property of the crown, and the prey of the
sea, which in 1250 flowed twice without
ebbing; its roaring was heard far inland;
it made havoc with houses and churches.
It retired only to come back two years
afterwards with increased rage, and this
time submerged the remnant it had spared
in its former visitation. Last of all, a final
and terrific inroad of the sea, in 1272,
swallowed up the whole town remorselessly,
excepting only the monastery of the Grey
Friars.

Edward the First, conscious of the
immense advantages of the situation of
Winchelsea from its easy intercourse with
France, determined to rebuild the town;
not, however, in its low situation, exposed
to the ravages of the sea, but higher up,
"on the hangyngs of the hille on a ground
where conies do mostly resort." One
hundred and fifty acres did the site of this
new town comprise. It was laid out in
thirty-nine squares, or quarters, after the
fashion of many of the towns in Guienne
and Acquitaine. Three fine churches, St.
Giles's, St. Leonard's, and St. Thomas-a-
Becket's; the monastery of Black Friars,
the preceptory of St. Anthony, the
monastery of Holy Cross, the hospital of St.
Bartholomew, many convents, and other
religious houses sanctified the place. Fortified
walls surrounded it, and three gates, also
strongly fortified, gave access to the town
—Strand-gate, Land-gate, and New-gate.

Then commenced the short period of
Winchelsea's prosperity. Edward
frequently visited it in person, directing and
overlooking the works with interest. No
other port in the kingdom was more
frequented for the embarcation and
disembarcation of troops and for the despatch of
ships. Twenty thousand people swarmed in
this busy hive; pirates ran in and out of
the harbour; merchants stored the choicest
French wines in the vaults (grand, lofty
vaults with groined and sculptured roofs,
still to be seen under many of the houses
to this day); saints prayed and fasted;
fair Norman ladies went to mass, and
flirted; nobles sported and quarrelled,
hunted and hawked; church bells tolled:
wedding peals rang; and for thirty years
or more all went well with Winchelsea.

Evil times were, however, at hand; the
French and the Spaniards, but especially
the French, soon wreaked their vengeance
upon Winchelsea. For years they came at
intervals, taking the place by surprise.
Once, on a Sunday, when all the inhabitants
were at mass, they stormed, burnt, pillaged,
defaced, and annihilated houses, churches,
gates, and monasteries. No sooner was the
damage repaired, and repose secured, than
some unfortunate chance made way for
another successful attack of ruin and
desolation.

In the reign of Henry the Sixth the
French ceased their attacks, probably
because there was nothing left in the place
worth fighting for.

The sea, ever bent on the ruin of
Winchelsea, began gradually to recede; the
merchants followed its example, and
deserted the town, which became weak and
lean in the reign of Henry the Seventh.
In the days of good Queen Bess it had
scarcely any flesh left on its bones; and
now in the reign of Queen Victoria it is a
skeleton. But one square remains of the
thirty-nine, and only one church, that of
St. Thomas a Becket.

The monastery of Grey Friars, which
had withstood the wars and the waves, fell
a victim to the Reformation, leaving only
the beautiful ruin of the chapel of the
Virgin to tell the tale of its ancient
grandeur. Grass still grows in the streets.
Many of the houses are closed as if deserted,
and a death-like stillness pervades the
place. Winchelsea, in fact, is fast fading
away like a faint shadow on the stream of
Time. The very local colour of the place
is toned down to neutral tints. The roofs
are of a dusky red; the walls are softly
toned with grey, so are the ruins, the
ancient gates, the very paths and roads
that lead to the old town. In spring time,
behind the dusky roofs, rise pyramids of
snowy pear-tree blossoms, and the flowers
of the white cherry creep under the broad
overhanging eaves. Laurustinus, delicate
monthly roses, countless thousands of star-
like daisies besprinkling the churchyard—
a great idea of space and air, as if there
were too much of the ethereal sky and too
little of the real church and houses; the
glistening of the now distant sea; a
faintish blue haze from the marsh;
dimness, indistinctness, a mysterious veil let
fall upon material objects, thus appears the
ghost of ancient Winchelsea to travellers
on their way.

Much of the early history of Rye is
identical with that of Winchelsea. They
were, in fact, twin towns. Rye equally
belonged to Fécamp; Rye was also burnt and
pillaged; Rye had its fortified gates, but
was never so grand a place as Winchelsea;
and yet Rye retains some vigour, while
Winchelsea is withered and sapless.

As you cross the dreary marsh between
Winchelsea and Rye, you will see gulls