On my way down Southgate Street I passed, on my right, the profusely decorated and almost flamboyant modern Church of St. Thomas. It contains some of the sepulchral slabs of the older church to that saint, which stood beside the graveyard on the east side of the road. That building had some architectural beauties, but had long lapsed into a state of dilapidation. In Henry III.’s time the Sheriff of Southampton was ordered to have an image of the “Majesty of the Lord” made and placed beyond the altar in that church.

A few yards beyond this I passed the site of the old Southgate, and then came to the “Friary”—the site upon which the Augustine hermits established themselves in the thirteenth century. This order is best known to London men, from Austin Friars in the City.

Next I came to “St. Michael’s,” the rectory of the parish. Just behind it stands the church, but it has been rebuilt, and presents nothing of interest except a round thirteenth-century sun-dial not eight inches wide. In former times a spring rose just above the church, and in the winter flooded it on its way down. The rector keeps the doors of the church always open, and, like many others, has suffered for his good nature. A short time since the poor-box was broken open and robbed, and the only melancholy consolation was, that there was not much in it.

A line of bright villas extends here on the right side, and I soon reached the graveyard of St. Faith’s, another deceased church. Even in the time of Henry III. it was in a weakly state, for we find beech trees given to prop its foundations. The only relic of it remaining, is the Norman font and bell, which are preserved at St. Cross.

Here I am now at my destination. I pass through the village of Sparkford,[98] and stand before the ancient structure founded by Bishop de Blois for the (much needed) health of his soul and for the repose of the kings of England. He endowed it from his private revenues, as well as from gifts of rectories and from the spoils of Hyde Abbey, which consisted of 500 pounds weight of silver, 30 marks of gold, and three crowns of gold, with thorns of gold set with diamonds. The revenue was originally £250 a year, but had risen to £300 in Wykeham’s time.

The management of the hospital was originally delegated to the brethren of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, saving to the Bishop of Winchester canonical jurisdiction, but Henry II. gave the administration entirely into the hands of the bishops.

On the tower over the archway are four heads—those of Henry IV., “time-honoured” Lancaster, Beaufort, and Catherine Swinford. Catherine here finds herself in good company. She was, as most know, a pretty governess, whom John of Gaunt’s wife had the temerity to engage, with the result that her husband had several natural children, among them Cardinal Beaufort. Over these heads are three canopied niches for statues—the idea being evidently taken from those on the tower of the College. In the centre was the Virgin, and by her side the Cardinal; but we observe that though he is on his knees he is too grand to take off his hat to her. When the figure of the Virgin fell, some years since, it was not replaced.

How well I remember the day when I first stood before this gateway as a tired wayfarer, and demanded the pilgrim’s right. I was promptly provided with half a pint of fair small beer and half a slice of bread. I observed that the drinking-horn was set in silver, and, in answer to a question, was informed—

“Two of the cups have been set in silver to commemorate the fact that the Prince of Wales and Crown Prince of Germany drank out of them. The other cups are not set; we keep these for the upper classes.”

I had not then heard of the fate of the “Hampshire Grenadier,” and much cheered by the refreshment and the fragrance of royalty, marched into the courtyard, and admired the long row of chimneys—twenty feet high—made thus when they first succeeded holes in the roof. I wished I could see the thatch that the chapel had for two hundred years. Seeing an old gownsman standing about I accosted him, and asked if he would be so good as to show me over the hospital.

“Hospital!” he replied, sharply. “There ain’t no hospital here. That’s where everybody makes a mistake. When any of the brethren are ill we have to send to Winchester for a doctor.”

“Well—the institution” I substituted.

He seemed satisfied with the correction. I found that there were several persons waiting to be conducted, and that our guide was a “character.” He was deaf, his speech was indistinct from the loss of teeth, and he in every respect came up to the requisite qualification of being decayed.

The original foundation was for the board and lodging of thirteen men, poor and infirm, and for receiving daily at dinner a hundred men[99]—the most indigent that could be found—who were to be allowed to carry away the remains of their food and beer.

“Walk this way,” said our guide, hobbling on in front of us. “Oh! I won’t go too fast for you.”

He led us into the church, where we gazed up at rows of Norman zig-zag until we felt quite giddy. Some think the painting here a little overdone, but it gives some idea of how the severity of the Norman style was softened by colours. A few traces of the old designs are still visible in some places on the walls, and in À Becket’s Chapel there are remains of a series depicting the scenes in his life. There is also a large fresco, even more faded, representing the Descent from the Cross.

“We have heard,” said an inquiring lady, who seemed to take a great interest in everything, “that there is a beautiful triple arch here. Can we see it?”

“No, ma’am, you cannot,” replied our scrupulous guide; “but you will be able to do so when we come to it. This is Major Lowth’s seat,” he added, pointing to one comfortably cushioned.

“Who is he?” inquired the lady. “Where do you say he sits?”

“Nowhere, ma’am. He does not sit anywhere now. He is gone to heaven, ma’am—at least, I hope so. He was one of the trustees.”

We found the triple arch outside at the back of the church. It was very pretty—one arch bisecting another.

The fourteenth-century stained glass in the windows particularly attracted my attention. In one, St. Swithun appears in a purple robe; in another, De Blois figures in red and green. In the South Chapel there is some wood carving of the Italian school, and very fine; and some other that is certainly of the British school, and not admirable—names cut on the desks, one of which dated 1575, shows that chanting and mischievous habits survived the Reformation.

Our attention was also drawn to the stone with the half-obliterated “Have Mynde” on it, and to the window whence the sick witnessed the elevation of the Host.

We observed on some of the tiles on the floor of the church the enigmatical letters, “Z. O.” On inquiry, we found this apparently cabalistic sign, was in memory of the munificence of an anonymous benefactor, who thus signed his letters. About twenty-five years ago a gentleman came to visit the hospital, and seeing some men at work in the church, observed to them that it was a most interesting building.

“Yes, sir,” replied one of them; “but it is sadly out of repair.”

Shortly afterwards a letter arrived from the Isle of Wight, telling the Master to go to a certain bank in Winchester, and he would receive £500 from Z. O. And soon £250 came in the same way. Many were the surmises as to who was the mysterious donor; some thought from certain indications that he was one of the royal family.

“We want a few more of that sort,” observed our guide, significantly.

The church, which is partly paved with fifteenth-century tiles, contains many sepulchral memorials. There is a fine brass to the left of the altar to Campeden, one of the masters and a friend of Wykeham’s. The tomb of Petrus de Sancta Maria, who died in 1295, was opened some time since, and the features were found perfect; but as has happened in other cases, crumbled into dust in sight of those present. Wood says there was an old cross here, dated 1450, to John Newles, “squyer and servant more than xxx yere unto Harry Beauford, bishop and cardinal, whose soulys God convey to his Mother dere unto the bliss of Heaven.”

In front of the altar there is a large slab to William Lewis. He was elected from Hart Hall at Oxford to the Society of Oriel, in 1608, and made provost by the favour of Welshmen. There are conflicting statements about his character. Cromwell’s party say that his amours were so extraordinary that he was obliged to fly from the country to escape the officers of justice; but the Royalists maintain that he was an excellent man, learned in theology, who went abroad to serve the King. Anthony Wood, in his “Fasti Oxonienses,” says that “he was made a D.D. by command of the King.” He went as Buckingham’s chaplain—with a sinecure office, I should think—to the siege of Rochelle, of which he wrote an account. He was Master of St. Cross; but on the defeat of Charles was succeeded by Lisle the regicide, who sat in the Long Parliament for Winchester.

Lisle’s widow was beheaded in the Market Place in Winchester, for harbouring fugitives from Sedgemoor.[100] After his promotion to the Upper House, another regicide, Cooke, became Master, and after his execution, Lewis returned and ended his life here in peace.

Our guide now directed us to the hall—built in 1440—and here called attention to the Minstrels’ Gallery, the fine original roof, the mysterious triptych painting, and the central hearth whence in olden times the smoke ascended through a hole in the roof. This aperture was long preserved, and on “gaudy days”—of which there are five in the year—a charcoal fire is still lit there for “Auld Lang Syne.” On those days there is a grand roast of half an ox, minus the leg, and each man has five pounds of meat, a mince-pie, and plum pudding.

“And who sits in that chair?” asked the inquiring lady, indicating the principal one at the table.

“Nobody, ma’am,” he replied, “at present. But on gaudy days the Master sits in it.”

“Is he one of the brethren?”

“God bless your soul, no, ma’am,” he returned; “he’s a minister of the gospel.”

We were shown Cardinal Beaufort’s rude wooden salt-cellars and candlesticks, and in the kitchen his battered round pewter dish, which gave us no great idea of his splendour; but probably he was doing the humble when he stayed here.

Thence we went over to the eastern side of the quadrangle, where there is a cloister supporting some decayed apartments—perhaps erected by De Blois. Here is a table of Purbeck marble, said to have been used in the Castle, and which as it is not round enough for King Arthur, is usually attributed to King Stephen.

“Would you like to see the nunnery?” inquired our guide.

We were not aware that there was one, but found that it consisted of some upper rooms for three nurses. On asking what there was to see in it, and being told, “Well! there is a floor,” none of us felt very enthusiastic about it. And so I left this interesting spot—not to return for fifteen years. Farewell, most conscientious of guides! I am afraid, alas! that thou art “not sitting anywhere now.” I hope thou too art in heaven.

On this, my next visit, our conductor was a man of the modern school, intelligent and energetic, but not so humorous. I went the same round, and heard little more—except that an American gentleman, who had been two months in England studying stained glass, had heard of the ancient windows here just as he was going on board the steamer to return, had retraced his steps, and said when he saw them that he was well repaid for his journey. Our guide also spoke of the silver cross the brethren wear. It seems when any one of them dies it is put on a red velvet cushion, which is laid on his breast in the coffin, and then before burial it is taken off and the Master fastens it to the gown of the next brother. Instances have been known where, by mistake, the cross has been left on the corpse, and there was a brother who was now wearing one which had been exhumed.

Only when we came to look at the black jacks and talk of the beer was our informant slightly at fault. The founder, thinking that his bedesmen would be thirsty souls, ordered each to have daily with his meat and salad mortrell (bread and milk) a gallon and a half of good small beer. Considering this and the free drinks given at the lodge—now reduced to two gallons a day—we may suppose that brewing was a principal industry in the hospital. No beer is now made here or supplied to the men. Our guide told us that about seven years ago the brethren’s wives lived in the village, and that a question was asked, which they preferred—their beer or their wives. To some this might have been puzzling; but the gallant Knights of St. Cross answered without hesitation in favour of their better halves. This raised them greatly in my estimation; but it appears that, in truth, their wives, or in default of them, housekeepers, have been allowed to live here as far back as most people can remember, and the allowance of beer was stopped, because some of the men took too much of it, and others preferred stronger stuff, being of the monkish opinion that—

and exchanged it in the village. So they were glad to take money instead.

The greater part of the building here is due to Cardinal Beaufort—the gateway, hall, master’s house, and all the lodgings on the west side. He called the hospital the “Almshouse of Noble Poverty,” and provided an endowment by which some brethren who had “seen better days” should be added to the thirteen of the De Blois foundation. A distinction between the two classes is kept up, the Beaufort men wearing red gowns, but there are very few of them. I heard that a clergyman was here a few years since, but resigned his place. Provision was made for the maintenance of eleven servants and fourteen horses. The present revenue is about £6,000 a year.[101]

On leaving the hospital, instead of returning as I came, I went to the right through a gate and over a stream; and, following a northerly path across the fields by the engine house, crossed the Itchen to St. Catherine’s Hill, which I saw rising close to me. There was formerly a chapel on it, the tower of which was blown down in 1268, but the building was there in Henry VIII.’s time.

A splendid view opened as I climbed the height. On the summit I inspected the mismaze. It is fancifully said to have been cut by the boy who wrote “Dulce Domum.” But when we consider the Cerne Giant and the White Horse we shall consider it due to the vicinity of the monastery, and made by the monks for amusement or penance. It is not a labyrinth properly so-called, because if you enter at one end you cannot fail to reach the other. I saw some children, who had been playing “touch wood” in the neighbouring clump of pines, walking through it, and they said it could be done in four minutes.

Here I stand within a magic circle—a line of circumvallation which transports me to a past when there was a wild population here that threw up intrenchments to protect themselves and their cattle from attack. The large circuit of this embankment shows that the habitations around the neighbourhood were not sparse; for we may be sure that when they had to throw up the earth with their hands, they would not make it larger than necessary, and when they lived much on game they did not require great space for cattle. These remains are especially interesting in connection with the many “Druidical” monoliths found about this part of the country.

We may say that this was the original site of Winchester. When the people became powerful and more constantly centralized, they settled on the lower ground, as at Bristol and Salisbury. Some twenty miles to the south-east there is a fortified height known as “Old Winchester hill,” and so-called from a tradition that the town at first stood upon its summit.

While descending on the turf among the harebells (hairbells?) I found a specimen of the blue gentian. What a study is every flower—how beautifully is it finished inside and outside! I thought of the “lilies of the field.” Solomon and his array! How would he have looked with his robes reversed?

I made my way to the river, and walked along it in a path fringed with golden ragwort, then passed through the millyard, crossed the river, and continued along its margin till I reached the cottage gardens, and emerged close to the bridge at the end of High Street.