Crossing the City Road we went straight 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.
Hyde Abbey.
A Roman urn was found in this street; 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.”