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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 FOURTH DAY.
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 Hyde Street.
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; Hyde Abbey.
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, King Alfred.
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 Sword and Gown.
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 Treasures of Hyde.
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.

CNUT AND EMMA (ÆLFGYFU) PLACING THE CROSS AT HYDE.

(From an Anglo-Saxon MS.)

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 Spoliation.
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 Walk to
went home; and I, walking on towards the Headbourne.
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 A Winchester
banks, and reach Headbourne Worthy—the Scholar.
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 Dm̄ inetm̄ 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 Brooks.
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 Monster Trout.
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, Brooks.
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.

FOOTNOTES:

[59] Charter Rolls, 8 Ed. I.

[60] The Cathedral was often called the Church of St.
Swithun.
[61] Malmsbury calls it an image of the crucifixion, with
great weight of gold, silver, and gems.
 FIFTH DAY.
The Cathedral — Early History — Dagon — St. Swithun — Æthelwold — The Vocal
Cross — Ordeal of Fire — Walkelin — Renovation of the Cathedral — Civil War
— Architecture — Nave — Isaak Walton — Relics and Monuments — De la
Roche — Frescoes — Ethelmar — Crypt.

Fifteen years ago I visited Winchester, and attended service in the

Cathedral. A verger, with the usual courtesy of his kind, showed me
into one of the “misery” stalls, and I found myself very happy
therein. The music was delightful. The boys’ voices seemed to waft
me up to heaven, and the bass sent me down below the earth. The
latter performance by one of commanding stature, who possessed
something worthy of being called an “organ,” greatly impressed me.
As I was passing out I observed to the verger, “That bass man is
very grand.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” he replied; “if you were to hear him hollow out,
‘Judge me,’ you would say it was the finest thing in the world.”
“That is a somewhat modern experience,” observed Mr. Hertford.
“Let us hear something about the early history of the Cathedral.”
“As early as you please,” I replied. “Warton tells us that ‘many
reputable historians report that this city was founded by Ludor Rous
Hudibras 892 years before Christ.’”
“The name Hudibras,” returned Mr. Hertford, “suggests that they
belonged to the comic school.”
“Or poetic,” I continued, “Warton was The Britons.
poet-laureate, and his brother was head-
master here. But there is no doubt that the site on which this
Cathedral stands was of prehistoric sanctity. Hard by at the southern
gate of the Close we find in the road two Druidical monoliths. Was
not this a place where the long-haired, skin-clad Britons came to lay
their offerings? Did not some mighty chieftain repose here beneath a
rude dolmen? Below the crypt there is a well which reminds us of
the holy wells—such as that of Madron in Cornwall—changed by the
early Church from pagan to Christian veneration.
“A wave of the wand of the great magician, Time, brings us to
Roman days. On the south and west are red-roofed villas, with
spreading courts. Close to us, on the east, stand the old temple of
Concord, and the new one to Apollo—low buildings, but large, and
girdled by pillars, with acanthus-leaved capitals, such as those we
see to-day lying on the grass at Silchester. Here pass the stately
processions of white-robed “flamens,” who here placed their
principal British college. But side by side with these time-honoured
and worn-out institutions grew up the Christian Church. King Lucius
on his conversion gave to it the possessions of these old priests,
extending 2,000 paces on every side of the city. He built a little
house, with an oratory, dormitory, and refectory, and placed in it
monks of the order of St. Mark the Evangelist. But his greatest work
here was the construction of the Church of St. Amphibalus, two
hundred and nine paces long, eighty wide and ninety high.[62]”
“Paces?” interrupted Mr. Hertford, “what a stupendous structure!
and very ‘airy’ I should think. Are you sure that it was not built for
the marines?”
“Large as it was,” I continued, “Lucius’s voice would have filled it.
We are told that when he became Bishop of Coire, in Switzerland, he
chose a rock for his pulpit—his finger-marks remain there to prove it
—and held forth so vehemently that he was heard twelve miles off—
about as far as thunder would be audible.”
“You have evidently been among some of those jesting monks,” he
said.
“Oh, no; what I have narrated about Winchester is from no
goliard, but from Rudborne, a Benedictine of the place; a ‘sad’ fellow
truly, but in the older and better sense.”
After a great destruction of monks and The Saxons.
buildings during the Diocletian persecution,
the brethren rebuilt and re-entered their church—of which Constans,
son of Constantine, and afterwards Emperor, was then high-priest—
and had peace for two hundred and ten years. Then came, in 500,
the terrible Cerdic, against whom King Arthur fought so valiantly. He
defeated the natives in a great battle where is now the New Forest,
and entered the city. The monks were slaughtered, and an image of
Dagon set up in the Christian church. We can scarcely picture the
barbaric scenes when this prince of the Saxons was crowned, and
buried, in this heathen temple.
Why does Rudborne call this the temple of the Philistine god
Dagon? Perhaps it was merely a term of contempt, to signify an
outlandish deity. But we know that Dagon had a fish’s tail, and might
it be that the Saxons arriving by sea, invested their figure of Woden
here with some of the merman’s attributes? It is a curious
coincidence—nothing more—that the Roman pavement in the
Museum, found in Minster Lane, about a hundred yards from the
west entrance of the Cathedral, is ornamented with representations
of dolphins.[63]
“I am glad we have come to the Saxons,” said Mr. Hertford, “there
is something interesting about them. They lived in a fitful light. The
sun of civilization was struggling through the clouds of primitive
darkness. Literature was springing into life, with that centralization
which begets great achievements.”
“A hundred and forty-two years after Cerdic we reach the light,” I
continued. “Cynegils destroyed this heathen temple and began to
refound Winchester Church, which his successor, Cenwalh, finished
about the middle of the seventh century. He dedicated it to St.
Birinus, who had been sent over by Pope Honorius. Hedda translated
the bishopric of the West Saxons from Dorchester to Winchester, and
brought hither the bones of Birinus, by means of which the
neighbourhood soon began to be blessed or cursed with miracles.”
We now reach the days of St. Swithun, St. Swithun.
who in his lifetime came down upon the
Church in showers not of water, but of gold. He induced Athelwolf,
Alfred’s father, to give tithes of the Crown lands, and the grant was
confirmed here by the King, in a grand ceremony before the high
altar of “St. Peter’s.” Swithun (a native of the place) was first Prior
and then Bishop of Winchester, and well deserved remembrance. He
moulded the mind of Alfred, and persuaded Ethelbald to put away
his mother-in-law, whom, by some eccentricity, he had married.
From feelings of humility, or fearing that his body would be utilized
after his death, Swithun ordered that he should be buried outside
the church on the west; where, writes Rudborne, “a little chapel can
be seen on the north of the Cathedral.” (This chapel, which has
disappeared, was probably not built until many years after the
interment.)
Æthelwold was a pillar of the Church. He repaired the nunnery
founded here by Alfred’s queen, and purchased the sites of Ely,
Peterborough, and the “Thorney” isle, on which the “Minster of the
West” stands. He rebuilt the Cathedral of St. Swithun—upon plans
apparently of that saint—assisting in the good work not only as an
architect, but also as a manual labourer. Great opposition was made
to him by the “adversary,” but he was supported by power from
above. One day a great post fell upon him breaking nearly all the
ribs on one side of his body, and but for his falling into a pit he
would have been crushed altogether. Another day one of the monks
who were working on the highest part of the church fell from the top
to the bottom, but as soon as he touched the earth and made the
sign of the cross, he ascended in the sight of all up to the place
where he had stood, took up his trowel, and continued his work as if
nothing had happened!
The church thus miraculously raised is The Saxon
represented by Wolstan, who saw it, as a Cathedral.
wondrous edifice. It was built with
“Dædalion” ingenuity. There were so many buildings with altars
round the nave that the visitor would become confused, and not be
able to find his way about. A tower was added, detached, and so
lofty that its golden beaks (gargoyles) caught the rays of the rising
sun and, with a little stretch of imagination, “made perpetual day.”
The crypts were like the church, so large and intricate, that “a man
in them could not find his way out and did not know where he was.”
The latter statement was true in one sense, as the occupants were
mostly kings and bishops, who were brought in to be buried.
Wolstan is grand upon the organ; indeed, he works it a little too
hard. He says that it sometimes sounded like thunder, and was
heard all over the city. Whatever its modulations may have been, it
must have been powerful, for there were twelve pairs of bellows,
worked by “the arms of seventy men with great labour and
perspiration.” This instrument had forty “musæ,” notes, I suppose,
and was played by two of the brethren.
The tower was surmounted by a rod with golden balls, which
shone in the moonbeams as if they were “stars upon earth.” On the
top of all was a splendid weather-cock. It was fitting that such a
building should be presided over by a brave bird.
“The Winchester monk himself seems to have crowed pretty loudly
over it,” observed Mr. Hertford.
Æthelwold had the body of Birinus, which Hedda had buried
simply and respectably, taken up and wrapped in sheets of silver and
gold. He was also conveniently admonished by a dream to move the
body of St. Swithun, and a curious Saxon account of this direction is
extant.[64] The saint, in shining light and full canonicals, appeared to
an old smith, and told him to send to Æthelwold to remove his
bones.
“Oh! sire,” replied the smith, “he will not believe my word.”
“Then,” quoth the saint, “let him go to my burial-place and draw
up a ring out of the coffin, and if the ring yields at the first tug then
wot he of a truth that I sent thee to him.”
The smith was still afraid, but when the Miracles.
saint had appeared three times to him he
went to the tomb and took hold of the ring, which came out of the
stone at once. But it was some years after this, before the cures
wrought led to Æthelwold’s translating the body. The bishop took it
out of the “poor tomb,” where it had rested for 110 years, and had it
placed in a sheet of gold. He made this translation the occasion for a
great demonstration, by which a vast crowd of people was collected;
and the relics which had produced nothing in the days of the secular
canons, now, under the care of the monks became the source of
countless miracles—not much to the credit of the latter custodians.
Within the ten days succeeding its removal, two hundred persons
were healed, and afterwards sometimes eighteen a day. The
graveyard was so covered with the diseased lying about that it was
almost impossible to reach the church.
“I should not have attempted it,” interposed Mr. Hertford.
“Well; it would have been worth seeing,” I replied, “for it was
hung round from one end to the other with crutches and cripples’
stools, and even so they could not put half of them up.”
“It is difficult to suppose,” said Mr. Hertford, thoughtfully, “that all
the money that was given for pretended miracles was paid for
nothing. Persons whose constitutions or disorders were of a nervous
character probably received some benefit. Their spirits would be
raised by their anticipations and the brilliance of the scene. Some
recovered from natural causes, and those who grew worse soon
died, or were not inclined to be profane in their sufferings. You
remember the remark of Diogenes?”
“I have read some things he said,” I returned, “and some
attributed to him which he did not say.”
“He was visiting a temple,” continued Mr. Hertford, “and was
shown the offerings made by those who had been cured. ‘Yes,’ he
replied to the priest; ‘but if those who had not been cured had
offered gifts, they would have been far more numerous.’”
It is said that the transference of St. Swithun’s body, which had
lain between the old wooden tower and the church, was delayed by
forty days’ rain—and hence the proverb. The postponement may
seem strange, as the tomb was but a few feet from the church; but
it was a main object to have a great concourse of people.
And let me here notice a coincidence. We know that in the early
centuries sun worship was much intermingled with Christianity; we
have traces of it in our “Sunday,” in the orientation of churches, and
several observances.
It has been maintained that the Elias of Scripture—the great
herald and harbinger—in some way represented the sun, Helios, and
in modern Greece that luminary is personified, and St. Elias is
supposed to preside over the rainfall. The churches to this saint
stand on the sites of ancient temples to Apollo, and here at
Winchester we have a cathedral close to the site of a temple of
Apollo, dedicated to St. Swithun, who regulates the weather.
Æthelwold acquired the reputation of being a prophet, in a
manner which does not reflect much credit upon some of his friends.
During Lent he preached a powerful sermon on mortification, telling
the people to abstain from meat, courtship, and other pleasant
things. On hearing this, some wild fellow among the crowd made a
profane jest, and the bishop, in reply, said that he foresaw his
approaching death. Next morning the offender was found really
dead, “his throat cut by the devil.”
Many bodies of the great were moved by this bishop, and, in turn,
after he himself had been buried, he was taken up and made to
work.
In these days of Dunstan there was great The Monks’ Success.
activity in ecclesiastical affairs, a great
conflict between the priests and monks. The authority of the Pope,
which had not been hitherto fully recognized by the English Church,
was now established. We are told that the canons of Winchester
shirked the trouble of chanting, consumed in country residences the
goods of the Church, and deputed their duties to poorly-paid vicars.
“The Golden History” states that the canons were in the habit of
turning off the wives they had illicitly taken, and taking others, and
were guilty of gluttony and drunkenness. Such were the charges
made against them by the monks, and the King turned out the
canons of the old and new monasteries (St. Swithun’s and Hyde);
but it may be observed that in the early English Church marriage of
priests was not forbidden. We read that at the New Monastery all
the canons were in 968 called on to take the Benedictine habit, “and
robes and cowls were brought into the choir,” Dunstan having
established the Benedictines in England. But the old clergy were not
without friends, and determined not to yield without a struggle. A
great meeting was held in the refectory of the old monastery. All the
magnates of the country came to support the dispossessed canons;
on the other side were Oswald, Archbishop of York, Æthelwold,
Bishop of Winchester, and the monks. Dunstan sat next to King
Edgar, who had his back to the wall, whereon was a cross, placed
there it is remarked, in the days of Ethelred, when the canons first
succeeded the slaughtered monks. The temporal lords now promised
that the canons would reform their manners, and begged for their
restitution. Edgar was moved by their “sighs and tears,” and was
about to consent, when Dunstan’s genius, heaven-born or not, came
to the assistance of the monks. A voice suddenly came from an
image on the cross behind Edgar, “Let this not be; ye have judged
well. Ye may not change for the better.” Edgar and Dunstan alone
heard the voice. They were struck dumb, and fell to the ground. The
voice was then heard a second time: “Arise, fear not, for justice and
peace have kissed each other in the monks.”
“It is evident that the speaker, whoever he was, had no sense of
the ludicrous,” said Mr. Hertford.
“We are led,” I added, “to think of the peculiar orifice there is in
the Castle Hall just behind the daïs.”
When the Danes obtained the sovereignty Cathedral
the butter-boat of the monks was still safe. Treasures.
Cnut enriched the Cathedral with a mass of
gold and silver and of jewels, the brilliance of which “frightened
strangers.” His own crown, either in his lifetime, or more probably
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