be chief warden and surveyor to King Edward the Third, justiciar and chancellor, but he retired from political life before the troubles of the following reign began, and the rest of his life seems to have been devoted to the affairs of his diocese, the rebuilding of the cathedral, and the foundation of his famous Winchester School and New College, Oxford, to be recognised in after years by grateful Wykehamists as "the sole and munificent founder of the two St. Mary Winton Colleges." As a builder, William of Wykeham does not excite our enthusiasm. The nave of Winchester minster strikes one as formal and spiritless, without any redeeming graces of detail, and its junction with the heavy Norman work of Walkelin in tower and transept has not been happily effected. There is a poverty of outline, too, about the exterior that contrasts unfavourably in the beholder's mind with the glories of Lincoln or York. But in its historical associations Winchester is perhaps richer than any of its rivals. The great Alfred, indeed, does not sleep within its precincts. His bones were laid in his own abbey-the new minster, which he built between the cathedral and the present high-street, and which was, at a later date, pulled down, and its establishment transferred to the site which is now marked by the church of St. Bartholomew-Hyde. But, though nothing is left of Alfred's abbey but a name, the spirit of it will be recalled with pride by Englishmen, for from this abbey sallied forth its abbot on the tidings of Norman William's invasion, the abbot with twelve of his monks to join their royal chieftain, Harold. And back they came no more, but died fighting against the invader on the bloody field of Senlac. Although the abbey of Hyde had carefully preserved the remains of its founder, yet the Reformation, and the destructive processes attendant, destroyed all traces of the spot. Still, the cathedral is the burialplace of a long line of Saxon Kings, whose bones were long ago collected into chests, which still remain in the sanctuary of the minster. Here, too, lies Rufus, whose unhallowed resting-place was long avoided as something accursed. Wykeham sleeps in the nave, in his stately pinnacled booth, while Henry, Cardinal Beaufort, Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate, of Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth-a priest in whom the aspiring blood of Lancaster stirred more strongly than any priestly functions could control-here sleeps quietly enough after life's fitful fever. Here, too, in a quiet corner of the south transept, lies the Complete Angler, and, not far off, the gifted authoress whose fame, perhaps, will brighten still with time-the evercharming Jane Austen, whose studies of character must have been taken chiefly from Hampshire originals. It is only a short walk from Winchester to the old-world establishment of St. Cross, where the wayfarer may still claim his cup of ale and manchet of bread at the butteryhatch. Within the quadrangle are the quaint residences of the poor brethrenthe hundred men's hall, where formerly a hundred poor people were fed daily by the bounty of the founder; the refectory, with its ancient black-jacks and other mediæval curiosities; and the beautiful little church of Holy Cross, a gem of the later Norman style which marked the age of Henry de Blois, the original founder of the hospital. "The scene Closely connected with the history of Winchester is the New Forest, with its still wild and primitive life, its half-wild ponies, or heath-croppers, its herds of swine, that feed upon the acorns and beechmast, and its swineherds, who carry the imagination back to the days of the Saxons. A considerable part of this tract was forest from the earliest ages, but it acquired its name as the New Forest from the additions made to it by William the Conqueror, who laid waste all the fertile settled spots within a district thirty miles in extent, so that his deer might roam undisturbed, where hamlets, and churches, and scattered habitations had formerly stood. of William's greatest crime," writes the historian of the Conquest, was the scene of the heaviest blows that fell upon him and his house;" and his second son, Richard, was cut off in the New Forest by a sudden and mysterious stroke. Another Richard, the natural son of Robert Curthose, died by a chance blow in the same forest, and the well-known story of the death of Rufus, with its picturesque accessories-the arrow that buried itself in the tyrant's breast; the flight of his attendants; the body lying there among the wild growth of the forest till an humble charcoal-burner placed it on his cart and carried it to Winchester-all this has been for ages a favourite morsel of English history, and has served over and over again "to point a moral or adorn a tale." But, considering that little more than twenty years had elapsed between the cruelties of the first William and the death of the second, it seems probable that the death of three royal personages on the same spot was due neither to chance nor to the workings of a special Nemesis, but that some of the outlawed English who had been driven from their homes to form a royal huntingground took upon themselves the functions of an avenging Providence. The metropolis of the Forest region is Christchurch, formerly known as Twynham, from its situation in the fork of the twin rivers, the Stour and the Avon. Rich in interesting remains is Christchurch, with its castle keep and noble priory church, on which Randolf Flambard, who was dean or prior here, is said to have tried his 'prentice hand before he raised his stately cathedral at Durham. In its modern aspect, Christchurch is the headquarters of the gunning, punting, yachting fraternity, who find plenty of sport in its shallow inlets and along the curving shores, where soft muddy banks, covered with waterweeds, afford excellent feeding-grounds for all kinds of aquatic birds. Then there is fashionable Bournemouth farther to the west, with its pine-groves and warm, sunny sand-barrens. Following the Avon upwards, we come to Ringwood, not far from which the farm of Avon Tyrrel recalls the story of the death of the Red King, and then to Fordingbridge—both these towns having an ancient reputation for ales, as many a sign up and down the county still testifies. From Ringwood, one of the ancient highways of the county traverses the New Forest to Romsey, noted for its noble old minster-like church, the former church of the once royal abbey, the most famous nunnery in England, where many Saxon ladies of royal blood and of high degree were educated. Romsey is upon the Anton river, more properly the Test, for our English way of naming rivers or streams is to call them after the place of most importance to or from which they flow; thus the Anton river is simply the river of Southampton, just as lower down towards the sea the great estuary is known prosaically as Southampton Water. And that reminds us that officially our Hampshire is still known as the county of Southampton, which in its turn suggests the unaccountableness of naming the county after a mere seaport, when royal and episcopal Winchester might have been expected to give its name to the district. But Southampton was undoubtedly a very early Saxon settlement, perhaps the original Cerdic's shore, that saw the first landing of the invaders. But the Southampton of to-day is just a coming and going place, where few people stop long enough to be curious about its history. And Portsmouth, although undoubtedly it takes its name from a great Saxon chief named Port, and not from any Welsh "Porthmawr," or big water-gate, troubles itself little about such old-world fables compared with the latest ironclad or the neatest invention in torpedo-boats. And these are subjects altogether too large for these chronicles. Things were different in William Gilpin's time. The amiable discoverer of the picturesque, who, visiting Portsmouth about the year 1774, finds room in a few lines to describe the port and its war-ships. "The Eolus put us in mind of that ill-fated adventurer, Thurot, and the Royal George brought to our memory the defeat of Conflans in the Bay of Biscay." Quite different now are the memories called up by the Royal George Toll for the brave, the brave that are no more the centenary of whose loss was marked by the Naval Exhibition of 1882. And at this date there may be many to whom Gilpin's allusions are obscure. But they refer to that great year of victories, 1759-the year of the taking of Quebec, when it was necessary, according to Horace Walpole, to ask every morning what new victory there was, for fear of missing one. In that year the French fleet was almost destroyed in numerous engagements, and Conflans, the French admiral, decisively beaten by Sir Edward Hawke at Quiberon. Then, also, Thurot, who had attempted a landing in Ireland, was captured with all his squadron. Now we have only the old Victory to hang a memory upon, in whose dark, miserable cockpit is shown the place where Nelson breathed his last; the laurels of all the great sea-monsters of to-day have still to be won. What a grand expanse it is that meets the eye from Portsdown, crowned by its huge modern forts, that seem designed for a combat of giants; what a busy scene below in the wide lake-like harbour, with boats and tenders shooting to and fro, and the crowd of masts and sails about Spithead, and the green shores of Wight in the distance! Below lie Fareham and Cosham nestling among the trees, and the walls and ditches of military Portsmouth, with fields and commons spread out like a map, while westwards the outskirts of the New Forest hang like a cloud over mingled sea and land. Northwards a rich country of parks and woodlands meets the view, the remains of the ancient forest of Bere, and far to the east the graceful spire of Chichester minster rises above the horizon. Pleasant, too, is the crossing on a fine breezy day from Southsea to Cowes, when we thread our way among the huge ironclads, encompassed by a cloud of sails of every size and shape-the huge spread of canvas of the racing yachts; the modest lug of the little fishing-yawl. But the sunny, beautiful island, with its silver sands and delightful coves, and romantic drives, has been too happy to have had much history. And it has little to show in relics of the past a few Henry the Eighth castles at various points of the coast, a priory or two (Quorn Abbey to wit) occupied as country mansions, and the foundations of some Roman villa to remind us that the beauties of Wight were even in those remote times known and appreciated. And yet Carisbrook must not be forgotten, the central point of historic interest in the island ever since 530, when Cerdic and Cynric gained Wihtland and slew many men on Wihtgarabyrig. From this rather lengthy name we get Carisbrook, which ought rather to be called Carisberg, as there is no brook about the premises, the castle being supplied by a well of immense depth and unknown antiquity. The chief interest of Carisbrook is, how ever, connected with the imprisonment of Charles the First. The melancholy ruins of Carisbrook may dwell in the memory as a fit scene for the last weary, troubled days of the unfortunate King. When Charles made his escape from Hampton Court his course was naturally towards the west, where his friends and adherents were most plentiful. He might have escaped to France without much difficulty, but he could not make up his mind that his cause was really hopeless. At first he concealed himself at Tichfield House, near Fareham, the seat of the Wriothesleys. And from Tichfield, moved by one of those fatal impulses which were urging him step by step to his doom, he resolved to surrender himself to Colonel Hammond, the governor of the Isle of Wight. Now, Hammond was the nephew of the King's favourite chaplain, and Charles had every hope that he would deal favourably with him. But the Colonel had married a daughter of the patriot Hampden, and his interest was bound up with the party of the Parliament. Still, Charles was treated with all respect, and conducted to the island, and to its royal castle, rather as a guest than a prisoner. And here his friends had constant access to him, and again he might have escaped had his mind been resolved that way. It is said that everything had been arranged one night; his friends waiting outside, horses in readiness, and a vessel lying off the coast. But he was unable to squeeze himself between the bars of his windows, and gave up the attempt. Had his heart gone first, we may imagine that through that window, or some other, the King would have won his way; but, perhaps, at that moment it struck him that it was not a dignified thing for a monarch to fly from his kingdom like a thief in the night, and so he remained. And, really, things seemed about to take a favourable turn. The Parliament was ready to come to terms with him; some treaty had been actually arranged. Cromwell was in the north, where the Scotch were in insurrection, and although the last efforts of the Royalists in England had been extinguished by the capture of Colchester, yet the Parliament, seriously alarmed at the overbearing power of their army, might well look to the King to redress the balance. Charles removed from Carisbrook to Newport, and here carried on his negotiations as a high contracting power. Again he might have escaped, but he had given his word to those in charge of him, and he refrained. And then, towards the end of November, a sudden change came over the scene. Cromwell had returned, all opposition crushed. The army was in motion. Fairfax threw out strong corps towards the west. Colonel Hammond, who was suspected of being too favourable to the King, was ordered to attend the general at headquarters, soldiers were landed on the island, the guards were doubled, every post was in the hands of the most rigid of Cromwell's officers. And, from his lodgings in Newport, the King was removed to a rigorous confinement in Hurst Castle; and hence his course was fixed, to his trial at Westminster and his execution at Whitehall. A miserable place of imprisonment must Hurst Castle have been, right in the midst of the melancholy sea, for King Charles's last wintry days, but not without healthy features, if we may judge from the long imprisonment there of Father Atkinson, who -it seems incredible, but is recorded in local annals-was confined in the castle for more than thirty years for some offence against the laws directed against Papists, and who died there in 1729-in George the Second's reign, under Walpole's government-aged seventy-four. Perhaps he had grown too much accustomed to his prison to care to leave it, and was kept there out of charity. And if he had been fond of fishing and boating, and on good terms with the Government, perhaps the time passed pleasantly enough, with a run now and then to Lymington or Beaulieu Abbey, with its charming prospects and ancient monastic associations. But we have lingered too long in this corner of the county, and must make a rapid flight to its northern border, where Highclere lies among the hills-noted hills in former days, as camps and entrenchments defending every crest and mount are there to testify. And a wild, picturesque country it is all the way to Silchester-the Pompeii of Hampshire as somebody has called it; really a marvellous remain standing there in the lonely country, with walls, and towers, and the green banks of an amphitheatre close by. Here intelligent excavations have been carried on, and there is a museum on the spot, rich in all kinds of relics of the former dwellers in the prosperous town, which with its baths, its forum, its shops, it well-warmed villas, and well-paved streets, might compare not unfavourably with a Hampshire town of the present day. so quiet and deserted it seems, and likely soon to give up business altogether. Old Basing is interesting, with a great circular entrenchment which probably existed before the castle, and has lasted longer than the perishing stones of that Basing House which held out so long and so gallantly for King Charles. John Paulet, Marquis of Winchester, the lord of Basing, headed the defence. Provisions ran short, and Colonel Gage marched from Oxford on a raiding expedition to relieve the place. He succeeded in waylaying enough of the enemy's supplies to provision the place; but the siege was reformed with greater strictness, and soon provisions were short again in the garrison, time the relief was to be attempted by a thousand horsemen, who, riding through the ranks of the besiegers with each a bag of provisions in his saddle, should fling their burden within reach of the garrison, and ride away again. The old soldiers of the period were full of such whimsical devices, and this one might have answered very well; but when the gallant band arrived near Basing, they found that the siege had been raised, and the enemy had retired to winter quarters. After that, Cromwell directed the siege, and it was taken by storm in 1645-affording fine plundering to the Independent soldiers. This Cromwell had certainly a fine gift in the way of destruction, and what he had broken it was hard to put together again. The Paulets abandoned the task, and made their chief residence at Hackwood Park, formerly a mere dependency of Basing. One of their successors, become Duke of Bolton, enlivened the annals of the peerage by his marriage with the actress, Lavinia Fenton, the celebrated Polly Peachum of The Beggar's Opera. Crossing the country towards Basingstoke, we pass a snug and pleasant seat called The Vine-a name which has a modern sound, but which really is very We cannot leave Hampshire without a ancient-Camden says, from a vineyard glimse of Selborne, the home of Gilbert made by the Romans, which is likely White, lying in its pleasant secluded valley enough, but might be more satisfactorily-perhaps more secluded now than even in established. In Basingstoke, the most conspicuous monument is the ruined chapel of the Holy Ghost, in the midst of a cemetery, that really dates from the reign of Henry the Seventh, the chapel of a guild of the period which embraced the education of the poor amongst its objects. And thus the tower of the chapel has a winding stair which led into a chamber fitted for a resident-master, who might also be the guild chaplain. The Basingstoke Canal, indeed, may be classed among the ancient monuments, although barely a century old a the time of its worthy historian. A later naturalist, the much regretted Frank Buckland, visiting the place in 1875, discovered an old lady, ninety-three years of age, who remembered Gilbert White, quiet old gentleman with old-fashioned sayings," who used to keep a locust that crawled about the garden. On further consideration, the old lady agreed that the locust was a tortoise. Selborne lies on the skirts of Woolmer Forest, and Gilbert White describes the drying of Woolmer pond; which, according to the general tradition of the neighbourhood, was held to contain a great treasure. Thus when the muddy bottom became dry, the villagers in great numbers began a search, which was not altogether unrewarded. Great stores of copper coins were found, layers upon layers as if bags full had been emptied there. The finders sold what they could to the gentry and virtuosi; the rest became current coin, and passed for farthings at the petty shops. A strange fate for the coinage of Carausius and Allectus. AFTER THE RAIN. ALL day above the tired earth had lain, Hueless and grey, the funeral pall of cloud; All day the sudden sweeps of chilling rain, Had broken, fitful, from the lowering shroud; Echoed the keynote of the harmony; As tear-dimmed eyes gleam to a loving word; UNIVERSITY MEN AND EAST LONDON EXHIBITIONS. THERE was nothing remarkable about the "East London Industrial Exhibition except its size and the manner of its opening. I have seen in country towns things of the same kind, in which some of the exhibits showed cleverer mechanical invention and greater technical skill; but then they had no more illustrious patron than the parson, or, perhaps, the mayor. This Whitechapel exhibition was opened by a real Princess, with all the glory of bunting, and poles wrapped in red cloth, and street mottoes, such as "Welcome our arts to view," and "More arts, more peace, more royal visits to the East;" and its stalls were kept by real peeresses. It has become a sort of fashion to pet the East End. Lord Shaftesbury has much to answer for in this respect. He is always either presiding at costers' donkey races, or pouring out the coffee at cabmen's free breakfasts, or showing in some such way how he is possessed with the idea that the East Ender is a man and a brother. Money, too, one great test of sympathy, certainly is not wanting. All the summer through it pours in to enable batches of school-children to get a few hours' romping in Epping Forest, or, if the managers are very ambitious, under the Bushey Park chestnuts. Sometimes there is something much better at the end of the drive-a happy afternoon under the trees on somebody's suburban lawn, with cakes, and fruit, and a hot cup of tea, and welcome and sympathy, without patronising fussiness, from the lady of the house. Some of the money is spent in what strikes me as the very best way possiblehalf-a-dozen sickly children are caught and sent down to one of those many East Coast watering-places that the railway company is always finding out, or else to some healthy village not too far from town. Here they are allowed to run wild for ten days or so, of course with someone to look after them, enjoying, as no children could except those whose ordinary view of Nature is limited to the things in the greengrocers' shops, the wonders of the fields or the shore. For many a little one, brought up in a London court, such a change means the difference between growing up healthy, or blighted and unable to bear the stress of life. No one who has not been out with them can imagine the joy to East End children of seeing wildflowers in the fields, and trees really green and fresh, and listening to the hum of bees, and to all the other sounds of which, through use, the country child thinks nothing. Their love of flowers is pathetic. Years ago I was helping in a Stepney Sunday-school; a teacher was triumphantly despoiling a nine-year-old urchin of a long, limp potato-haulm. The boy, with tears, protested: "Please, sir, it's a flau-er." Prowling around the night before, he had picked it up and treasured it for the sake of the dull mauve blossoms. Far too rarely, too, the country is opened to older people, convalescents of both sexes, who have just lived long enough to find that life is very, very hard, whether it means slop-work, or clerk's work and general drudgery in a sixth-rate office. Such people get knocked up; and if not taken in hand kindly and judiciously, they sink, and are seldom successfully pulled up again. To send them down into the country, to treat them like brothers and sisters when they are there, is a work needing not money only, but tact and discrimination. As one looks at the many country houses lying empty, one thinks it might be done much more extensively. Here is a squire with three "Halls." His father was a great land-buyer; and he, a great game |