There was machicolation over it for giving assailants a warm reception, perhaps because there was no ditch in front of it. There was a moat on each side, but on account of the difference of level, they did not meet here. Milner says that there was part of a Saxon chapel adhering to this building.
As we were about to move on, the magic of history brought a scene before my mind. Stay! what is that concourse and cavalcade before the gate? I hear a voice proclaiming—
“Let no merchant or other for these sixteen days, within a circuit of sixteen leagues round the Fair, sell, buy, or set out for sale, any merchandise in any place but the Fair, under a penalty of forfeiture of goods to the Bishop.”
The Mayor is presenting the keys of the gate, but what sour countenances have he and his fellow citizens! Is not this what took place in the fourteenth century, on the eve of St. Giles’ fair?
The Plague.
As it was a fine autumnal day I now strolled right away by myself for a country walk. Just before me was an obelisk raised to commemorate the Plague of 1666, when the markets had to be placed outside the town. It stands upon the very stone on which exchanges were then made, the money being dropped into a bowl of water to avoid contagion. I saw in large letters on the obelisk that it was erected by the “Society of Natives,” somewhat suggestive of oysters, or of some primitive race descended from them, but I found the reference was to an association formed immediately after the plague, with the benevolent object of assisting the widows and orphans of those who had died.
An old man told me that when at work in a cellar near this, in Newburgh Street, he found, seven feet down, about a hundred rusty old swords. He was told they were Saxon, and that if he had sent them to the Queen he should never have had to do another day’s work, “a consummation,” according to his views, “devoutly to be wished.” Some of them were sent to the Museum, but as I could not find them there, I doubted whether they were really Saxon.
Proceeding towards the country I saw on my right the Church of St. Paul’s in course of construction—the work seems to have fallen into a state of chronic debility. It stands on the foundations of the old Church of St. Anastasius, and this district which seems fresh and cheerful is mostly historical from disease. It was depopulated by a pestilence in 1348, and never until lately recovered. At the end of the fifteenth century this church, and one with the pleasant name of “St. Mary’s of the Valley,” were taken down, and Wyke Chapel made the parish church.
On the left I passed a red brick building, with some handsome trees beside it. This was the Union Workhouse—a bright, comfortable-looking edifice, which ought to cheer the hearts of any farmers and landowners who are thinking of soon entering it. At the back they will find a public recreation ground, called “Oram’s Arbour,” with seats, where they can rest and reflect upon their past fortunes, and bless Oram, who, having a lease of great length, generously surrendered it on condition that the ground should be free to the citizens for ever. There were, forty years ago, on the western side of it, where houses have been built, a fosse and bank, probably made by the Royalists in Cromwell’s time, though some have regarded them as a part of the old British defences of the town.
Wyke.
Farther on I passed a row of cottages with brightly flowering gardens, and after continuing up the hill between hedges white with “travellers’ joy,” for about half a mile, descended beneath overhanging larches, and came to the village of Wyke, with its little boulevard of pollard lime trees. Having obtained the keys at an adjoining cottage, I entered the tiny church beneath the Norman arch, and looked at the East window, which contains bits of old glass and has coloured scroll work round it.
The chapel is mentioned by Henry de Blois, but was rebuilt in Henry VIII.’s reign. Within the chancel is a stone in the wall about eighteen inches square, in memory of Dr. Harpesfelde, who died in 1550. This person was a nephew of Johanna, Viscountess Lisle, who bequeathed to him as a “scholar of Bologna,” twelve pounds, six silver spoons, a silver cup, and a gown. He was made by Wolsey Commissary-general of the diocese, and assisted at the enthronement of Gardiner. Towards the end of his life he lived here, and went about in a horse litter. The engraver has made his inscription conspicuous by forming the chief letters very large and inserting the others inside them—an early suggestion of shorthand.
HERE LYETH
MR DOCTR HA
RPESEECDE PSON
HERE 1550 APRI III
THE EPITAPH OF DR. HARPESFELDE.
The greater part of the present building is of Henry VIII.’s time. There are here abundant monuments to the Godwin family. I was somewhat amused at one, which, after setting forth a long catalogue of virtues, ended by bidding the exhausted reader—“Blush, if you do not venerate the name of Thomas Godwin.”[30]
Just opposite the door there is in the wall a curious little brass, about a foot high and six inches wide. Many people come to take rubbings of it. Here is represented St. Christopher carrying the infant Christ. The saint is wading through a stream, and in his anxiety to behold the face of his sacred burden seems to have dislocated his neck. The inscription beneath runs as follows:—
Here lieth will’m Complyn
& Annes his wife yᵉ Whiche
will’m decessid yᵉ xxj day of
mayj yᵉ yere of oure lord
mc.c.c.clxxxxviiii. Also this be
ze dedis yᵗ ze said will’m hath
down to this Church of Wike
yᵗ is to say frest dedycacion
of yᵉ Church xlˢ & to make
newe bellis to yᵉ sam Church
xˡ also gave to yᵉ halloyeng
of yᵉ grettest bell vjˢ. viij. d.
& for yᵉ testimonyall’ of the
dedicacion of yᵉ sam Church
vjˢ viii. d. on whos soules
ihu have mercy Amen.
I observed that z is here twice put for y—and the fact reminded me of the pronunciation of the agricultural people here.
As I left the quaint little sanctuary I found an old labouring man standing outside gazing at it wistfully in an attitude of meditation. I was glad to see this. “The poorest,” I thought, “can appreciate the ancient and the beautiful.” But his reflections were more practical. As I passed he gave me a curious look, and said, with a twinkle in his grey eyes—
“Richest living about Winchester, zir.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “How much do you make it?”
“Eight hundred and fifty, zir.”
“The rector would be glad to receive half
