The City Walls — Danemead — Eastgate — Northgate — Westgate — Southgate — Kingsgate — The College — Wykeham — Wolvesey — Raleigh.

From the Roman occupation, and perhaps from an earlier date, Winchester has been a fortified town. Long after that time, people were slow in laying to heart the saying in Plutarch that a city which contains men who can fight has no need of walls.

The modern defences seem to have been chiefly raised in the time of John and Henry III.,[46] just before Winchester ceased to be the royal city of England. In the first year of John an inexpensive way was discovered of obtaining land to make the fosse. Andrew Clerk, of Winchester, gladly gave ground for the purpose, on condition that he should have confiscated lands “which had belonged to Aaron the Jew, in Shortenestret, and a messuage near it in which Bona the Jewess lived.”[47] In the patents during Henry’s reign “murage,” that is, money for wall-building, is often mentioned.[48]

We now pass down the High Street in the same direction that we took yesterday, and, after reaching the site of the Eastgate, cross the bridge, as we cannot walk close to the river on the western side. We pass down Water Lane, where a Roman urn was discovered a short time since; and, crossing the river by the mill, come to Durngate Terrace, marking the site of a postern in the walls. This gate was made for foot passengers in 1259. It was ordered to be entirely closed during the plague in 1603, whence we conclude this was a squalid part of the town.

Thence as we proceeded up the City Road we found the modern walls largely studded with pieces of old cut stone. The foundations of the city walls ran close to the houses on our right, and a gentleman we met told us that during some excavations he had seen a part of them uncovered six feet in thickness. On the left we soon came to Trinity Church, a handsome new structure, and on the right, beside Newman’s the grocer’s, there is a gate leading to some sheds in the famous meadow called Danemead. Farther on we found a turning on the right, and walking up it a few yards came to the Steam Laundry, which stands on the western edge of this field. Sceptics maintain that Dane is a corruption of Dene, and signifies low-lying ground, but we cannot afford to give up the old story. Tradition says that here Athelstan sat on the city wall to see the combat between Guy, Earl of Warwick, and the gigantic Dane, Colbrand: Rudborne luxuriates in the conflict, and records all the mighty cuts and blows and their results with as much detail as if he were a Homer or a reporter at a modern prize fight.

But there seems about the whole affair much hollowness and “sounding brass.” Guy cuts off Colbrand’s head, and the Danes, seeing their champion dead, run away, and are pursued. We wonder whether Rudborne had been reading about David and Goliath. He was a monk of Winchester in the fifteenth century, and as he says that Colbrand’s axe was laid up before the high altar, and could in his day be seen in the vestry of the Cathedral, so we may assume there was here some celebrated Dane of the name of Colbrand.

Further up the City Road the deep fosse before the walls can be traced in the slope of “Hyde Abbey Bowling Green,” and in the garden of a ladies school called Fossedyke House. In the centre of the cross roads here formed by Jewry Street, Hyde Street, and the City Road, stood the Northgate. This structure was at length considered, as Temple Bar has been in our times, to be a hindrance to traffic. Some people went so far as to say that their lives had been endangered by carriages when crossing its narrow bridge. Purchasers of hay and straw said that the arches of the North and South gates were so low that they could not obtain a full load for their money. Antiquaries have never been able to offer much resistance to commercial interests, and so in 1771 an order was made for the removal of the time-honoured obstacles.

The foundations of the walls now cross the road and run on our left, a fragment of them behind Westbury Villa can still be seen from the street; and if we look upwards we shall observe among the branches of the trees a round tower, which a patriotic citizen, Mr. Budden, has built to mark the foundations of one of the towers of the wall.[49] We now pass down Sussex Street, and turning to the left and then right, enter Tower Street. At the end of the last century the picturesque ruins of the wall, among shrubs and ash trees, ran here on the right to the Westgate. Passing through the gate, already described, we make for the barracks, where the Castle formed part of the city wall; and, crossing the railway, walk in front of the pretty gardens and houses of St. James’ Terrace, and just before recrossing the line see the entrance to the new cemetery on our right.

Then we proceed down St. James’ Lane (called sometimes Barnes Lane), at the end of which in Southgate Street, just beyond St. Thomas’ Church, stood, till 1771, the Southgate with its bridge. The city wall then ran down between St. Swithun Street and Canon Street. Some portions of it three feet thick can still be seen about four yards behind the cottages, half way down the northern side of the latter street. There was formerly a postern for the friary somewhere here.

The Kingsgate is an interesting relic. There is a little chapel (to St. Swithun) over it, as there was over the Northgate and Eastgate. In the porter’s lodge, at the entrance to the close, the city wall can be seen over six feet thick.

The Kingsgate was the scene of some remarkable events in the middle of the thirteenth century. Henry III. wished to appoint the uncle of the Queen to the bishopric of Winchester, but the monks sturdily refused. For five years the conflict lasted—the chapter suffered stripes, imprisonment, and starvation while insisting that William de Raley and no other should be the bishop. But when this prelate came to Winchester at Christmas he found the city gates closed against him. He made a circuit of the walls barefoot, and at last stopped at Kingsgate, the nearest point to the Cathedral, and there “preaching” pronounced a general interdict and excommunication upon all the Cathedral and Church authorities, the Mayor, bailiffs, and clerks, and others, who opposed his entrance. He then withdrew to France, but was soon afterwards received to his diocese in peace. Fifteen years after this occurrence there was a rebellion in Winchester against the clerical and other governing bodies, and in the tumult the Kingsgate was partly burnt, and some of the servants of the monastery were murdered.

At this time the chapel over the gate was destroyed, but the whole was soon afterwards restored. The chapel in which service is now performed was rebuilt at a later date.

Beside the gate of the precincts a “Druidical” monolith can be seen placed upright in the ground. Passing back through the Kingsgate we can see the line of the wall continuing along the little garden of the head-master, and here is a pretty bit for the artist.[50]

Nearly opposite we saw a number of college boys streaming into a small confectioner’s shop. Inside sat a young lady in a cage. I had always felt that the fair possessed potent charms, but I never before knew of one who was obliged to be protected in this way. We soon learned, however, that the wire was put up for the preservation of other sweets, and because some of the boys had been studying Dr. Smiles’ work on “Self-help.”

On the same side we came to one of the College houses, with an iron railing in front of it; this was the site of the ancient nunnery,[51] the Sustern Spytal. Here were afterwards the “Commoners,” or boys not on the foundation, and now are class-rooms. It has been said that there was no fosse along this part of the city wall; but in the French map of 1650, one is marked as existing. The question is doubtful.

And now we arrive at the famous College, and, as in duty bound, pay a passing tribute to its founder. Wykeham was of yeoman birth, of comely person, and had a strain of noble blood in him, from his mother’s family. He was educated at a little old school on St. Giles’ slope, which boasted that it had numbered among its pupils Athelwolf and Alfred the Great. No doubt, he attended to his lessons, for we find him while still a youth, appointed to be secretary to the Governor of the Castle. This was the happy accident in Wykeham’s life; without it, though he had a genius for architecture and geometry, and was a rare draughtsman, he might have remained in obscurity. The governor, De Scures, knew Bishop Edington—himself a builder—and both knew the King. They introduced Wykeham to him, and from that moment, at twenty-three years of age, his career was assured.

“He was one of those men,” observed Mr. Hertford, “whom fortune carries to the top of the ladder without asking them to walk up the rounds.”

“So it appears,” I continued. “He took, as many of his day, the priest’s office that he might eat a piece of bread, and soon had it richly buttered. Not only did he become ‘a pretty considerable pluralist’ and a bishop, he was also made Surveyor of the King’s castles and palaces, Keeper of the Privy Seal, Secretary to the King, and Chancellor. In short, he was the leading spirit in the country, and ‘everything was done by him, and without him nothing.’”

“But I have read somewhere that he had a fall,” said Mr. Hertford, “and was obliged to appeal to Alice Perrers. Imagine the grave bishop in his long robes, bowing down to Edward’s impudent little favourite! Perhaps his words were golden on this occasion, for she said she would go and see whether a spark of love for her remained in the old king. And the spark did remain, and its light was sufficient to guide Wykeham back to his temporalities.”

“Well,” I replied, “that story has been questioned, but, at any rate, he only wanted his own, and that for a good purpose. His pet college was in danger of suffering, and though the building was not commenced he had appointed a warden and scholars. When the college was finished, he began the transformation of the Cathedral and had done good work upon it before he closed his eyes. He left 2,500 marks to carry it on. Until the last few years of his life he planned everything himself, and employed no architect. He is considered to be the father of the Perpendicular style, and was national as opposed to Papal in his architecture and his politics. Altogether he laid out upon building what would now be equal to half a million. For such brilliant success, learning and integrity were indispensably requisite, and he summed up his estimate of them in his famous motto ‘Manners makyth man.’”

Beneath the great and good deeds of Wykeham, we may here mention a little kindly act, not less indicative of a noble character. When he had purchased Dummers Mead from St. Swithun’s Monastery for the site of his College, a tailor claimed a part of it and took legal proceedings. The man failed to establish his right, and was condemned to pay the heavy costs, which would have ruined him. Wykeham generously defrayed them.

There are preserved in a curious vaulted strongroom over the College sacristy, among other manuscripts, a modest pedigree, tracing Henry VII.’s descent from Adam, a Life of St. Thomas À Becket deposited here by Wykeham,[52] and a roll of the household expenses of the founder in 1394.[53] But if we wish to see his most interesting relics we must go to New College, Oxford. Judging from what remains there, we might almost conclude that Wykeham was a giant in stature as well as in mind.[54] There we find a pair of large crimson silk gloves, with I. H. S. amid golden rays, worked on their backs. His ring is about an inch wide, of great solidity, with the crucifixion embossed on the gold at each side. The stone, about the size of a sovereign, is in the shape of a heart and colourless, probably rock crystal. This was doubtless a thumb ring, but it is large even for that. His mitre case is an extraordinary structure, made of thick stamped leather, girded with iron bands and locked at the top. It is a foot wide and nearly two feet high, in shape resembling a beehive. From the strength of the case we should expect valuable contents. But no; the fragments of the mitre show it to have been little superior to a stage “property.” Its rods adorned with trefoil leaves are of silver gilt, but the “jewels” are plentiful and spurious. The tissue bearing the I. H. S. was worked with seed pearls. The purfling which went round the brow of the mitre was of brass, with sham gems, alternated with small squares of silver brightly enamelled with figures of men, animals, and flowers.

The most costly of these “jocalia” is the central piece of a morse or clasp for the cope. It is about two inches wide, and is called a Mary crowned, being in the form of an old-fashioned M, like a horseshoe.[55] It is surrounded with pearls, emeralds, and garnets. In the centre stand two little figures in gold, Mary and an angel, and between them is a vase of garnet, from which springs a lily with emerald leaves and flowers of pearls.

Behind a glass in New College Chapel is Wykeham’s crozier; a magnificent work of silver adorned with pinnacles and other ornaments, and especially rich in scriptural figures in enamel.

At Oxford is, also, the only letter extant, written by Wykeham—purchased at Sir Edward Dering’s sale. It is in the clerkly hand, adopted by penmen of the time, and the lines, now much faded, are a foot long, but so few that the whole writing is scarcely an inch wide. The letter, thus short and long, was written from Shene,[56] to Lord Cobham, in 1367, when he was on an embassy to the Pope, of whose whereabouts Wykeham seems doubtful. It is in French, and signed

Among these curiosities is the ivory horn of a fish called a narwhal, which seems out of place in the collection, unless it be considered emblematic of the vocation of the first preachers of Christianity. It probably belonged to Wykeham, and is sixty-five inches long, the pointed end—supposed to be an antidote for poison—having been cut off. When Lord Leicester was Chancellor of Oxford in 1569, he asked the College to give him this horn. They made a compromise, and by sending him this prized extremity were allowed to keep the rest.

We enter the first court, and look with veneration at the kneeling figure of Wykeham. Here was impressed by a master-mind the prototype of our public schools. The prelate chose the site outside the walls of Winchester, in the Soke, which extended round the south-east of the city, so that the College might be entirely in the Bishop of Winchester’s jurisdiction. As early as 1373, he engaged a schoolmaster at Winchester, and three years later had a warden and seventy scholars.

The buildings we see, with the exception of the Chantry Chapel and schoolroom and tower, are those erected by Wykeham. In March, 1393, the warden, fellows, and scholars, took possession of their new magnificent abode, marching in a triumphal procession, headed by a cross-bearer, and chanting songs of praise. Nevertheless, the accommodation would not have seemed liberal in our days. Three fellows had only one room; the seventy scholars had six chambers, and those below fourteen years slept two in a bed. These were in the inner quadrangle. The outer quadrangle must then have formed a somewhat unpoetical entrance to the abode of the muses, although the warden and head-master lived in it. In the front of it, built partly for defence, were the brewery, bakehouse, and malt-rooms; on the west side, the stables; and on the east, the slaughter-houses.

The Cloisters were built by Wykeham’s steward; and I should like to have walked their “studious pale” at my leisure, and to have spent some time in musing over the past. These arches, this pavement, and this clean roof of chestnut or Irish oak, have been present to the mind and eye of many a learned man as he here mused upon the great master works of the Greeks and Romans. And after his ambition had been kindled, and his breast inspired for a brief period, he had laid him down to rest, and left nothing to inform us that he ever lived, except a tablet on these silent walls. I can conjure up the pensive figure of Henry VI., who was often here, and attended the chapel services. He presented the College with a chalice, cruets, and tabernacle, all of gold, and gave the little boys some pocket-money, which, no doubt, was more valued by them.[57]

Here are brasses to some of the fellows who died in the sixteenth century. We see that John Watts (Watto), reached the patriarchal age of a hundred years. Some are commemorated in Latin verses—the solemnity of death could not prevent a poetaster from punning on the name of Lark, and one John Clerk, who on earth “distilled rosy liquors,” is now “rejoicing in living waters.” But we are also reminded of younger and gayer scenes, of spirits full of hope looking forward joyously to years of expected happiness. The walls are scored with the names of these aspirants, most of them afterwards unknown—for studious boys rarely mark themselves upon wood and stone—but we see here “Thos. Ken, 1646,” the celebrated bishop, whose glorious hymns, “Awake, my soul,” and “Glory to Thee, my God, this night,” first appeared in a Manual of Prayers he composed for Winchester College.

Alas! as I look through these arches to the grassy enclosure, I see some small tombstones to the memory of boys not destined even to feel the disappointments of life. The rosebud has fallen upon the sod! The thought is too melancholy, let us change to something cheerful—and look at those young girls on the sward, sketching the little old chapel which stands in the centre with all its pristine beauty. It dates from 1430. There is a fine stained east window in it which has old figures in the lower part. Over the chapel—intended for private masses—is an apartment, now used for a library. The whole is a little bijou.

The large schoolroom, built by Warden Nicholas in 1687, is now used merely for concerts and other entertainments. But the great grim signboard still remains, warning the festive company that they must learn, leave, or be whipped! This unpleasant notification is impressed by a representation of a sword, and something which looks alarmingly like a pitchfork, but is really meant for a rod. In these days of competitive examinations, it seems strange to be told that the army is to be the last refuge for dunces. This work of art is older than the building; its scholastic designer remains among the great unknown. Prominent here among other names, is that of Herbert Stewart, painted with ink in letters of heroic size.[58]

The height of the Hall gives it a magnificent appearance, while the old oak in the panelling, benches, tables, and roof, make it sombre and venerable. Some old pieces of wood, about six inches square, were shown us, which are still used by the foundation boys for plates at breakfast and supper. In early times the hall was warmed by a fire in the centre.

Over the high table there is a full-length portrait of William of Wykeham. It is on oak, but scarcely looks as old as the days of Holbein. All we can hope is that there was some likeness of Wykeham of which it is a copy. There is also here a picture of Bishop Morley with rosy cheeks, pointed beard, and a somewhat cynical expression. He was in exile with Charles II., and returned with him, and, to judge by the carmine here freely used, had shared in his master’s good living. Beneath this, by way of contrast, I suppose, hangs the lantern face of Bishop Fox—dark, close-shaven, ascetic—not altogether unlike his patron Henry VII. He was the man who collected the bones out of the crypt, and placed them in the chests.

On the wall of the passage to the kitchen there is the picture of the “Trusty Servant,” almost as well known as the College itself. The Latin verse dates from 1560; the figure, from Queen Anne.

“I remember that at first sight I thought it was intended for the devil,” said Mr. Hertford, “and I am not sure that the designer was not a plagiarist in this respect. I have seen valentines like it.”

“But when we read the lines,” I replied, “we find the intention is to represent virtues, not vices. The cloven feet are to signify celerity, not bestiality; the ‘porker’s snout’ contentment, not greediness; and the donkey’s head patience, not stupidity; the formidable weapons and bundle of implements he carries are for defensive and industrial purposes. This combination of man and beast has a moral as well as a comic side, and has much taken the public fancy.”

When we were opposite this picture, the porter recited with some dramatic power the description of this model domestic:—

We pitied the man who rehearsed these hackneyed lines to every visitor, but hoped that to his ear they had a musical, or perhaps, as Shakespeare says, a silver sound.

In the College Chapel we have the original roof, and the brasses are exact reproductions of those formerly existing here; which, though carefully stored, were stolen when the pavement was undergoing repair some twenty years ago. Fortunately a boy with the suitable name of Freshfield had kept rubbings of them, and by these they have been restored. Warden Nicholas, though not a man of puritanical views, removed the screen.

The College was visited by Charles I., and when reverses came it was still safe, for Nicholas Love, the regicide, son of a warden of that name, exerted himself for its preservation, and Colonel Nathaniel Fiennes, who was an old Wykehamist, when Cromwell took possession of Winchester, placed a guard at the gates of the College to prevent any depredations.

Poetic memories cluster richly around these old walls. Ken has been mentioned, and Otway should not be forgotten, but time ripened more abundant fruit. There was Young, to whom so many wise reflections came when—

and whose lines, “Procrastination is the thief of time,” “At thirty man suspects himself a fool,” and “All men think all men mortal but themselves,” have become household words. Then there was “Tom Warton,” of whom Johnson said that he was the only man of genius he knew that had no heart. In one sense the remark was perhaps true. Although he was eminently sociable and genial, he seems, from his writings, to have been free from those amorous perplexities in which most poets are involved. But he had a fine imagination, great power of expression, and a considerable vein of humour. Next came poor Collins, who died insane. His father, a hatter, determined, like Sugden the barber, to give his son the very best education. Collins was a strange, fantastical fellow, though not unworthy of the feather he wore in his cap. He became a demi of Magdalen College, Oxford, and wrote three odes—to Evening, to the Passions, and on the Death of Thompson—never surpassed in the English language. Truly the tree of knowledge was here hung with golden fruit. Many other eminent men have issued hence to adorn the Church and State, whose solid acquirements must not cause us to undervalue the gifts of Sydney Smith, another Wykehamist, who “could make not only the guests and servants, but even the portraits laugh.”

Warton in his panegyric on ale, and in the affection he practically showed for it, may have been influenced by the remembrance of the joyous drinks of his school life. He says:—

and adds that he prefers a “material breakfast,” consisting of a crust and tankard of ale. As late as seventy years ago the boys continued to have beer for breakfast, indeed that, and that only, was allowed them liberally. Winchester seems to have been long in forgetting the good old Saxon times when each alderman consumed two gallons of beer at a sitting. As for the boys’ dinner, what between fagging, and the seniors having the first cut at the joint, the juniors often had none—vegetables, never. When the square bits of board were their only plates, they were certainly not indulged with gravy. No wonder that they heartily sang the “Dulce Domum” in the college meads when the time came for them to disperse for their summer holidays.

Passing on down College Street, and admiring some Virginian creepers, more bright than Henry VII.’s stained glass, we soon came to the large gates of Wolvesey Castle. There was a fortress here in Saxon times, built, it is said, by Cynegils, and made over by his son to the bishops of Winchester. There is a mystery about the name. Some think it means Wolf’s Island. Milner says the name came from Edgar having required a Welsh prince to find 300 wolves’ heads and deposit them here every year. These animals were then great pests, and when Alfred wrote requesting the Archbishop of Rheims to permit St. Grimbald to come over, he sent him a present of wolf hounds. The prelate acceding, says that the saint is “not a dumb dog, but able to bark and drive away evil spirits.”

The earlier castle which stood on this site had a literary celebrity. Here Alfred’s scribes compiled the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, assisted by the King himself. He ordered the precious volume to be kept at Wolvesey—it is now in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. This was the first English prose book.

The structure of which we now see the ruins was built by Bishop de Blois, brother of King Stephen, out of the materials of the former castle, and of the Saxon palace in the square. It was not long constructed before it was used in a manner which showed that the bishop’s weapons were not entirely spiritual.

In 1141, during the civil wars, the southern part of the city, including the Bishop’s palace and the Cathedral, supported King Stephen, while the northern, containing the best houses and Royal Castle, held out for the Empress Matilda. A storm of fire-balls poured forth from Wolvesey Castle, destroying the Abbey of St. Mary, twenty churches, large private buildings, the suburb of Hyde, and the splendid monastery there situated. Fighting and firing raged in the heart of the city for seven weeks! The Northern party were at last driven into the Royal Castle, and the water cut off. The Empress now adopted a clever expedient; she kept out of sight, caused a report to be circulated that she was dead, and had preparations made for her funeral. Her body was enclosed in lead like a corpse, and was thus allowed to be carried out in a horse-litter through the besiegers’ camp. Once safely in the open country she soon was out of her coffin and into her saddle, and, bestriding her good steed, galloped off towards Devizes. Stephen, upon his obtaining the castle, prepared it for vigorous defence, but before he was ready heard an army was collecting against him and took to flight. The monks of Hyde Abbey maintained that during this conflict Bishop de Blois intentionally fired from Wolvesey upon their monastery.

The war which devastated the country at this time greatly interfered with agriculture, and a synod was convened at Winchester, at which it was resolved, “that plough and husbandman should have the same privileges of sanctuary with churches,” and the whole assembly, with torches in their hands, pronounced a blazing excommunication against any one who injured an agriculturist.

Wolvesey saw Henry II.—who had been crowned at Winchester—in one of his worst moments. After the murder of À Becket he found a great storm of public feeling raised against him, and felt no longer safe. On the 6th of August he passed through Winchester, and visited this grim old Norman castle, where Henry de Blois was dying, and here he heard the bishop’s last words of bitter reproach, as he foretold the great calamities which Divine vengeance would pour upon the murderer of the Archbishop. From this Henry hurried to Wales and to the subjugation of Ireland. As late as Leland’s time this was “a castelle, or palace well tow’red,” and it was a residence till the Civil War.

Here, in Henry VIII.’s time, Bishop Fox, as a blind and aged man, was interrogated about Prince Arthur, who was born here, and gave very interesting and lucid replies. Here Mary first saw Philip. Here took place the famous trial of Raleigh before Popham and others, during which the apartments of the warden and fellows of the College were requisitioned for the judges, sheriffs, and principal lawyers. The fine old sailor kept a very cheerful countenance, we are told, though so unwell and feeble that he was accommodated with a seat. He was charged with attempting to induce foreign enemies to invade the King’s dominions; with attempting to restore the Romish religion; and to place on the throne Arabella Stuart, whom he was to meet in Jersey. The celebrated Coke was the Crown counsel against him, and indulged in virulent and coarse invectives, calling him a terrible and detestable traitor.

“He hath a Spanish heart. You are an odious man. See with what a —— forehead he defends his faults. His treason tends not only to the destruction of our souls, but to the loss of our goods, lands, and lives. This is the man who would take away the King and his cubs.”

Raleigh sometimes smiled during this tirade. The last accusation was the only one which moved him, and he said, referring to it, that Coke was a base slave. “Humble, but not prostrate,” he answered for himself; “showing love of life rather than fear of death.” The charges against him were on the authority of only one man, his former friend, Lord Cobham. Raleigh quoted Scripture, that “in the mouth of two or three witnesses shall every word be established,” and demanded that Cobham should be brought face to face with him. This was refused. He said that in the Tower he got a poor fellow to throw up an apple with a letter tied to it to Cobham, who said, in reply, that he had wronged him. But all was of no avail, and Popham condemned Raleigh to be hanged till half dead, and then cut down, quartered, and disembowelled. He left the court without showing any signs of dismay. This account is the more interesting and valuable, as it comes from the pen of Sir Thomas Overbury, an estimable man, poisoned by Carr, who afterwards married his wife.

Raleigh, though he remained afterwards thirteen years in the Tower, until his unfortunate and dishonest expedition, was finally executed under this sentence passed at Winchester.

All is now peaceful enough at Wolvesey. Time has gnawed the walls, the Roundheads destroyed the defences, and Bishop Morley peeled the whole to erect the new palace which now stands beside these sad remains. The string courses in the walls seem to be a continuation of Roman architecture, and we observe two good Norman windows and a couple of imperfect arches; the outside of the keep can still be recognized and the refectory. But nearly all the interior is in a confused state of disintegration, and the man who can call the ruins picturesque must have a happy imagination. Morley’s palace, now used for school classes, is uninteresting; so is the chapel, though, as a builder who had to repair the roof assured me, the wood there, the east window and south wall existed in the days of the castle.

Leaving Wolvesey, we continued by the line of the city wall, and marked in places the insertion of Roman tiles. There is little here to recall the conflicts of men, but much, in the dark fruit-laden boughs, to make us reflect on the generosity of nature and on piping times, when every man can sit happily beneath his own vine and fig-tree. And now we continue our walk by the smooth river and by cottage gardens bright with everlastings and “gipsy roses” (scabious), till we find ourselves again on the site of the Eastgate from which we started.