This entrenchment was really constructed by Hopton, though named after Cromwell. On this ground, the highest near Winchester, we stand in the centre of a grand panoramic scene. Below lies the city—its red houses, green trees, and grey Cathedral. It looked more formidable when this camp was made; the castle stood at its head, and the long wall extended down, crowned at intervals with round towers. There were no suburbs then, and it seemed among the surrounding pastures like “a quaint old mosaic in a ring of emeralds.” After leaving the “Noll” and rejoining the road, I continued towards Hursley, and observed on the right a monumental structure just peeping over the hill. On inquiring I found that this was not a memorial to a hero, but to a horse! As I go down hill with fine plantations skirting the road, I observe that I am in the country of yew-trees, which here replace the “hedgerow elms,” generally characteristic of England. Sweet marjoram and masses of wild foliage rise on either side, and above it gleam in rich profusion the scarlet clusters of the “dogwood.” On the left is a hill prettily dotted with small yews and junipers.
Hursley.
The church of Hursley is large and handsome, and the graveyard beautifully adorned. Inside, at the west end, we found a brass, not much larger than an octavo page, recording the name of John Wolkland, who was keeper of the neighbouring Castle of Merdon in the fifteenth century. Close to it rose a large stone slab, commemorative of many members of the Cromwell family. Richard Cromwell, the Protector’s son, married one of the Major family here, and became possessed of the manor. At his death the place was purchased from the daughters by Sir W. Heathcote, who took down the old mansion, saying, I am told, that “the roof which harboured a Cromwell was not fit to shelter an honest man.” These reminiscences of fame and decay are somewhat melancholy. A brass corresponding to that of Wolkland has a sweeter sound. It bears the following inscription:—
“If ever chaste or honneste godly lyfe
Myghte merit prayse of eber lastyng fame,
forget not then that worthy Sternhold’s wife
Our hobbies make[108] Ane Horswell cald by name
frome whome alas, to sone for hers here lefte
hath God her soule and deth her lyfe byreft.