The Grenadier — Cathedral Library and Museum — The Deanery — Pilgrim’s Hall — Precincts — Cheyney Court — Regulations of the Monastery — North side of the Cathedral — Early decay of the City — St. Peter’s Street — Middle Brooks — Old Houses.

This day was to be devoted to visiting the Cathedral library and precincts, and to taking a stroll about the streets of the city.

We again entered the lime-tree avenue and looked across the burial ground. A great improvement had been carried out within the last three years. When I was last here it was crowded with tombstones bending over to each other in various stages of decay, now it presents a pleasant sward as smooth as a bowling-green. There is a headstone close to the path recording the gallantry of twenty-three persons who died in an attempt to save the property of their master from destruction by fire. Near the south-west angle of the ground there is a better-known memorial to a less heroic man, who owes his immortality to the drollery of his epitaph. It runs as follows:—

There seems to have been a great desire among soldiers to commemorate this hero, or the moral of his death, for the stone was replaced again in 1802.

As we left this spot I recalled the memory of the Saxon, St. Brinstan, who was fond of walking here. He was an excellent man, but of a somewhat melancholy turn of mind. Every day he washed the feet of the poor, and every night he would pace up and down among the tombs saying the Placebo and Dirige; and we are told that on one occasion when he finished by saying with emphasis “Requiescat in pace,” a chorus as from a multitude of voices came from the sepulchres pronouncing a loud “Amen.”

“A pious invention,” said Mr. Hertford, “unless, indeed, some of the monks were playing him a trick.”

“Close to this,” I observed, “was found the Roman pavement in the Museum, about ten feet underground. Another pavement, part of which can be seen in front of the Deanery, was discovered (1880) in one of the western gardens of Dome Alley. The distance between them was small, but the difference of depth (four feet) would seem to indicate two periods of construction. We seldom realize that the Romans were here three or four hundred years.”

In the wall bounding the graveyard on the south we noticed an archway. This led down some steps still remaining into a vaulted crypt (dating from 1400), where dozens of skeletons have been found. The Dean discovered last autumn some Perpendicular groining, and massive buttresses which have probably supported a chapel where masses were “sayable.”

We now made for the “Slype” Gate, at the south-west corner of the Cathedral, beside which there is a fanciful inscription:—

It appears that the public were accustomed to make the Cathedral a thoroughfare, and therefore it was thought desirable (about 1630) to open this slype passage and to put up this notice. But as those who tramped through the sacred edifice on business were unlettered porters and labourers, this enigmatical Latin caution could have been of little use. We, however, obeyed the direction, and as we passed, found some more dislocated verses on the opposite wall giving a similar injunction in a rhyme between the words choro and foro.

“Look at the valerian and harebells on the Cathedral wall,” said Miss Hertford. “How prettily they mark out the architectural lines in blue and red.”

After reaching the south entrance we made for the adjacent transept, and found at the end of it an old fourteenth-century door and a flight of oaken stairs leading to the Library. As I was mounting up I remembered how on my last visit I was conducted by a tall, handsome man, the principal verger and, I think, also librarian. He was remarkably courteous and well informed. On inquiring for him now I heard that he was no more! He had light curly hair, and I should have thought him a young man had he not told me that he had been sworn in as a special constable with Louis Napoleon at the time of the Chartist alarms. Lately I saw an extract from The Echo, in which the writer remarked that the vergers he had met performed their duties in a perfunctory way, “mere gabblers,” except one at Winchester Cathedral. My thoughts immediately turned to this man, but I must say that the other vergers here seem fully to appreciate the beauties and antiquities of the place.

This “library” was built after Bishop Morley’s death as a receptacle for his bequeathed books. It might be called a treasury or museum. Here are two Anglo-Saxon Charters (854, 957). They begin in Latin, but the writer seems to have become tired, and to have lapsed into his native Anglo-Saxon towards the end. One is attested by Alfred when a boy. How interesting they would have been if they contained autographs, but it was the custom then for the scribe to insert the names with crosses against them, as we should now for illiterate persons. There is a poetical complexion about these documents much in keeping with Anglo-Saxon taste. The first one, after stating that “Christ reigns for ever,” says that “It is plain to all mortals that all things that are seen have an end, and those not seen are eternal. Therefore I Adulf through the clemency of the High Throned King of....”[88] The other commences: “Now by vicissitudes doth the fragility of human life wither, and the circling roll of ages come to nought.” The Saxons had imagination, they mingled poetry with piety; thus we read here, “In the name of Him who in the book of everlasting life in heaven has written down those with whom in life He is well pleased. I Athulf,” &c.

As we look at these old parchments we think we can see again the hands of the long-buried monks, can enter again their spacious monastery, of which we have read such glowing descriptions. There was a scriptorium, or writing establishment, founded in it by St. Swithun, and rare work was executed here—witness that splendid specimen of illumination in gold and colours, called the “Benedictional of St. Athelwold,” made for that bishop.[89] Coming to a later time we have here preserved the Book of Zacharias of the twelfth century. But the greatest treat for the eyes of the bibliophilist is the large folio Vulgate of that date. It took the monks of St. Swithun’s eighty years to complete it; the work progressed as slowly as the building of a cathedral. The writing is beautiful, the illuminating as brilliant as if freshly done—the gold and deep blue we especially admired. Quaint were the designs and ideas of that age. Here is Elijah as he goes up to heaven, drawn by two red horses, throwing off not only his mantle, but the rest of his clothes, perhaps the monk thought they would be superfluous, whilst Elisha below is catching a blue tunic he has cast down.[90] This work has been bound by Dean Garnier in three volumes. It fell at some period into the hands of the Philistines, who cut out several of the beautiful illustrations.

There is an amusing story in connection with this fine manuscript. Henry II. showed with regard to it a spirit in advance of his age. He solicited and terrified the monks of St. Swithun’s into giving it up to him, and then made it a handsome present to his favourite monastery at Witham.

“Like the man who was so much moved with a charity sermon that he put his neighbour’s purse on the plate,” suggested Mr. Hertford.

“But one of the Winchester brethren,” I added, “hearing of the splendours of Witham, went to pay the abbey a visit, and there saw their own Vulgate. Explanations followed, and the monks of Witham returned the book.”

The curiosities are not limited to books.[91] Here are four rings—one with a large square sapphire, found in the disputed tomb of Rufus or De Blois. Another with an oval sapphire belonged to Fox; and a third was Gardiner’s, engraved with a helmeted head, not unsuitable to such a belligerent bishop. Here is the rusty ring, about three inches wide, which the Dean lately found when excavating on the site of St. Swithun’s tomb—it may be that of the smith’s dream. In a case at the other end of the room are other treasures. Here are coins and a silver penny of Cnut, found on the north-west of the Cathedral. Would it could speak and tell us the strange language it has heard, and the scenes it has witnessed as it passed about among churls, thanes, and monks! Here is a case of relics found in “Rufus’s” tomb, containing some of the seven braids of Norman pattern which were found in it. One is well preserved. How exquisitely delicate! It is not a quarter of an inch in width. They embroidered finely then, and we hear that the young swells of the period were almost effeminate in their attire. Silken robes with gold borders descending to the feet must have looked quite “Celestial.”

We emerged from the Cathedral by the south door. The green sward before us did not exist before Henry VIII.’s time, as the space was filled by a “garth” surrounded with cloisters. The inferiority of the ornamentation of the Cathedral on this side when compared with the other is due to the junction with these buildings. Bishop Horne destroyed them, because he wished to be in keeping with the times. Cromwell demolished nine prebendal houses and the deanery.

We now passed through the tunnel at the extremity of the south transept, and proceeding beyond the eastern end of the Cathedral saw a wall in front of us bounding the precincts, and in it a small arch now filled up. Through this we fancy we can see the piquant figure of Nell Gwynne passing, for it is said to have been made to enable her to have access to the Deanery, where Charles was wont to stay. When Ken was a prebendary here he stoutly refused to give up his house to her, and it is one of many instances of Charles’ good humour that when the bishopric of Bath and Wells fell vacant, he appointed “the good little man who refused his lodging to poor Nell.” There was a small building (long removed) put up for her to the south of the Deanery, called Nell Gwynne’s Tower, but she had a house through the arch above mentioned. Until lately its broad staircases were the admiration of the people in Colebrook Street, but it has disappeared within the last few years, and its site is occupied by an establishment of chimney sweeps! Thus:—

Returning to the cloisters’ site we observe on the east some ruinous remains of the chapter-house. It was twenty-five or thirty feet wide by twice that in length, an ancient form which existed before the more beautiful circular chapter-houses were adopted.

On the south of this stands the Deanery, entered by three remarkably acute arches of Henry III.’s time. Under these the Dean has placed, for the benefit of the public, some of the Roman tesselated pavement found in 1880 in Dome Alley. The wayfarer can also see in the red-brick wing on the east the handsome Perpendicular window which once stood at the end of the prior’s hall. The Deanery has been almost entirely built inside this hall. It may surprise some to hear that this magnificent building, dating from 1460, still exists in a perfect state. Of the rooms constructed in it the largest is the drawing-room, thirty feet long and fourteen high, with old mullioned and trefoil-headed windows. The height of the hall was about forty feet, and the length nearly seventy. In the bedrooms the carved roof timbers and corbels, with heads cut on them, are in wonderful preservation. The wing of red brick, of which I have spoken, was built for Charles II.’s accommodation; and in his time the Deanery staircase seems to have been constructed, where there was formerly a courtyard in the house. The prior’s hall could be easily restored, and if the work were effected in the time of the present dean, it would form a suitable memorial of the taste and learning of that eminent antiquary.

Evelyn records an edifying conversation which took place in this house when he was here shortly after the death of Charles II. James was then here:—

“His Majesty was talking with the bishop concerning miracles and the Saludadors in Spain, who would creep into heated ovens without hurt. His Majesty said he doubted about miracles. The bishop added a miracle wrought in Winchester to his certain knowledge—a poor miserably sick and decrepit child (long kept unbaptized) recovered immediately after baptism—as also the salutary effect of King Charles’ blood in healing one that was blind. They then spoke of second sight. The King spoke of relics which had effected cures, especially a piece of our Saviour’s Cross, which had healed a gentleman’s rotten nose by only touching. The bishop blessed the King for insisting on having the negroes in the plantations christened.”

The Deanery faces the Close, which formerly had the pleasant name of “Mirabel,” and we crossed it to the Pilgrims’ Hall.

The northern part of this building is now the dean’s stable—the form of it can therefore be well seen. The commencement of the massive beams supporting the roof is visible in the lower part of the stable, while in the loft the arches themselves remain adorned with heads. These carvings are much injured by time—one of the faces seems to represent a nun or priest, and another with a curly beard, perhaps a king. This woodwork dates from 1280, and we hope its fine effect was appreciated by the travellers who occupied and had fires lit in it. The other half of the building is in the adjoining house (Canon Durst’s) where the beams are still visible, but without carving. The latter residence was built by Warden Nicholas about two hundred years ago, and has over the staircase some fine festoons of large flowers in stucco.

Crossing over to the western side of the precincts we find No. 10 to be an old thirteenth-century building, said to have been part of the convent refectory.[92] Beneath it there is still a kitchen, a grand hall with three round pillars and a groined roof. The massive oak dresser-board remains resting on two carved stone supports. Though worked almost into holes, its hardness has preserved it to be a curious relic. When Richard Coeur de Lion returned from his foreign imprisonment, the grand coronation dinner was here prepared for him.[93]

“There must have been then great commotion in this hall, and considerable execution,” said Mr. Hertford, “if the culinary work in those days approached that of the ‘kokery’ in the days of Richard II., with all its ornamental devices.”

“Let us dream on,” I replied; “but good authorities consider that this ground-floor was only made a kitchen in the seventeenth century; and that these buildings of the monastery did not form part of the Refectory, though close to its site.”

By the kindness of Miss Heberden we were allowed to inspect this interesting house, and having viewed the kitchen, ascended by a fine old oak staircase to a spacious room, now used as a bedroom, lined with that small square panelling which dates from the seventeenth century. Here are long, low, many-mullioned windows, with stained glass, representing the arms of Fox, Wykeham, and others. Over the mantel-piece is an elaborate piece of oak carving. In the south gable end there is a beautiful rose window, traces of a larger one, and of the original entrance—the present door being in an old window. On the east are Early English windows.

Close to this house there is a road running westward. This is Dome Alley. On either side of it stand red brick houses, some two hundred years old, half concealed in luxuriant ivy. We observed grapes and other ornamental designs on the leaden pipes; on the right hand side the “Rose and Crown,” and on the left the “Cross Keys.” It appears that emblematic ornaments representing the Church and King went alternately along the fronts of the houses.

“I suppose the ‘Rose and Crown’ represented the English monarchy?” said Miss Hertford.

“The rose,” I replied, “was an ancient emblem of England; some have supposed the name Albion came not from the chalk cliffs, but from the white rose which flowers freely over the country.”

Adjoining the Close gateway we observed a large building with gables of “timber-crossed antiquity,” and found that beneath them was an apartment where the bishop’s “Cheyney” Court was held. Here are a curious old beam in the ceiling, and the royal arms, which were over the judge. This was the Court for the Soke, the prison of which we had already seen. Old men remember the last case tried here—a corn dispute from West Meon. The judge sat on the side near the porter’s lodge. The overhanging gables may be earlier than Elizabeth; the rooms beneath them have been used for Cathedral purposes.

From this point we made a little excursion, passing under Kingsgate, with its chapel and ancient doors, into Kingsgate Street to look at the red-brick gables of Mr. Toye’s house—dating from about 1600. About seven years ago some excavations were made through St. Swithun’s Street, the Kingsgate, and Kingsgate Street, which brought to light the stratum of a road at a depth of five feet. This must have belonged to some epoch of considerable civilization, perhaps even to that of Alfred and the saint who gave the name. The floor of the porter’s lodge at the Close Gate is three steps below the present surface.

Hence we retraced our steps through the precincts; and here, as we stand on the ground for centuries trodden by religious men whose “good deeds have been interred with their bones,” let me call attention to the little that remains concerning them, if it be merely their domestic arrangements. Dean Kitchin has with great perseverance and success deciphered a roll of regulations for the monastery in the fourteenth century, which had been rendered indistinct by the thumbing of many monks, and by a libation of their beer. Here we find directions as to dietary. The prior was to provide beer, bread, salt, wine, butter, and cheese. Nearly every day there was to be a large maynard of cheese (32 lbs.), and the anniversary of the deposition of the body of St. Swithun was to be honoured with an additional cheese, so that the monks of Hyde as well of St. Swithun might celebrate the day; and on the Translation of the saint’s body sufficient cheese was to be provided for those monks and other religious and lay people. The cheese was to be really good, if not it was to be returned. Psalm singing was regarded as thirsty work. The precentor and his men were to have a puncard (cask) of ale every Saturday, and another to cheer them whenever they sang the melancholy “Placebo,” or funeral service. They were to have a pitcher of wine as well as a puncard of good ale whenever they did the great O. At first we might suppose that this was synonymous with “doing the heavy,” but the dean tells us that, on the contrary, it generally meant doing nothing at all. But here it signified singing before the great festivals certain short prayers, beginning with “O,” the first of which was “O Sapientia.” On the Deposition of the body of St. Æthelwold, the keeper of the refectory was to carry round at dinner time the “Cup of St. Æthelwold,” first to the brethren in the refectory, then into the infirmary to the sick, and then to the table of the bled (a considerable number), and finally to the prior and such honoured guests as were with him. It is said that they were all to kiss the goblet; but we should have thought that the old conventuals would scarcely have expressed such sentiments as—

Moreover a pitcher of wine was to accompany the cup which apparently was exhausted before the end of the ceremony. The refectorarius was to have a second pitcher for himself, and we might suppose he wrote this order, for he spells the word in a very hickupy manner, “pichicherum.”

Wykeham found the monastery in a disorderly state. Some of the monks were guilty of grave irregularities. He gave them strict statutes. Wearing ornaments was forbidden, and also hunting.

“Hunting!” exclaimed Mr. Hertford. “How I should like to have seen them flying along in their gowns. Think of the jumps!”

“Wykeham did not like the sight,” I replied; “it was, I suppose, not an uncommon one, for we find in Henry III.’s reign complaints that the dogs of the Abbot of Hyde and Abbess of St. Mary’s were committing depredations in the King’s forests.”

Hence we made for the north side of the Cathedral, where we passed through the iron gate to walk on the grass. Close to the Cathedral on the north-west near a water drain, I observed that the ground had been recently moved, and the sod was broken, revealing a piece of wall. This was, in fact, the site where St. Swithun had by his own desire been humbly buried, “so that the sun might not shine upon him.” Since the translation of his body the earth here had not been moved until two years ago, when in digging, several coffins of chalk and stone were found with bones, and also the mysterious ring already mentioned.

Proceeding towards the east we noticed the doorway into the north transept by which the pilgrims entered to have their squint through the grille gate. Beyond the north transept another cut in the grass showed a wall of great solidity—probably part of the foundations of the “New Minster,” whose monks moved to Hyde. This wall, lately discovered, was traced northwards to a point where a stone has been placed in the grass, and two other stones show the building was square. The old Saxon church might have been here—some fragments stood above ground in the beginning of the last century.

We here saw close to us a pointed arch standing alone. It formerly led to some of the prior’s premises. To the north of it I saw a line of small, dilapidated houses, bearing the pretentious name of “Paternoster Row,” which, I fear, does not always awaken religious feelings in the hearts of authors. Some of these dwellings were very old, and boasted a little external ornamentation. In the doorway of one of them sat an aged woman sunning herself. Her features were finely chiselled, and she had a profusion of white glossy hair. She must have been handsome when young, and was still

I asked her if she could tell us the age of her house.

“No, I cannot, sir,” she replied, “but it must be very old from the way it is built. There are five doors to this room. Pray walk in.”

We complied, and found a very neat little apartment with tables covered with ornaments, and a brave show of glass. There was a beam across the ceiling, which I could touch with my hand.

“You can see at the back how old the houses are. Some of the cottages in the corner have lately been taken down,” she added.

We passed with her out of the back door, and saw some very dilapidated tiled gables. What surprised me most was to find that a clear stream of water, about a yard wide, flowed under these houses. This, then, was the “fishful” rivulet of Æthelwold, the Lourtebourne, which he brought from Headbourne Worthy (by a lower channel, I think, than that by the Nuns’ Walk), to cleanse and refresh the monastery.[94] It was covered here with tombstones. I crossed by one, taken of course from the neighbouring graveyard, which commemorated some of the Henley family who lived in the seventeenth century. Stones of this kind, as well as monoliths, are utilized here, for stone is scarce about Winchester. The flight of stairs up to Morestead Church, which stands above the road two or three miles from this is formed of tombstones.

“I hope that they have been steps to heaven in every sense,” said Mr. Hertford.

We left the little dwelling very favourably impressed with the old lady, and were surprised and sorry when we heard that she was obliged to be in receipt of parish relief.[95]

Passing by Bishop Morley’s almshouses for matrons we regained the High Street, and we now proposed to make a circuit to look at the streets on the other side.

Winchester declined greatly in Henry III.’s time, and Edward I. removed the royal residence to London, and although at Wykeham’s solicitation Edward III. made it one of the chief wool marts in England, he added another disappointment when he removed the “staple” to Calais. From a dismal complaint presented to Henry VI. by the inhabitants, it would appear that the greater part of the town was then almost a heap of ruins. It states that the “Desolation of the saide powere Citee is so grete and yerelye fallyng for there is such decaye that withowte graciose comforte of the kynge oure Soweraigne Lord the Maire and the Bailiffs must of necessitee cesse to delyver uppe the citee and the keyes into the Kynges Handes.” Seventeen parish churches and 997 houses were void, and within eighty years Jewry Street had fallen from eighty houses to two, Fleshmonger Street from 140 to two, Colebroke Street from 160 to sixteen, Calpe Street from 100 to six, Gold Street (Southgate Street) from 140 to eight, Gar Street from 100 to none. In its palmy days, soon after the Conquest, the city extended to St. Cross, Wyke, Worthy, and Magdalen Hill, and in Henry I.’s reign the population was about 20,000, but so greatly did it decrease that all the progress of this century has only just brought it back to that number. It is said that there were once 173 churches and chapels here, probably an over-statement.

In Edward III.’s time there were 44, among them All Saints in Vineis,[96] St. Nicholas extra Pisces, St. Martin’s in Fosseto, and St. Peter’s in Macellis. Now there are eight; Bishop Fox disestablished many because there were no funds to sustain the clergy.

Proceeding up the High Street, we crossed into St. Peter’s Street by “God Begot” House. This was a fashionable quarter in the Stuart days. The Royal Hotel stands on a site where was a nunnery twenty years since. We come to the office of the Probate Court, a new looking building, which has old walls. At the south side of it we see a leaden pipe with E.G. 1684, on it—supposed to stand for Eleanor Gwynne. An old staircase remains at the top of this house. The original building was much larger, the centre has been taken down, but the other wing remains. We may gain some idea of how handsome it once was by looking at the next ivy-mantled mansion—a structure of about the same date, with a fine staircase.

We now come to the Roman Catholic Chapel, and examine the arched entrance—the only relic remaining of Magdalen Hospital, founded 1174. In the porch I called attention to the “Druidical” stone.

“But some say that the monoliths in this Itchen valley have more connection with drifts than with Druids,” observed Mr. Hertford.

“Yes, and take away the poor things’ character,” I replied. “Why should we try to dive into the mud and gravel that lie beneath our fancies?”

Close by, standing back in a garden, is the “White House,” which is also of Stuart date, and has a handsome staircase and panelled room. All these houses were probably occupied by Charles II.’s courtiers. Milner says that the Duchess of Portsmouth had a house at the south end of this street.

From the end of Peter’s Street we turned down the City Road, and passing by “Upper Brooks,” where there are more monoliths, soon entered, on the right hand, Middle Brooks—so called from the stream flowing along it, which in the memory of old people ran down its centre. Here we came to a remarkable edifice, built of flints, and of a somewhat “gingerbread” character—a miniature castle with two towers. It forms a couple of houses, and the tenant of the nearer one told us that the building was called the Hermitage. It is nearly one hundred years old, and formed out of the materials of Swathling House,[97] which belonged to Mr. Erle, and stood between Winchester and Southampton. The front room, which we were invited to enter, is lined with panelling—covered with paint, I regret to say, for it is of walnut wood—and in some places adorned with gold and colours. Round the ceiling there is a “tongue and udder” moulding, and there is also carving round the door. The young tenant pointed out to us an old engraving on canvas, “The Bloody Sentence of Christ,” which, he said, had been two hundred years in his family. There was a note beneath it to say it had been taken from a stone in Vienna.

Proceeding on towards the High Street we came to a row of houses with overhanging stories and huge dark beams. It had a central archway and heavy oaken door, and seems to have originally formed one large house. Antiquaries owe a great debt of gratitude to the owner, Mr. Buckingham, for preserving this relic of the past when pressure was put upon him to demolish it. There is much “wattle and dab” work in the walls, and in an upper front room of the northernmost house there is herringbone work and a fine chalk mantelpiece with mouldings and entablature. Chalk becomes hard from exposure, and will last almost for ever if protected from the weather. Cut stone can be seen here in the back wall, and also in a house beyond the yard fence, whence it has been conjectured that this was a monastery or important structure—could it have been connected with the Franciscan monastery, usually placed in Lower Brooks? A cannon ball, found two feet below the floor of one of the back rooms, is in Mr. Buckingham’s possession. It probably came from the Castle or Cromwell’s battery.

Before these houses were repaired, two years since, some of the panelling inside them was beautifully carved, and there still remains ornamental tracery on the outside of some of the windows, but much has been removed. What was more remarkable was the discovery of numerous coins about the panelling, as if some of them had accidently slipped behind it. Among them were a Roman coin and a Spanish, some leaden coins and medals, and a token of the Corporation of Southampton made of brass, with three roses on the obverse.

On our way back we met an aged man with a light blue coat and an oblong silver badge, with something like a shamrock upon it. The wearer of this gay apparel belonged to “Christ’s Hospital” (1607), near the Cathedral. The brethren’s house looked as bright as their coats, with scarlet virginian and blue clematis.

As the next day was Sunday, which is no day for excursions, and we had pretty well explored the principal part of Winchester, my friends now took their departure. They said that they had enjoyed their visit. With me the time had passed rapidly. I tried to make a favourable impression, and am vain enough to think I succeeded, especially on one occasion while Mr. Hertford was deeply studying the guide-book.

On Sunday morning I felt lonely. I sauntered down the High Street. There were many young fellows standing about who had evidently come in from the country. Some looked very gay, wearing sunflowers in their buttonholes, and talking to their sweethearts. This sight made me feel still more forlorn.

I went to the invisible Church—I mean St. Lawrence’s—which cannot be seen from the outside. The sermon pleased me. I remember that the preacher said: “Some men put on their religion on Sundays with their best coat, and when the day is done take off their religion and their coat, and hang them up until next Sunday.”