ancient gateway (the Land Gate), flanked by ruined crumbling towers, one sees the plan upon which this now mere " shadow of a shade" was originally built. The only difference between Winchelsea and the American city mentioned in Martin Chuzzlewit is, that whilst the latter was simply and entirely prospective, the former is altogether retrospective. Instead of its thirty-two squares, its crowded streets, its numerous churches and convents, its merchants' houses that once were, we now see but a few old houses dotted here and there, and the remains of a once noble temple. Where once busy citizens and mariners trod to-andfro, the grass now grows, and the only inhabitants seem to be a demure and stately cat, and a little child peering from a cottage window. Yet there is a subdued but decided air of respectability about Winchelsea which is deserving of respect and sympathy, such as one has for a respectable old gentleman who has retired from business with a small but sufficient competency. Surely some enchanter's wand has been passed centuries ago over the place, and has caused the inhabitants to fall into a magic sleep, out of which they will never wake again. A few substantial residences, a pleasant-looking hotel, the fragment of a magnificent church, a few neat houses and cottages, these are all that remain of the famous town of Little London, so dubbed by Royal favour. These and a few fragments of walls and ancient crumbling gateways go to make up modern Winchelsea The history of this now obscure and insignificant village is a very remarkable one. Few towns have felt more acutely the hard blows and buffets of Dame Fortune, and few have remaining upon them more visible traces of the short-sightedness and impotence of man, or the folly of human expectations, than this poor skeleton of former wealth and power. As most of our readers know, the present Winchelsea is the successor to another town called Old Winchelsea, or Wind-cold-sea, as it might well be called, standing as it did in a low plain open to both the wind and the sea. The relative importance of Winchelsea and Hastings, both Cinque Ports, in Henry III.'s reign is shown by the fact that whilst the latter furnished three ships, the former contributed no less than ten armed vessels. Winchelsea became the scene of civil commotion and bloodshed during the misrule of this weak and timid monarch, and its inhabitants joined the rebels, and in addition took to piratical ways. After the battle of Evesham, Prince Edward stormed and took the town, in 1266, and punished the inhabitants by death and fines for the part they had taken in the rebellion, and also for their piracies. Old Winchelsea had been for some time subject to occasional inundations, and was partially destroyed by the sea in 1250, when the waves advanced for miles within land, but it was not until 40 years later that the end came. An old writer briefly describes the event thus, "be it remembered that in the year of our Lord, 1287, on the even of St. Agath the Virgin, was the town of Winchelsea drowned and all the lands between Clemerden and Hythe." The inhabitants seeing the probability of total destruction petitioned Edward I. for land to found another town. John de Kirby (Bishop of Ely) selected a spot then only occupied by rabbits, and the King, having agreed with the proprietors, allotted 150 acres for the new town which he caused to be surrounded by walls. The inhabitants gradually removed themselves and their property to their new homes, encouraged by the favour of Edward, who granted them all their old privileges as members of one of the Cinque Ports. Shortly afterwards, the first Winchelsea, which had been a place of importance since the time of the Romans, became utterly obliterated by the ravages of the ocean. But hardly had the inhabitants settled in the new town when cruel fate dealt them fresh buffets. They next became, not the prey of the waves, but of the invader. Allured by the hope of rich booty, New Winchelsea, now rapidly becoming an important place again, the French landed and pillaged the town, and within another 20 years the Spaniards repeated the unwelcome action. In 1358, the French once more attacked and partly destroyed Winchelsea, but were foiled in another attempt. which, after having burned Rye, they made upon it in 1377. A bold member of the Church Militant, the Abbot of Battle, hearing of the destruction of Rye, marched to the rescue of the town, which he contrived to defend successfully against the enemy. From the rapid succession of calamities which followed its founding, it is doubtful whether Winchelsea was ever completely finished. But it is quite certain that in spite of its misfortunes the place was for a long time one of the most important seaports on the South coast. From the spacious vaults discovered here, it is most probable that the town was the great mart for French wines imported into England before the trade to Portugal was established. Dr. Harris, writing in Queen Anne's reign, says "all over the Towne appear noble large arched Vaults or Cellars, of which I had Two, belonging to my House when I lived there (for I was Rector of the Parish above 12 yeares) very spacious, lofty and dry, and fit to contain a very large quantity of Merchants' Goods." The evidences of former prosperity are still to be found as they were in worthy Dr. Harris's time, scattered about Winchelsea. A greater calamity than even the invader's sword and fire was yet to befall the unhappy town before the cup of misfortune could be drained to the dregs. No Royal mandate, no bestowal of privileges could avert this disaster; strong walls and brave hearts were powerless alike to combat this foe. "The sea," says Dr. Harris, "as I believe, left it soon after or rather before the Town was thoroughly built and inhabited, and being now gone from it the Distance of Two Miles, and so depriving it of the Benefit of all Trade has become as obscure as it was once Rich and Eminent." Yes, the fickle and treacherous sea deserted its nighbour hood and left instead a dismal marsh. In 1573, the town retained sufficient importance to cause Queen Elizabeth to pay it a visit. The general appearance of the place-its busy streets, its three beautiful churches, its gates and walls and numerous public buildings, the brave and gorgeous scarlet robes of the Mayor and Jurats, and the numerous gentry who inhabited the place, caused her to compliment it with the honourable appellation of Little London, as well as, probably, from some fancied resemblance to the metropolis. But not all the titles and royal compliments in the world could save Winchelsea or avert its fate. By the end of the century the calamity of a retiring sea began to be felt in earnest; the channel which led to the harbour was first choked, and by insensible degrees the whole coast was deserted. The town, abandoned by the merchants and traders, declined apace. Its houses and churches fell into ruin and desolation, so that a city once covering a surface two miles in circumference has long ago shrunk into a few houses in a corner of its ancient site, and upon Little London Ichabod is written, in characters that all who run may read. In 1760, a company of respectable London merchants endeavoured to establish a manufactory of cambric; the attempt, however, failed for want of due economy and common prudence. Other similar attempts failed, and gradually, but surely, all the trade of Winchelsea left it never to return. She was deprived of her two members of Parliament, and then the town died a natural death, and left but the ghost of itself which we now can see. There is not much to attract the mere guide-book visitor, nor will Winchelsea ever be a show place. Of the three churches it once possessed there remain but the parish church of St. Thomas, and a fragment of the tower of St. Leonard's; this latter edifice was formerly graced with the image of the saint. Instead of a sceptre, his hand grasped a vane, which, being movable at pleasure, such persons as were desirous of a fair wind to restore to them their relatives or friends at sea were allowed, in consideration of a respectable fee to the saint, to set the vane in whatsoever direction they pleased. When the sea left the town in the lurch it is presumable, however, that the customers of St. Leonard began to fall off in their contributions. Sussex, as a county, is not very remarkable for beautiful churches, but when in its glory that of St. Thomas-à-Becket, Winchelsea, must have made amends for many poor and mediocre ecclesiastical edifices. It stands in the centre of a large square which once occupied the middle of the town. The nave, which tradition reports stretched westward to the extremity of the grave-yard, has long disappeared, the tower has fallen, and the transepts are in ruins. The exterior forms a beautiful subject for the pencil of an artist with its venerable walls, over which the ivy has lovingly insinuated its tendrils into every crevice of the timeworn edifice, and stretched over the fabric a verdant mantle of dark green, as though nature had tried in her own sweet way to hide from the world the ravages of time. The interior is rich in architectural beauty. It consists of a chancel with north and south aisles, all that remains of the original building. "Three lofty gothic arches on clustered columns of partly Sussex marble separate the aisles; the walls are fretted with arches and columns, and some of the windows in the pointed style are richly decorated with tracery." There are a few interesting monuments and effigies of the Knights' Templars, and one or two other ancient tombs. The three gates-Newgate, Strandgate, and Landgate, are still standing, although in a ruinous condition; and here and there amidst fields and hedges fragments of the ancient walls and the exterior fosse may yet be seen. The Court House, or Guildhall, and Gaol are both of great antiquity, as the round arches to the doors evince. Near Camber Point, about two miles north-east, stand the ruins of Winchelsea or Camber Castle. It was built by Henry VIII., in 1540, at a great cost, (just then the burly monarch had a great mania for fortifications), but like the absurd little Martello towers dotted along this coast, it was never of the slightest service. The main walls are still in tolerable preservation-round about the keep was a low battery with apertures for firing through, these are now below the surface of the earth, which proves that an immense accumulation of soil and sand was caused by the retirement of the sea. It being useless for purposes of defence it has long ago been dismantled and suffered to fall into decay, and now like the crazy, toothless old giant we read of in the Pilgrim's Progress, it can only sit and grin impotent defiance at passers by. No one who is interested in his country's history can wander through this out-of-the-way corner of England without being impressed with the fate of Little London, which even the indomitable energy of the AngloSaxon race could not avert. Like the builders of that house on the sands which was destroyed "when the floods came and the wind blew,” the ancient inhabitants had seen their first hopes blasted; yet were they not more fortunate when they had builded their house upon a rock. Pillaged by one foe, nearly burnt out and destroyed by another, harassed and punished through civil war, bereft of trade and importance by the fickleness of the restless sea, Little London has become little indeed. Far removed from the hurly-burly of its gigantic namesake it endeavours to exist with dignity-though with little to do, it does that little well; retired from active business it still maintains a semblance of its ancient importance in the election of its municipal officers. There was an account in a local newspaper a short time ago of the annual meeting of the Corporation, when the different officials were duly elected for the ensuing year. Here is a list of them :-Mayor, Deputy-Mayor, Town Clerk, Attorney of the Record, Chamberlain, Seajeant-at-Mace, Common Serjeant, Water Bailiff's Serjeant, and Pound Drawer. A Treasurer also was appointed at the princely salary of three guineas per annum. Goodness only knows what all these gentlemen find to do. The financial statement showed the total receipts for the previous year to have been £325 35. 3d., and the disbursements £240 14s. 3d., thus leaving an available balance of £84 9s. Happy Little London; happy in thy solvent condition; thou pattern to many a larger borough which cannot keep out of debt, may thy numerous and quaintly-named officers continue to flourish. If ever Dame Fortune blesses me with a humble competence, how delightful to spend my last days in this sweet spot. On one side the breezy Sussex downs stretch far away, a panorama of meadows, woods, and lanes; on another the prairie-like and mysterious Romney Marshes; and right along in front the silver streak which is better than all the stone walls and mighty armies to defend our homes. Here could one find time to wade through the lengthy evidence of the Tichborne Trial, calmly and dispassionately decide upon the merits of the case; or collect materials for a short history of the universe-say in forty folio volumes; or write a thrilling romance of the fifteenth century, having Winchelsea for its scene, and the rough mariners of that day "full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard" for its dramatis persona. If these occupations became monotonous and some of the ambitions of the world still had their attractions, then one could rush into the maddening excitement of political and municipal life here. Fancy becoming Mayor of Winchelsea, or even a Jurat of the town, the thought is intoxicating; if a natural modesty should prevent attainment to such a lofty pinnacle in the Temple of Fame the writer would rest content as the humbler Bailiff's serjeant or (deputy) Pound Drawer. Roll on thy chariot-wheel, O Father Time, and bring but that little yet certain income, then, not with the wings of a dove, but borne for the last time by the noisy rush of the locomotive shall this deponent hie to the rest and peace of Little London; ascend the hill and pass under that ancient gateway; shake off the dust and turmoil of the world from his feet, and be weary no more. Meanwhile, as the sun is casting longer shadows across the grass-grown streets, let us go hence, and say to Winchelseafarewell, and au revoir. THE FIRST KISS. FROM THE GERMAN. YEARS ago, ah! how well I remember That foretaste of exquisite bliss, When I pressed on the lips of my loved one The first long and passionate kiss. I could not forget that sweet moment, So, since, of like nectar to sip, W. H. T. |