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.
[Sidenote: Brooks.]
Awaking from my reverie, I cross by a 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.
[Sidenote: The Monster Trout.]
Trudging on in the chequered light which 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.
[Sidenote: Brooks.]
To the east of the walk on which I stood, 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.”
[Sidenote: The Britons.]
“Or poetic,” I continued, “Warton was 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.”
[Sidenote: The Saxons.]
After a great destruction of monks and 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.”
[Sidenote: St. Swithun.]
We now reach the days of 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!
[Sidenote: The Saxon Cathedral.]
The church thus miraculously raised is represented by Wolstan, who saw
it, as a 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.”
[Sidenote: Miracles.]
The smith was still afraid, but when the 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.
[Sidenote: The Monks’ Success.]
In these days of Dunstan there was great 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.”
[Sidenote: Cathedral Treasures.]