SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL.
At the period of our history the finishing-point to the beauty of Saint Catherine’s Hill was given by an exquisite Gothic chapel placed upon its summit. Erected in the 13th century, this little temple was much resorted to by the devout on account of the reliques it contained of Saints Birinus, Swithun, and Ethelwold. Within in might also be seen a ploughshare which, while red hot, had been trodden upon without injury by the beautiful Queen Emma, mother of Edward the Confessor. Constant pilgrimages were made to the shrine, and on the festival of Saint Catherine, to whom the chapel was dedicated, a long procession of religious personages of both sexes, headed by the Bishop of Winchester, and accompanied by an immense concourse, came forth from the city and ascended the hill, when the Bishop and those with him entering the chapel, placed rich gifts upon the altar. At such times, the spectacle of the vast assemblage kneeling around the little fane, or raising the choral hymn to heaven, must have been highly impressive. Formerly, Saint Catherine’s Chapel had been well endowed, but its revenues were appropriated by Wolsey to his “twins of learning,” Ipswich and Oxford. From this time, until the return to the old worship under Mary, the place was completely neglected. Restored by Gardiner, an aged priest, Father Jerome, who had officiated within it in former days, was appointed to its care. At the 118same time its precious reliques were brought back. Luckily, during the season of its desecration, it had sustained no material injury—its extraordinary reputation for sanctity having probably saved it—and it was now nearly as beautiful as ever. As least, its custodian, good Father Jerome, thought so.
In the olden time, it had been customary with devotees, after early immersion in the clear waters of the Itchen, to repair to Saint Catherine’s Chapel, hear matins, and perform other devotional exercises. This practice, healthful alike to body and soul, was now revived. Welcome to Father Jerome were all who came there to pray.
At an early hour on the morning of the third day after the Prince of Spain’s public entry into Southampton, a remarkably handsome young gallant—tall, graceful in figure and deportment, and very becomingly attired in a doublet of green velvet, slashed with white silk, and wearing a small velvet beret of the some colour, adorned with a white plume, on his head—issued from the south gate of Winchester, and passing through the grove of stately elms, colonised by rooks, then environing this side of the ancient city, struck across the charming valley watered by the Itchen.
The morning was lovely enough to have tempted the veriest sluggard to quit his couch, and our handsome young galliard seemed fully alive to its beauties. The sun had but just o’ertopped sweet Saint Catherine’s Hill. The grass was heavy with dew, and a thin haze hung in some parts of the valley, but this quickly disappeared. All nature looked bright and smiling. The warblers of the grove carolled blithely, the larks soared aloft rejoicingly, and a cloud of clamorous rooks, quitting the tall trees near the city, winged their way towards the marsh lands further south. Scared by the young man’s approach, the stately heron started from the river in which he was fishing, while other aquatic fowl dived beneath the green water-weeds and disappeared.
At no time are we so susceptible to Nature’s beauties as at early morn. Our senses of delight are quicker then than at any other season, and invigorated by the freshness of the atmosphere, we find something to charm in every object we behold. So it was with the young gallant in question. He was familiar with the scene around him, yet he discovered 119beauties in it of which he had been hitherto unconscious. His eye ranged along the valley through which strayed the winding Itchen, pleased with all it encountered, until his gaze settled on the secluded hospital of Saint Croix.
Never before, it seemed to him, had the ancient edifice looked so lovely, so sequestered, as it did now. Though partially screened by trees, enough was visible to evidence its size and architectural beauty—the lofty gateway, the roofs of the quadrangular courts, and the square tower of the reverend church. A slight mist, enveloping but not hiding the outline of the pile, gave it a dreamlike character.
The hospital of Saint Croix was even then more than three hundred years old, having been erected in 1136 by Bishop Henry de Blois, of whom previous mention has been made. It was subsequently enlarged by Cardinal Beaufort, and is still, we are happy to say, in an admirable state of preservation. Here the hospitality of monkish times is still practised on a small scale. Like many other similar institutions in Winchester and elsewhere, Saint Croix was deprived of its rents and revenues by Henry VIII., but sufficient was fortunately saved from the spoiler’s grasp to preserve it from utter extinction. New life was communicated to the decaying old hospital by Mary, and it was the thought of its unexpected revival that gave it special interest in the eyes of the young man who now gazed upon it. Contrasting its present condition with the past, he rejoiced that a fabric so lovely, and designed for such benevolent purposes, should have escaped destruction.
After indulging in these reflections for a brief space, he walked on, bestowing a glance as he crossed the wooden bridge over the Itchen at the trout shooting through the clear stream. He had now reached the foot of Saint Catherine’s Hill, whither, apparently, he was bound, and disdaining to take the easy but circuitous path conducting to the little chapel, he speeded up the steepest part of the acclivity, across the Danish entrenchment, and did not halt for a moment till he gained the summit of the hill. He then turned to enjoy the splendid prospect commanded from the spot of the ancient city and its environs, which we have already endeavoured to bring before the reader.
While he was thus occupied, the door of the little chapel 120was opened by a priest of venerable and benevolent aspect, who stepped towards him, bade him a kindly good morrow, and bestowed a benison upon him.
“What brings Master Osbert Clinton to Saint Catherine’s Hill so early?” inquired the old priest.
“Nothing more than to hear matins in your chapel, good Father Jerome,” replied Osbert. “I trust I am in time.”
“You are in ample time, my son,” replied the old priest, smiling. “Matins have not yet been said, and will n............