A picture of the four pointed arches and lofty windows which stood here at the end of the last century can be seen in the Winchester Museum. It is interesting now that every vestige of this hospital has disappeared—except the archway in the Roman Catholic Chapel in St. Peter’s Street—to read in the Harleian Manuscripts (328) of the ornaments it once possessed—the silver pix and cups, the vestments and books, the green carpet powdered with birds and roses, the Spanish cloth, given by William of Basing, and the standards to be carried on Rogation days. This hospital was founded in 1174 by Bishop Toclyve, whose signature to a document is a great curiosity in the British Museum. The ruins were removed at the beginning of this century, as they had become an harbour for mendicants not belonging to religious orders.
The distance is about a mile and a half from the Butter Cross, and this seems to have been thought anciently, as it is now, a safe position for the location of infectious and contagious diseases.
Returning, and passing the Victoria Hospital a few hundred yards, I struck right across the downs and saw on my left five mounds, which brought other sad memories of disease, for here the bodies of those who died of the plague were thrown into pits. It was on these downs that King John hypocritically fell down on his knees before the Pope’s prelates. Here they, weeping, raised him up, and all proceeded to the Cathedral singing the Fiftieth Psalm.[104]
Longwood.
Looking southwards I saw under me the Petersfield road, to which I descended, and walked on it right away for more than a mile to visit the Punchbowl, a circular hollow in the downs, almost capacious enough for that thirsty Dutchman who drank the Zuyder Zee. From thence, if I had desired, I might have marched on for three or four miles to the beautiful woods of Longwood. I well remember having once walked through them on a summer evening, when the sunshine was casting a chequered glow through the oaks and beeches—such scenes are not easily forgotten. Lord Northesk still retains the old family mansion, though a handsome new residence has been built beside it.
Chilcombe.
On this occasion I was not so enterprising, so returning nearly to where I took the road, I turned to the left towards Chilcombe, which I saw lying in a nook among the hills shaded with large trees. This hamlet is still nearly as small as it was in the time of the ancient Britons. After reaching and passing by the half-dozen cottages which compose it, the road decreased to a lane, and became steep as I approached the church. This was truly the “church in the wilderness.” There was no house near it at which I could obtain the key, so I had to turn back to the village. On my way I met some little children playing, one of whom, a girl of about twelve, regarded me through her dark eyes with undisguised curiosity.
“Can you tell me who has the key of the church?” I inquired.
“The clerk has it,” she replied; “but he’s dead.”