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Title: The Heart of Wessex

Author: Sidney Heath

Illustrator: E. W. Haslehust

Release date: September 10, 2014 [eBook #46839]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Shaun Pinder and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF WESSEX ***




Produced by Shaun Pinder and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)






[Illustration: DORCHESTER FROM THE MEADOWS]


THE HEART OF WESSEX


Described by SIDNEY HEATH

Pictured by E. W. HASLEHUST


BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY




    Beautiful England


    _Volumes Ready_:

    OXFORD
    THE ENGLISH LAKES
    CANTERBURY
    SHAKESPEARE-LAND
    THE THAMES
    WINDSOR CASTLE
    CAMBRIDGE
    NORWICH AND THE BROADS
    THE HEART OF WESSEX
    THE PEAK DISTRICT
    THE CORNISH RIVIERA
    DICKENS-LAND




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                       Page

Dorchester from the Meadows                   _Frontispiece_

Hangman's Cottage, Dorchester                             8

Puddletown                                               14

Bere Regis                                               20

Portisham                                                26

Weymouth and Portland                                    32

Gateway, Poxwell Manor House                             38

Lulworth Cove                                            42

Wool House                                               46

Wareham                                                  50

Corfe Castle                                             54

Poole Harbour from Studland                              58




[Illustration: _HIGH STREET, DORCHESTER._

                  THE HEART OF WESSEX]




DORCHESTER AND THE NEIGHBOURHOOD


As all the world is beginning to realize, that portion of the country
immortalized by Thomas Hardy, in his great romances of rural life,
lies in one of the most delectable regions of south-west England; and
although, for the purpose of giving variety to his scenic backgrounds,
Mr. Hardy has occasionally gone far beyond the narrow boundaries of
his home county, yet for general purposes his Wessex is synonymous
with the county of Dorset. Historically considered the Wessex of the
novels is but partially conterminous with that wherein, after
centuries of bloodshed, our Saxon ancestors established their
Octarchy, and the novelist has explained his reasons for the adoption
of the name "Wessex", which did not appear in any of the novels until
the publication, in 1874, of _Far from the Madding Crowd_. "The
series of novels I projected," he writes, "being mainly of the kind
called local, they seemed to require a territorial definition of some
sort to lend unity to their scene. Finding that the area of a single
county did not afford a canvas large enough for the purpose, and that
there were objections to an invented name, I disinterred the old one.
The press and the public were kind enough to welcome the fanciful
plan, and willingly joined me in the anachronism of imagining a Wessex
population living under Queen Victoria, a modern Wessex of railways,"
&c.

As Professor Windle says: "Whilst peopling these scenes with the
creatures of his imagination, Mr. Hardy has achieved a feat which he
was probably far from contemplating when he first commenced his series
of novels. For incidentally he has resuscitated, one may even say
re-created, the old half-forgotten kingdom of Wessex."

Although there is scarcely any portion of the county that does not
figure in one or other of Mr. Hardy's novels or poems, yet by far the
greater number of scenes lie in the portion called South Dorset,
around and below an imaginary line drawn from a little to the west of
Dorchester to Poole Harbour, and it is mainly with this portion of the
Hardy country that it is proposed to deal in this volume.

Like all the true beauty spots of England, increasing familiarity with
these south-country landscapes deepens their ineffaceable impression
as it multiplies their alluring charms; and, small as is the
geographical extent of this strip of rural England, it yet fills our
thoughts as it delights our eyes; and it is large enough to attract us
by a thousand threads of history and romance, by a hundred beauties of
rolling downs and grassy vales, and of steep chalk cliffs where the
blue waters of the Channel break with a splutter of spray.

For miles one can wander amid such scenes in this fair Wessex land,
where the roses of dawn fade into the infinite azure of a cloudless
sky, and the cool salt breath of the sea-borne air is an elixir of
life. Moreover, these soft sea breezes, that temper the dazzling heat
of the summer sun, waft in their train an unfading wreath of memories
of that antique civilization which existed long before the prows of
the Roman galleys clove the ethereal mists that fringe the Dorsetian
seas.

Mr. Hardy is unique among English novelists in that he writes of
ecclesiastical and domestic architecture with the eye and the
knowledge of a trained architect, and one who took high honours in
this profession before he abandoned it for literature. To this no
doubt are due the descriptions he has given us of the homes and haunts
of his heroes and heroines. Occasionally we find that a house of the
novels has been made up of two or more neighbouring dwellings, at
other times there is some slight transposition of site or locality;
but to all intents and purposes Mr. Hardy's Wessex of romance is the
Dorset of reality, with regard both to its natural scenery and to the
buildings that accompany it. Thus it is that the novelist's
architectonic settings, and his literal descriptions of natural
scenery, make identification a simple task, and lend interest to
numerous old houses and cottages, just as they have immortalized a
thousand scenes of their author's native land.

A few of Mr. Hardy's critics have cavilled at the insistence of the
architect's point of view, just as some of his readers fail to
perceive the genius that lies behind his detailed treatment of
buildings; but there is little doubt that the novelist's artistic use
of technical material has endowed his romances with a personal note of
deep interest, and an architectural one of great value.

Although Dorset has a host of literary associations other than those
furnished by the Wessex novels, and notwithstanding that William
Barnes sang of its charms to deaf ears as sweetly as ever Burns piped
of the North Country, it was left to Thomas Hardy to reveal Dorset to
those who knew it not; although he was writing for a great many years
before his novels began to draw people to the land of Gabriel Oak,
Tess, and Ethelberta.

[Illustration: HANGMAN'S COTTAGE, DORCHESTER]

As the tourist must have a centre, a starting-off place for his
various excursions, the visitor to the Hardy country cannot do better
than make his headquarters at Dorchester, the Durnovaria of the Romans
and the "Casterbridge" of the novels.

Alighting at either of the railway stations, for the town is well
served by both the Great Western and the South Western Companies, the
visitor who has learned that Dorchester occupies the site of an
important town of the Romans will probably receive a shock at the
prevailing note of modernity that confronts him on every side. It is
only when one begins to understand the planning of the streets, and
has visited the town's outlying earthworks of Maumbury and Poundbury,
that the mind can realize the possibility of a Roman town being buried
a few feet beneath the houses that line the narrow thoroughfares. It
has been said that one cannot plant a shrub in a Dorchester garden
without unearthing some link with the legions of imperial Rome, an
excusable exaggeration if we think of the vast number of treasures
that have been discovered wherever the layer of surface soil has been
penetrated; and there is every reason to believe that the foundations
of Roman Dorchester lie just below the gardens, houses, and pavements
of the bright and modern town.

Excavation in the scientific sense the town has happily been spared,
but the accidental finds are of great value, as proving that the
town's historic past recedes into that twilight of dreamland and myth
which veils the infancy of our island in a golden haze of mystery. All
around this capital of Dorset lies a storied land, wherein memories of
the Durotriges, of the Roman legions, and of the ruthless march of the
Saxon through the beautiful land of Britain jostle with modern
associations of poetry, literature, and art.

Proceeding along South Street, as the narrow thoroughfare that
connects the stations with the centre of the town is called, the first
building to claim attention is the Grammar School, founded in the
sixteenth century by a Thomas Hardy, and rebuilt in the same style in
1879. Adjoining the school is "Napper's Mite", a small
seventeenth-century almshouse with a picturesque open gallery and a
clock bracket, copied from the one that adorns the old George Inn at
Glastonbury. The almshouse clock came from the old workhouse near by
when it was pulled down. Farther along the street, but on the opposite
side, is the Antelope Hotel, a Jacobean building whose beauties are
concealed behind nineteenth-century walls, although some interior
panelling and carving remain _in situ_.

Just beyond the hotel the street joins the main thoroughfare of the
town, and at this intersection, where four roadways diverge towards
the cardinal points of the compass, historical memories and literary
associations clamour for recognition. The curious stone obelisk in the
centre of the near roadway, and for many years used as the Town Pump,
marks the site of the old Octagon, and was erected in 1784, which date
is carved in characteristic Georgian figures on the coping stone. It
also marks the site of two houses that stood close together with their
upper rooms built over the street.

Facing us are the Town Hall and St. Peter's Church, the latter of
which is conjectured by some authorities to stand on the site of a
Roman temple. It is a stately Perpendicular building with an imposing
tower and a remarkable set of gargoyles. The Transition-Norman
door-arch of the south porch is a survival of an older church that
once occupied the same spot. Outside the church is Roscoe Mullins's
lifeless-looking bronze statue of William Barnes, the Dorset poet,
who, until his death in 1886, was the near neighbour and literary
friend of Thomas Hardy. The pedestal of Barnes's monument bears the
following verse from his poem, _Culver Dell and the Squire_:--

    "Zoo now I hope this kindly feäce
    Is gone to vind a better pleäce;
    But still wi' vo'k a-left behind,
    He'll always be a-kept in mind."

Within the sacred edifice are several interesting monuments, including
two cross-legged effigies of the "camail" period, but neither of these
is _in situ_. In the porch of this church John White, one of the four
founders of Salem and the virtual founder of Massachusetts, lies
buried.

Opposite the eastern end of the church is the Corn Exchange, where the
fickle Bathsheba displayed her sample bags of corn to the astonished
farmers, "adopting the professional pour into the hand, holding up the
grains in her narrow palm for inspection in perfect Casterbridge
manner". It was in a neighbouring shop that this "Queen of the Corn
Market" purchased the fatal valentine that aroused the amatory
instincts of Farmer Boldwood; while it was but a short distance away
that, a little later in the story, _Far from the Madding Crowd_,
Bathsheba and her husband, Sergeant Troy, met the piteous figure of
Fanny Robin on her painful journey to the Casterbridge workhouse. By
way of Mellstock (Stinsford) and Durnover (Fordington), Boldwood
came to Casterbridge, where, turning into Bull-Stake Square, he
"halted before an archway of heavy stonework which was closed by an
iron-studded pair of doors", and gave himself up for the murder of
Troy. Here also came Gabriel Oak in search of the licence which was to
procure for Bathsheba "the most private, secret, plainest wedding that
it is possible to have".

In the _Mayor of Casterbridge_ the town naturally figures largely,
although the opening scenes of the novel are laid at Weydon Priors
(Weyhill, Hants). In Casterbridge Susan Henchard and Elizabeth-Jane
sought for Henchard

    "What an old-fashioned place it seems to be!" exclaimed
    Elizabeth-Jane, "it is huddled all together; and it is shut in
    by a square wall of trees like a plot of garden ground with a
    box-edging."

It is in this novel that its author gives us, in a few masterly
touches, the architectural details of the town's houses, the
"brick-nogging" and the "tile roofs patched with slate"; and indicates
the everyday life of its inhabitants. The whole town, in fact, teems
with Hardy scenes and characters, and particularly with the story of
the Man of Character who was its Mayor. To Casterbridge came Stephen
Smith when he commenced that study of architecture which led to his
meeting the blue-eyed Elfrida. Bob Loveday, brother to the
Trumpet-Major, came hither to meet his Matilda; and in the courthouse
Raye sat when on the Western Circuit, after he had parted with Anna at
Melchester (Salisbury).

Walking down High East Street the most unobservant eye could not fail
to notice the beautiful distant view of the Frome Valley and the
Yellowham Woods, and to note the number of the hostels on either side
of the short length of street. Prominent among them is the King's
Arms, with a spacious and noble Georgian window projecting over the
main portico. This window, that is at once the delight and the despair
of the modern architect, gave light to the room wherein was held "the
great public dinner of the gentle-people and such like leading
folk--wi' the Mayor in the chair".

Just below this still fashionable hotel is the "Three Mariners" with
its "four-centred Tudor arch over the entrance". The original inn has
vanished, but the present one occupies its site. On the opposite side
of the way stands the "Phoenix", but risen again from her ashes since
it was the scene of Jenny's last dance in one of the _Wessex Poems_:--

    "'Twas Christmas and the Phoenix Inn
    Was lit by tapers tall,
    For thirty of the trooper men
    Had vowed to give a ball,
    As "Theirs" had done (fame handed down)
    When lying in the self-same town,
    Ere Buonaparte's fall".

[Illustration: PUDDLETOWN]

At the end of the street, and standing a little way back from the
roadway, is the White Hart, once a famous coaching inn, and one which,
although somewhat modernized, still carries its emblem, a large white
hart, above the main entrance. To this hostelry came Sergeant Troy
after appearing at Greenhill Fair as the Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian
who played the part of "Dick Turpin" at the circus; and here, too, the
carrier Burthen conveyed the story-tellers, the "Crusted Characters".
This inn is also mentioned in connection with Gertrude Lodge of _The
Withered Arm_.

Although the glories of its coaching days are but memories of the
past, and notwithstanding that the motorists pass so unpretentious a
building for the more attractive-looking King's Arms, the despised of
the modern traveller has retained a portion of its old-time custom and
prosperity, by reason of its being the inn at which the carriers'
carts deposit their morning and take up their evening passengers. The
loading of a "tranter's" cart with men, women, and children, not to
mention the immense packages of millinery, garden produce, and
poultry, is a fine art that could have been evolved only by centuries
of experience. To watch one of these caravans from the heart of Dorset
disgorge its contents reminds one of nothing so much as the conjuror's
hat at our first "grown-up" Christmas party. How so many human beings
can be squeezed into the few cubic feet left over from the merchandise
is a mystery, the knowledge of which would make the fortune of an
enterprising omnibus company. When meeting one of these Noah's Arks in
the country one would think at first sight that it contained men only,
although the incessant chattering that proceeds from the cavernous
depths of the vehicle has a distinctly feminine note. The reason for
this is that the "gaffers" occupy the front seats, where they smoke,
make sarcastic and distinctly personal remarks to their stay-at-home
neighbours, who gaze with envious eyes from their doorsteps, and keep
a keen eye on the various crops that grow along the sides of the
route. No matter what the weather, and whatever the season of the
year, the men sit over the horse's tail, the gloomy interior of the
vehicle, being allotted to the women and children, garden produce, and
occasional live stock. The return journey affords the travellers no
relief, for the "imports" of the morning journey have merely been
exchanged for "exports", and so the tired but happy parties return to
their secluded village homes, carrying with them a pungent odour in
which beer, oranges, and pepper mints are curiously mingled. All
readers of Mr. Hardy's novels will remember Tranter Dewy in _Under
the Greenwood Tree_.

At the Swan Bridge, which crosses the Frome just below the White Hart,
we can leave the busy thoroughfare and proceed along a pleasant and
shady walk that lines the bank of the stream. On our left is the town,
with the gardens of the houses coming down to the water's edge; and on
our right the green luscious meadows, watered by many streams, stretch
away until lost to sight in the distance. Very cool and refreshing are
these paths by the rippling brooks that flow around this side of the
town. Everyone loves running water, and there is a strange fascination
about gurgling streams and swirling brooks that is difficult to
define. Our ancestors built their towns and directed their roads by
the waterways, and for reasons other than those attached primarily to
defence or commerce. Masses of brambles and sedges sway over deep
crystal pools, the haunt of the trout, and the peculiar reflected
light from the water enhances the visionary loveliness of the glade.

At the end of this walk is the Hangman's Cottage, a small brick
building with a roof-covering of thatch. There is nothing in its
present appearance to suggest the abode of the public hangman and the
town scavenger. The upper floor was reached originally by an external
stone stairway, the holes once occupied by the supporting stanchions
still being visible. Within this picturesque little dwelling Gertrude
Lodge questioned the hangman when in search of a remedy for her
"Withered Arm". The public executions took place on a roof over the
prison gateway, and in the County Museum the visitor will see two
leaden weights, each of which is inscribed with the word "Mercy".
These gruesome objects were supplied by a tender-hearted governor to
shorten the agony of a prisoner of light weight.

From the Hangman's Cottage a delightful walk through the low-lying
meadows, towards Charminster, passes by Wolfeton, an historic Tudor
house wherein Thomas Trenchard entertained Philip of Austria and
Joanna, after their fleet had put into Weymouth Harbour for shelter.
It was in the grounds of this house that the Lady Penelope, in _A
Group of Noble Dames_, pacified the three suitors for her hand with
the roguish remark: "Have patience, have patience, you foolish men!
only bide your time quietly, and, in faith, I will marry you all in
turn!"--a remark made in jest that was afterwards fulfilled in
earnest.

From Wolfeton the return journey can be made by way of the main road
that trends in a northerly direction somewhat beyond our present
limits--to Maiden Newton (Chalk Newton), the Hintock Country, and the
Blackmore Vale (the Vale of Little Dairies), all of which figure in
the novels. Nearing Dorchester again one notices that the sidepath is
raised a considerable height above the level of the roadway, being one
of many such tree-planted walks that mark the site and extent of the
ancient circumvallation of the town, the greater part of which is
still _intra muros_.

Proceeding down High West Street, the western counterpart of the
thoroughfare we joined at the Corn Exchange and left at the White
Hart, we pass on our left the Shire Hall, a reminder, if such were
needed, that we are in the county town. Farther on is the Dorset
County Museum, within which are exhibited the remarkable relics of
Celtic and Roman days that have been discovered in the town and its
immediate environs. Nearly opposite the Museum is the house (now a
shop) wherein Judge Jeffreys was lodged when he opened his Bloody
Assize at Dorchester. The house has retained its little gallery and
the greater part of its original woodwork, while several
stone-mullioned windows look out on the pretty garden at the back. In
Glydepath Road, near the Shire Hall, may be seen the "leering mask"
that formed the keystone of the doorway arch of Lucetta's house.

Our American cousins, who make their pilgrimage to the Hardy country
in ever-increasing numbers, may be glad to be reminded that it was in
the environs of this Dorset Dorchester that John Lothrop Motley, the
celebrated historian, made his English home, he having been born,
curiously enough, in the younger Dorchester of Massachusetts. He died,
in 1877, at Kingston Russell, the home of his daughter, Lady Vernon
Harcourt, and was buried near his wife in Kensal Green Cemetery.

No visitor should leave the town without paying a brief visit to the
great earthworks of Maumbury Rings and Poundbury Camp, the former of
which is undergoing a series of scientific excavations by Mr. St.
George Gray, engaged for the purpose by a joint committee of the
Dorset Field Club and the British Archæological Association. Thomas
Hardy, whose Dorchester home is but a short distance away, describes
Maumbury as "a huge circular enclosure, with a notch at opposite
extremities of its diameter, north and south. It was to Casterbridge
what the ruined Coliseum is to modern Rome, and was nearly of the same
magnitude." It has been estimated that the enclosure could accommodate
13,000 spectators, and over 10,000 are said to have assembled here in
1705, when Mary Channing was strangled and burned, on very slight
evidence, for the murder of her husband. Both of these historic
earthworks were nearly destroyed in the early days of railway
enterprise, and Poundbury was saved only at the last moment by Brunel
consenting to tunnel beneath instead of taking his line right through
it, as he had at first intended. In the Wessex novels and poems it
figures as "Square Pummerie", the place where Henchard's
"merry-making" occurred.

[Illustration: BERE REGIS]

One of the most delightful of the numerous walks from Dorchester is
that which leaves the town by the two bridges near the White Hart, the
spot where the local High Street merges imperceptibly into the great
London Road. Journeying along this great chalk highway a fine view is
obtained of the suburb of Fordington, the "Durnover" of _The Mayor
of Casterbridge_.

    "Here wheat ricks overhung the old Roman street, and thrust
    their eaves against the church tower; green-thatched barns, with
    doorways as high as the gates of Solomon's temple, opened directly
    upon the main thoroughfare.... Here lived burgesses who daily
    walked the fallow--shepherds in an intramural squeeze."

A mile or so of pleasant, if somewhat dusty, walking brings us to
Stinsford crossroads, where a right-hand turn leads to Stinsford
House, with its terraced garden, and a very pretty church, the
Mellstock Church of _Under the Greenwood Tree_. In this pleasing
little church Tranter Dewy and his family attended service, and here
the valiant Thomas Leaf listened to the sermons of "His Holiness". It
was at Mellstock that Elizabeth-Jane and her mother caught their first
glimpse of the town of Casterbridge.

From Stinsford a charming walk through the park of Kingston House,
the Knapwater House of _Desperate Remedies_, brings us to the
junction of the roads that lead to Higher and Lower Bockhampton
respectively.

We are now near a portion of the "Tess" locality, for a short distance
to the right stands Norris Mill, the "Talbothays" of the novel, while
the Frome Valley, in which it is situated, is the "Vale of Great
Dairies", the "valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness".
Here, too, is the western extremity of the far-famed "Egdon Heath",
that succession of wild unenclosed moorlands that stretch in unbroken
continuity from near Dorchester to Poole Harbour; but a description of
this vast heathland must be deferred for the moment, for a short walk
leads to Higher Bockhampton, a most charming and secluded hamlet, at
the farther end of which is the birthplace of the Wessex novelist, a
small thatched house embowered in a world of rural opulence. Mr.
Hardy's childhood's days were impregnated with rustic peace and
solitude, and the formative influences of his early environment have
left their mark on his great romances. From the birthplace a most
pleasant ramble over Bockhampton Heath leads into the Yellowham Woods,
the "Great Yalbury" wood, in the depths of which Fancy Day resided
when living in her father's cottage. Here, too, as told in _Far from
the Madding Crowd_, Joseph Poorgrass had the experience, the
re-telling of which always put this most modest of men to the blush.

    "Once he had been working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a
    drop of drink, and lost his way as he was coming home along
    through Yalbury Wood.... And as he was coming along in the middle
    of the night, much afeared, and not able to find his way out
    nohow, a' cried out, 'Man-a-lost! man-a-lost!' A owl in a tree
    happened to be crying 'whoo-whoo-whoo!' as owls do you know,
    Shepherd, and Joseph, all in a tremble, said, 'Joseph Poorgrass,
    of Weatherbury, sir!'" "No, no, now, that's too much," said the
    timid man.... "I didn't say _sir_ ... I never said _sir_ to the
    bird, knowing very well that no man of a gentleman's rank would
    be hollerin' there at that time o' night. 'Joseph Poorgrass, of
    Weatherbury,' that's every word I said, and I shouldn't ha' said
    that if't hadn't been for keeper Day's metheglin."

Out on to the main road again, the same one that we left at Stinsford
crossroads, a short walk past the little hamlet of Troy Town, and we
enter Puddletown (strictly Piddleton, from the A.S. _piddle_, a small
stream), the old home of the de Pydels, and the "Weatherbury" of
romance. Occupying a prominent position facing the village square
where used to stand the maypole, stocks, and Hundred house, is a
thatched house with a projecting window supported on columns, which
architects consider to be one of the finest Georgian windows in the
country. This was, in the eighteenth century, the private residence of
the Boswells.

"Weatherbury" is a most interesting place, although somewhat altered
since _Far from the Madding Crowd_ was penned. The old malthouse,
wherein the villagers gave such a warm welcome to Gabriel Oak on his
taking service with Bathsheba, has vanished completely, but the
church, of which a proposed rebuilding of an Elizabethan chancel on
the lines of a larger original chancel has caused a fierce and bitter
controversy in the press, has met with little molestation. It contains
the Athelhampton Chapel, with a panelled entrance arch, in which are
some remarkable monuments and brasses, the former of which include a
magnificent recumbent effigy in alabaster, with a "vizored salade",
and a fluted shield, commemorating a member of the Martin family, who
lived at the neighbouring Athelhampton Hall, a fine ancestral home,
and the "Athel Hall" of the _Wessex Poems_. The Norman font in the
church is worth inspection, as also are the fifteenth-century panelled
roof of Spanish chestnut of the nave, and the Carolean gallery where
Gabriel Oak sang in the choir.

Very simple were the old services in these village churches, with the
farm hands attending service on Sunday afternoons as regularly as they
went to work on Monday mornings. Now and then maybe a bucolic rustic
would doze off to sleep, until his slumbers were disturbed by the
beadle; and many of the old natives can remember when this
ecclesiastical official would rap his long wand of office on the skull
of a sleeping rustic, with a crack that echoed through the sacred
edifice. In the north porch of the church Sergeant Troy passed the
night after Fanny Robin's funeral.

A short distance away is Lower Waterson, "a hoary building of the
Jacobean stage of classic renaissance", and the home of Bathsheba
Everdene, where the great "Shearing Barn", so delightfully described
by Mr. Hardy, may still be seen, although the novelist had in his
mind's eye the far more spacious and magnificent tithe barn at
Abbotsbury. While at Waterson it is worth while to mount Waterson
Ridge, the scene of _Time's Laughingstocks_, a poem that appeared
in the _Fortnightly_ of August, 1904.

From Puddletown through Tolpuddle (one of the numerous villages to
which the Puddle or Piddle gives name), and we are quickly at Bere
Regis, which Dr. Stukeley identified with the Roman _Ibernium_.
This is the "Kingsbere" of the novels and the ancient seat of the
Turbervilles, a family that flourishes still in Glamorgan, and of whom
Tess was a fictitious descendant. Within the church, which has a
remarkable carved roof, the gift of Cardinal Morton, who was born at
Milborne Stileham, three or four miles away, are two canopied tombs
of the Turbervilles. Half a mile to the north-east is Woodbury Hill,
where was held the great sheep fair, the "Greenhill Fair" where Troy
performed the part of "Dick Turpin" at the circus. At Bere the
smuggler Owlett was hidden after his struggle with the excise
officers, and it was selected as a hiding place for the women by
Miller Loveday, should Napoleon's threatened invasion prove
successful. Here, too, beneath the Cardinal's noble gift, Yeobright's
father put such power into his playing of the bass viol as to cause
the windows to rattle, and "old Pa'son Gibbons to lift his hands in
his great holy surplice as natural as if he'd been in common clothes,
and seem to say to himself, 'oh for such a man in our parish!'"

Apart from its historical and literary associations Bere Regis is as
charming a spot as exists in rural England, and one where the modern
cultivation which demolishes the hedgerows and stubbs up the copses
has not yet shown its evil presence. The old manor house of the
Turbervilles has vanished, with the exception of a portion that still
remains in Court Farm; and times have changed since the old race of
manorial lords and squires were laid to rest in their family vaults.
Here, as in most Dorset villages, the ancient families have died out
or, owing to agricultural depression, have been driven into bankruptcy
or exile. The manor houses have fallen into decay, with the exception
perhaps, as here, of a solitary wing which serves as a modern
farmhouse. On the tombstones in the churchyard you may read names once
honoured in the countryside, and far beyond it, names that are rapidly
becoming extinct, except as what Grant Allen would have called "verbal
fossils".

[Illustration: PORTISHAM]

It is generally thought that the untitled landed gentry represent a
longer connection with land than the nobility, whose estates have
constantly been added to by purchase or inheritance. It is, however,
quite otherwise; for of all the squirearchy there are very few
families who can show an unbroken succession since the termination of
an event so comparatively recent as the Wars of the Roses. True, there
are a certain and a not inconsiderable number of Englishmen with large
landed estates who are descended from ancestors who held land sometime
before them; but it will generally be found that the ancestors were
yeomen. It has been estimated by an eminent authority that an analysis
of modern landowners in any English county will prove that not more
than a dozen descend from forbears owning 3000 acres (the minimum
qualification for a great landowner) in the time of Elizabeth; and
that the peers, comparatively modern as the majority of them are,
represent a much larger average of old families than the country
squires.

If possible, the return journey from Bere Regis to Dorchester should
be made by way of "Egdon Heath", of which we get so impressive a
description in the opening chapters of _The Return of the Native_. If
the weather be fine, what could be better than a long tramp over the
moor? especially as our most lasting memories of a landscape are those
we gain afoot. Blue skies and green fields are things we are all
familiar with; but there is assuredly nothing in the wide world that
appeals to us so much as our English moorlands, and "Egdon", aglow
with yellow gorse, and afire with purple heather, is as fine a sight
as can be offered by these southern lands that fringe the Channel
seas. It is not pretended, of course, that these combined Dorset
heathlands can rival in extent or grandeur the great Devonian moorland
that gives birth to the romantic River Dart; but in their own peculiar
way they have no rival.

In _Domesday_ this tract of country is called a "heathy, furzy, briary
wilderness", and the antiquary Leland writes of it as being "overgrown
with heth and moss". Mr. Hardy characterizes it finely in eight words
as "singularly colossal and mysterious in its swarthy monotony." His
description of it could have been penned only by one who was familiar
with all its various moods, and whose mind had become absorbed with
its mysterious and subtle influences.

    "Ever since the beginning of vegetation its soil has worn the same
    antique brown dress, the natural and invariable garment of the
    peculiar formation.... It is unchanged and unchangeable, with a
    wild, weird beauty all its own.... It was a spot which returned
    upon the memory of those who loved it with an aspect of peculiar
    and kindly congruity.... Twilight combined with the scenery of
    Egdon Heath to evolve a thing majestic without severity,
    impressive without showiness, emphatic in its admonitions, grand
    in its simplicity."

It was among the solitudes of these moorlands, and amid the fragrant
meadow-lands of Dorchester, that William Barnes made himself sweet
imageries the livelong day; and here Thomas Hardy has thought out his
great prose romances, and clothed them with beautiful description.
Certainly both of these great writers have revived much of the
forgotten wealth of our language, and wander where you will in their
beloved Dorset homeland, by winding stream or breezy down, the shade
of the dead poet and the presence of the living novelist accompany you
on your way.

Eight miles to the south of Dorchester is Weymouth, backed, as seen
from the landward side, by the great promontory of Portland, lying
like some stranded whale upon the waters. The quickest and easiest way
to reach this "Budmouth" of the novels is by train, but by far the
more interesting way is to walk or cycle. True, the rail motor has
many "halts", at which one can alight, but those who do the sights of
a place between the trains miss a hundred natural beauties and a
thousand healthy pleasures granted to the pedestrian and the cyclist.

Leaving the county town by the Weymouth Road, and passing the "Rings"
where Henchard and his wife met to discuss future arrangements, the
first definite turning towards the right leads to Maiden Castle, where
rise the steep and grassy tiers of the most stupendous prehistoric
earthwork we possess, and one that was in existence for centuries
before it was strengthened, and, for a short period, occupied probably
by the Romans. A whole day is scarce sufficient in which to explore
this great camp, with an area of 160 acres, that occupies the summit
of a natural hill, and where the entrenchments and fortifications are
of a most elaborate character.

Emerging from this prehistoric fortress, camp, and cattle-station at
its western extremity, a short but hilly walk leads to the charming
village of Upwey, nestling at the foot of a well-wooded hill where
rises a spring of water, the source of the little River Wey. Upwey
Church is a very interesting one of Perpendicular date. Some portions
of the picturesque old mill here are introduced into the _Trumpet-Major_,
but their locality has been moved to Sutton (Overcombe), a few miles
away. Beyond the mill a sharp turn to the left joins the main road we
left to reach Maiden Castle. Here, on the old vicinal way of the
Romans, stands the "Ship" inn, the hostel wherein Dick Dewy and Fancy
Day became definitely engaged after their accidental meeting by the
King's statue at Budmouth. Close at hand is the Ridgeway, the place
where the Overcombe folk waited all night to see the King arrive; and
where the opening scene of the first act of _The Dynasts_ is laid.
Adjoining the Ridgeway is Bincombe Down, with its steep, grass-covered
sides rising sheer from the straggling village below. Mr. Hardy
writes: "The eye of any observer who cared for such things swept over
the wave-washed town (Weymouth) and the bay beyond, and the Isle, with
its pebble bank, lying on the sea to the left of these, like a great
crouching animal tethered to the mainland".

On this hill the soldiers were encamped in readiness to repel
Napoleon's threatened invasion, and here came the Mill party in the
_Trumpet-Major_, to see the review, and to overhear the exclamations
of the excited rustics: "There's King Jarge!" "That's Queen Sharlett!"
"Princess Sophiar and Mellyer!" In the _Melancholy Hussar_ Blagdon is
depicted as the spot whereon Tina and Christoph were shot as
deserters.

From Upwey a fine walk along the Waddon Valley, the scene of _The
Lacking Sense_; past Corton Church, with its pre-Reformation stone
altar, and the Jacobean farmhouse of Waddon; and through the charming
hamlet of Coryates, leads to Portisham, or Po'sham, one of the most
interesting of the villages that lie at the back of the Chesil Beach.
On the outskirts of the village a little stone-roofed house, almost
covered with creepers, was the home of Thomas Masterman Hardy, the
Flag-captain of the _Victory_, in whose arms Nelson died. The house is
still occupied by the descendants of the gallant seaman, one of three
Dorset captains at Trafalgar, and many relics of their famous ancestor
are preserved within the dwelling. It was to this house that Bob
Loveday came to visit Captain Hardy when he thought of joining the
crew of the _Victory_.

High above the village, on Blackdown or Blagdon Hill, stands the Hardy
Monument that forms a conspicuous land- and sea-mark for many miles
around.

Portisham is one of the most charming of Dorset's villages; the church
having many points of interest that include a leaden roof and a very
good tower; while grouped around it are old-fashioned thatched
cottages, and ancient Tudor houses with the heavy dripstones and
massive mullions so characteristic of their era. Portisham was the
birthplace of Sir Andrew Riccard, "President of the East India and
Turkey Companies". He left an only daughter, who became successively
the wife of Lord Kensington and Lord Berkeley of Stratton.

[Illustration: WEYMOUTH AND PORTLAND]

Just beyond Portisham is Abbotsbury, where are some considerable
remains of a monastic building founded originally, _circa_ 1044,
for secular canons, and converted, in later days, into a noble
Benedictine Abbey, of which the tithe barn, a very beautiful example,
still exists. The little chapel perched on the summit of St.
Catherine's Hill is an architectural gem of the Perpendicular period,
and one that should not be missed by anyone with antiquarian tastes.
The village church is also a good piece of building, with a curious
representation of the Trinity let into the wall of the tower, and a
fine Jacobean pulpit. While here, a visit should be paid to Lord
Ilchester's famous Swannery and Decoy.

As we are now a good deal out of the direct-road route from Dorchester
to Weymouth, the visitor may be advised to take the rail motor from
Abbotsbury to the maritime town, especially as, after passing through
the Waddon Vale, the road leading thither is bare, treeless, and
devoid of interest.

Weymouth has been described a thousand times, and it is not unworthy
of it, lying as it does in a long curve with the whole town visible
from the sea. It is artistically placed, and is a brilliant if
somewhat old-fashioned jewel set amid a sea of amethyst and turquoise.
Modern Weymouth is made up of two distinct boroughs, Weymouth and
Melcombe Regis, which were united by Queen Elizabeth. It is a town
whose beginnings are lost in obscurity, although its early history is
not of a very engrossing kind. After passing through various phases of
fortune and misfortune, with a preponderance of the latter, the place
was nothing but a decayed seaport until George III and his Court,
coming here to reside in the closing years of the eighteenth century,
instilled new life into the town, which has retained, despite the
modern builder, considerable architectural remains of this period of
its greatest prosperity. The shops have unfortunately been modernized,
but the greater number of the old Georgian rows of dwelling houses are
intact. Gloucester Lodge, now the Gloucester Hotel, was the royal
residence, before which "a picket of a thousand men mounted guard
every day". Queen Charlotte's Second Keeper of the Robes was Fanny
Burney, who, in her _Diary_, has left us a very interesting account
of the Court life at Weymouth.

With the exception of Casterbridge, Budmouth figures more frequently
in the Wessex novels than any other place, and is especially prominent
in _The Trumpet-Major_. By the statue of King George, "wonderfully and
fearfully made", Dick Dewy met Fancy Day; and the bridge over the
harbour is mentioned in the _Well-Beloved_. Bob Loveday was familiar
with its harbour, and his brother John knew its barracks; and here
Anne Garland studied the latest fashions. It was on the esplanade that
Festus Derriman cut "a fine figure of a soldier", and here Jocelyn
Pierston was staying when he met with two incarnations of the
Well-Beloved. In _The Dynasts_, the interview between King George and
Pitt takes place at Gloucester Lodge, and in the Old Rooms Inn across
the harbour the Battle of Trafalgar was discussed.

Some four miles to the south of Weymouth lies the "Isle of Slingers"
(Portland), the pleasantest way to reach which is by one of the
numerous steamers that make the trip. Entering an opening in the great
breakwater that encloses the mighty roadstead of Portland, the visitor
will notice the ruins of an old castle that stand on the edge of a
sandy and rapidly disappearing cliff. This is all that is left of
Sandsfoot Castle, built in the time of Henry VIII, and the "right
goodlie Castel" of Leland's day. This was the place appointed by
Pierston for his farewell to Avice. Our little craft threads her way
quickly through the mighty battleships and cruisers that lie securely
within this murally enclosed basin of sea, and we glide into the
little harbour at the base of the mighty rock. The first aspect of the
place, owing partly to the absence of trees, is stern and rather
uninviting, but, for those who know it, the rocky mass of Portland has
many attractions. From the high land a fine view is obtained of the
Chesil Beach, that extraordinary bank of pebbles that connects the
"island" with the mainland at Abbotsbury, ten miles away. Farther west
is Bridport, the "Port Bredy" of the novels, and a pleasantly situated
town, whose marine suburb of West Bay contains a useful little harbour
wherein vessels of a small tonnage can enter at high tides. Six miles
to the north of Bridport is Beaminster (Emminster), the home of Angel
Clare, whither Tess made her way in the hope of obtaining news of her
husband.

Interesting as is the rock of Portland as seen from the Bill or from
the sandy little cove of Church Ope, the seaward faces of the
promontory are best observed from the deck of a boat, when all the
elements that go usually to form a picture on a level surface are here
raised nearly to the perpendicular, and, by reflecting the sun's rays
at a slight angle, produce effects as violent in their nature as they
are startling in their novelty of colour. In _The Souls of the Slain_,
the Bill or Beal of Portland is well described:

    "The thick lids of night closed upon me
        Alone at the Bill
            Of the Isle by the Race--
            Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face--
    And with darkness and silence the spirit was on me
        To brood and be still."

From this wild spot Ann Garland watched the _Victory_ depart with
Bob Loveday on board. Turning inland we see Pennsylvania Castle. This
was the home of Pierston, and near it is the cottage wherein Avice
dwelt; while, in the adjoining Ope Churchyard, Jocelyn wooed the
granddaughter of the first Avice. The castle is comparatively modern,
having been built by John Penn in 1800, from designs by Wyatt.

From numberless points on the tableland of Portland many exquisite
views may be obtained, some looking seaward to where the distant St.
Aldhelm's Head marks the eastern limit of Weymouth Bay. Inland, the
prospect includes the town of Weymouth, with the heights of Dorset
stretching into the heart of the county. Away to the west the waves of
the Channel moan unceasingly, where Chesil lifts her pebbly ridge, and
Golden Cap, with its summit of yellow sand, marks the site of Lyme
Regis, with its memories of Charles II, Monmouth, Jane Austen, and
Mary Mitford. Westward, too, over an expanse of southern sea, the sun
sinks behind the belt of blue, and flushes the golden glow of sky with
varying hues of rose and amethyst, until the overarching heaven seems
etherealized into a transparent canopy that veils the mystic radiance
of some hidden glory.




WEYMOUTH TO POOLE


The visitor to the Hardy country will quickly realize that, in spite
of railways, motor cars, and cycles, more than half of South Dorset is
a closed book to those who do not walk; while the beautiful coast
scenery of this historic land is for the pedestrian alone. The iron
road conveys the conventional tourist from an inland to a maritime
town, motor cars and cycles thread the great highways, now stripped of
their high and shade-giving hedges for the convenience of their
mechanically propelled travellers. Contrast this with a tramp over a
succession of grassy downs where the salt sea-mist fills the natural
amphitheatres made by the hollows in the retreating hills, and across
sandy bays eaten out of the soft chalk by the ceaseless action of the
sea. There is an indefinable charm in a view combining sea and cliff,
hill and dale, the near orchard and the distant down, within the field
of vision.

[Illustration: GATEWAY, POXWELL MANOR HOUSE]

It is impossible by mere words to convey any idea of the wealth of
colour exhibited along the Dorset coast, where the brilliant tints of
the sea-worn rocks are contrasted with hues of vivid green; for here
verdure triumphs over decay, and drapes the wrecks of time with the
richest vegetation. In a wide open country such as this, great clouds
sweep over the hills, casting as they travel moving shadows over land
and sea; so that before long we are perfectly intoxicated with the
charms of the district, where idlers forget their ennui, and invalids
gain strength in its invigorating air.

Leaving Weymouth by the Wareham Road, and past the low-lying but
picturesque marshlands of Lodmoor, we arrive at Preston, where the
much-disturbed tessellated floor of a good Roman villa may be seen for
the payment of sixpence. Near the roadside is a small one-arched
bridge that has been claimed by some antiquaries to be of Roman, and
by others of Norman, date. Many think it to be a mediaeval pack-horse
bridge.

Preston's sister village of Sutton Poyntz is the "Overcombe" of _The
Trumpet-Major_, with its millpond, which Ann Garland surveyed from
her chamber window. "Immediately before her was the large, smooth
millpond, overfull, and intruding into the hedge and into the road."
On the hillside at the back of the village is the gigantic figure of
George III on horseback, cut out of the chalk in 1808. This work of
art is 280 feet in length and 323 feet in height, and there is no
better way to reach it than from Sutton. Should we make the ascent we
can act as Ann Garland did on her visit here with the Trumpet-Major,
namely, pace "from the horse's head down his breast to his hoof, back
by way of the King's bridle-arm, past the bridge of his nose, and into
his cocked hat", or we can follow the example of the Trumpet-Major,
and stand, "in a melancholy attitude within the rowel of his majesty's
right spur".

Descending the hill and passing through Osmington, where nothing need
detain us, we reach the village of Poxwell, a name that some authors
assure us is a corruption of Puck's well; but it is more likely that
it comes from _Pochesvill_ of the _Domesday_ Survey. This is the
"Oxwell" of the novels; and the singularly picturesque Jacobean house
is "Oxwell Hall", where resided old Derriman in the _Trumpet-Major_.
Apart from its literary associations this old building is well worth a
visit by anyone who is interested in these old types of domestic
architecture. It is one of hundreds of old manor houses in Dorset, and
elsewhere, that have become degraded in the social scale to the status
of a farmhouse. Its most pleasing and distinctive feature is the
gatehouse or porter's lodge, the keystone of the gateway arch bearing
the date 1634. The lower floor of this pleasing little erection gives
entrance to a beautiful walled-in garden of velvet lawns bordered by
bright flower-beds. The upper room, approached by a flight of stone
steps from the garden, is lighted by two small windows, one looking
towards the house, the other commanding a view of the drive. This
upper room is known as the "Fool's Chamber", the tradition being that
the fool of the family was allowed a last throw at any departing
guests from his coign of vantage. For the purposes of his story Mr.
Hardy has placed the house considerably nearer to "Overcombe" (Sutton)
than it really is.

A short walk from Poxwell would land us at Osmington Mills, on the
coast, a most delightful little spot, where hot lobster teas are one
of the standing dishes at the Picnic Inn. From here Lulworth can be
reached by a fine walk past Ringstead Bay and a long toil up the
grassy shoulder of Whitenose, the whole being one of the best coast
walks to be found in Dorset. The main road to Lulworth proceeds from
Poxwell to Warmwell Cross (Warm'ell Cross), the place where Stockdale
released the excisemen who had been overtaken by the smugglers. The
whole of this portion of the coast and its Hinterland, figure in Mr.
Hardy's smuggling stories, the illicit cargoes being hidden in the
neighbouring church of Owermoigne.

Near Warmwell Cross is Warmwell House, an interesting Jacobean
residence that was for some time the home of John Saddler, the famous
Cromwellian jurist, who was despoiled of all his property at the
Restoration. Another interesting old house is that of Owermoigne, the
manor of which, then called Ogres, or Owers, was held by William le
Moigne "of our lord the King in capite by the service and serjeantry
of being caterer in the King's kitchen, and keeper of his larder". A
fine feature of the house is a range of beautiful and original
thirteenth-century windows, in the solar on the first floor. This is
the "Nether-Moynton" of _The Distracted Preacher_, where stands the
church to which Lizzy guided Stockdale. A recent restoration has swept
away the gallery stairs beneath which the illicit cargoes were hidden,
but the tower within which the smugglers lay concealed is much as it
was when described in the story.

[Illustration: LULWORTH COVE]

Another way to reach Lulworth is to take the turn by the Red Lion that
leads through Winfrith Newburgh, a pretty little village, but of no
particular interest save for an old manorial custom by which Robert de
Newburgh held Winfrith "by the service of giving water for the hands
of our lord the King on the day of his coronation; and to have the
basin and ewer for the service aforesaid". At the coronation of James
II a claim was made by the lord of the manor to perform this service,
but the claim was not allowed. We find also that the tithing man of
the neighbouring village of Coombe Keynes was obliged to do suit at
Winfrith court leet; and, after repeating the following incoherent
lines, was mulcted in the sum of threepence:--

                "With my white rod,
                And I am a fourth post,
                That threepence makes three,
    God bless the King, and the lord of the franchise;
    Our weights and our measures are lawful and true.
    Good-morrow, Mr. Steward; I have no more to say to you."

Coombe Keynes is situated a mile or so to the south of Wool, its chief
claim to notice being the singularly beautiful pre-Reformation chalice
preserved within the church, a building that was extensively restored
in 1860. The chalice is one of three pieces of pre-Reformation church
plate that now remain in the county, although out of some three
hundred parishes over one hundred have retained their Elizabethan
chalices, while seventy possess Communion plate of the seventeenth
century.

The Coombe Keynes chalice is in excellent condition, and is surpassed
in beauty only by the very similar but slightly earlier example at
Wylye, in Wiltshire. Its height is 6-3/8 inches; diameter of bowl, 4
inches; depth, 2 inches; narrowest part of base, 3-3/8 inches; widest
part, 5-1/4 inches. The bowl is broad and conical; the slender stem
hexagonal and quite plain, with ogee moulded bands at the junctions.
The knob is full sized, having six lobes spirally twisted with
traceried openings, terminating in angels' heads, crowned. The date
is about 1500, if not somewhat earlier. The two other examples of
pre-Reformation plate in Dorset are a paten at Buckhorn Weston, and a
chalice at Sturminster Marshall.

A short walk from Winfrith, and we arrive at our destination, the
romantic and justly famed Lulworth Cove. During the summer months this
attractive little spot can be easily reached by steamer from Weymouth,
and for those to whom the literary associations and natural beauties
of the landward route make no appeal, the short sea voyage of about an
hour's duration has much to recommend it, while an ideal holiday jaunt
is to make the outward journey on foot or wheel, and return by sea.

Who among the readers of Mr. Hardy's novels has not longed to visit
the far-famed Lulworth Cove? that "small basin of sea enclosed by
the cliffs", wherein Troy bathed after spending the night in the
porch of Puddletown Church. The sea entrance to the little landlocked
bay requires careful navigation by reason of "the two projecting
spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules to this miniature
Mediterranean". This is the "Lulstead", and occasionally the
"Lullwind" of the Wessex novels, tales, and poems, and is the scene
of the Napoleonic sketch in _Life's Little Ironies_, entitled _A
Tradition of 1804_. Here Cytherea Graye met Edward Springrove, and
here the dead bodies of Stephen Hardcombe and his cousin's wife were
washed ashore.

The prospect from the cliffs that overlook the cove is a very
extensive one. To the west the Bay of Weymouth, with a small portion
of the town, is visible, with the green heights of the down in its
rear. South-west is the bold and rocky mass of Portland, while to the
east the eye takes in the projecting portions of the strangely
contorted cliffs of the Purbeck coast line, and the dangerous
Kimmeridge Ledges, beyond which rises the high wall-like ridge of
cliff that terminates in the bluff promontory of St. Aldhelm's Head.

The village of West Lulworth is rather barren of interest, and the
little trade of the place seems to be confined entirely to
administering to the necessities of visitors and pilgrims. Sad to
relate, this secluded spot, where untrammelled nature has reigned
supreme for centuries, is beginning to show signs of ugly modernity,
and bathing cabins are encroaching on its encircling belt of shingle.
Nothing, however, can vulgarize Lulworth except in patches, for,
modernize it how you will, it will always retain its rugged crags that
tower above its sea margin, and the complex witchery of its
rock-bestrewn coast. The background of Millais's famous picture, "The
Departure of the Romans" is a view of the Dorset coast looking from
the cliffs of Lulworth towards Weymouth, the standpoint being Dungy,
with St. Oswald's Bay in the foreground, and Whitenose terminating the
splendid lateral prospect of the cliffs. It is a singularly literal
rendering of the scene. At the same time learned historians tell us
that it is by no means certain that any of the Roman legions left this
country by way of the Dorset coast.

The greatest architectural attraction of the neighbourhood is Lulworth
Castle, standing in a finely wooded park of 640 acres. The building is
in the form of a cube, and is of early Jacobean date, having been
built almost entirely with material from the Abbey of Bindon, near
Wool, when such was demolished at the Reformation. The façade of the
edifice is ornamented with heraldic shields and allegorical figures
representing Music and Painting. In 1641 it was purchased by the Weld
family, who still own it. It was visited by James I and Charles II,
while George III and his family were frequent visitors during their
residence at Weymouth. Charles X, when exiled from France in 1830,
also found asylum here, by the hospitality of Mr. Joseph Weld. The
interior of the castle may be seen on application to the Lulworth
Estate Office at Wool, and it is well worth while to apply for
permission, as the house contains some fine apartments and a curious
set of portraits painted by Giles Hussey, a native of Marnhull, the
harmony of whose colour-scheme was corrected by a musical scale. The
Welds are a Roman Catholic family of whom the famous Cardinal Weld was
the most prominent member.

[Illustration: WOOL HOUSE]

Close to the Castle stands the Protestant church on the south side and
the Catholic chapel on the north. The latter, built in 1786 by the
special leave of George III, was described by Fanny Burney as "a
Pantheon in miniature, and ornamented with immense wealth and
richness. The altar is all of the finest variegated marbles, and
precious stones are glittering from every angle", a description that
holds good to-day.

From the castle a most charming walk through a wood and down over
grassy fields leads to Arish Mell Gap, a narrow bay shut in by high
grass-covered downs, and near which is situated the Monastery Farm,
founded in 1794, for Trappist monks, by Thomas Weld and his son, who
afterwards attained the dignity of cardinal.

From Lulworth the enterprising pedestrian can find an abundance of
magnificent coast walks by Worbarrow Tout, the Kimmeridge Ledges, and
St. Aldhelm's Head. The walk towards the last-named is one of the
wildest solitude, the only living creatures being the white sea-birds,
and the only sounds the murmur of the waves as they surge round the
bleak pinnacles of rock. Here and there, where the track-way turns at
an angle, we catch a glimpse of vast cavernous recesses, some natural
and some the work of men's hands, where ponderous masses have been
riven away from the face of the cliff, and tumbled headlong into the
water, where they lie amid the swirling eddies of the tide.

It is impossible to describe adequately the manifold beauties of the
Purbeck coast line, which concentrates in itself all the elements of
the bleak and the picturesque, pastoral valleys and grassy downs that
end seawards in great walls of barren rock and masses of fallen cliff.
Some old muzzle-loading guns lying on the shore between Winspit and
Seacombe mark the site of the wreck of the _Halsewell_, an East
Indiaman that was driven ashore here with great loss of life on
January 6, 1786.

While at Lulworth the reader of Mr. Hardy's romances will not fail to
visit Wool, and the old manor house of the Turbervilles wherein was
enacted one of the most dramatic scenes in English fiction. Crossing
the old bridge of "five yawning arches" we stand before "Wellbridge
House", where Tess and Angel Clare came to spend their honeymoon.
"Welcome to one of your ancestral mansions!" was the bridegroom's
greeting, as his bride passed the threshold of the house. At the head
of the stairway are the two panels on which are depicted the portraits
of those ancestors, the sight of which caused Tess to shudder. The
house itself is an interesting specimen of ancient domestic
architecture, from which in the gloom of the evening the phantom coach
and four drives out of the gateway; but this ghostly equipage is
visible only to a member or near relative of the Turberville family.
The house and bridge never look better or more romantic than when
their masses of grey masonry loom out against the evening sky. At such
times the soft murmur of the night wind through the rushes that edge
the shimmering water, and a farewell gleam of sunlight through a rift
in the long low clouds, seem to symbolize the spirit of Tess.

One of the best-known members of this old Dorset family was George
Turberville (1540-1610). He was secretary to Sir Thomas Randolf, Queen
Elizabeth's ambassador in Scotland and Russia. He was the author of
several books on _Falconrie_ and hunting, but the one by virtue
of which he ranks amongst the Elizabethan poets was the _Epitaphes,
Epigrams, Songs, and Sonnets_, the second edition of which was
published in 1567.

Contemporary with Turberville were Barnabe Googe, Thomas Churchyard
the soldier and poetaster, Thomas Phaer, the wellnigh forgotten
lawyer of Norwich, who translated the first nine books of the _Æneid_
into fourteen-syllable verse. Other contemporaries were Sir Thomas
Chaloner, a soldier and diplomatist, who wrote both prose and verse;
and Arthur Golding, an industrious translator of Latin and French
theological works.

Half a mile away is Bindon Abbey, of which the whole of the Abbey
Church can be traced among the ruins. Large portions also remain of
the sacristy, chapterhouse, and calefactory. The original foundation
belonged to the Cistercian Order, and was established in 1172, and
Professor Windle tells us that after it was surrendered to the king in
1539, "its twelve bells were stolen and appropriated by the churches
of Wool, Coombe, and Fordington; a tale which is embodied in the local
rhyme:

    "Wool streams and Coombe wells,
    Fordington cuckolds stole Bindon Bells".

Two empty stone coffins, one tomb, and one broken grave slab of the
abbot's remain, including one with the matrix of a brass, the margin
of which has an inscription in Lombardic capitals recording the
interment of Abbot Richard de Maners. Here, too, is the old stone
coffin described by Mr. Hardy:

    "Against the north wall was the empty stone coffin of an Abbot, in
    which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was accustomed to
    stretch himself. In this Clare carefully laid Tess."

[Illustration: WAREHAM]

Near at hand Bindon Mill, with its picturesque setting, makes a
charming picture, and one that is a great favourite with artists. It
was here that Angel Clare came to learn the art of milling.

A short ride in the train or a pleasant walk by road from Wool leads
to Wareham, one of the oldest towns in Dorset, and the "Anglebury" of
the novels, where, at the Red Lion, Ethelberta and Lady Petherwin were
staying when the story of _The Hand of Ethelberta_ opens. In the
earlier editions of _The Return of the Native_, Wareham figures as
"Southerton", the town from whence Thomassin fled in the reddleman's
cart, when the defect was discovered in the marriage licence which
postponed her union with Wildeve. It was at Lychett (Flychett), a few
miles away, that Sol and Lord Mountclere's brother stopped to change
horses on their way to bar the wedding of Lord Mountclere and
Ethelberta at Swanage (Knollsea).

Wareham itself is an interesting little borough, most delightfully
placed on rising ground that slopes to the River Frome on the south,
and to the Trent or Puddle on the north. These two streams flow into
Poole Harbour, so that the boating man has an abundance of freshwater
sailing, which can be varied by taking the craft around the numerous
creeks and inlets of Poole Harbour, past the wooded isle of Brownsea,
and so out into the open Channel beyond. For those who are fond of
boating on a moderate scale this corner of Poole Harbour is an ideal
spot; for although the experienced yachtsman may consider river
sailing rather tame, he will find the adjoining harbour of Poole large
enough to satisfy his roving propensities, and with winds and waves of
sufficient strength to test his skill to the full.

Wareham town has retained several links with its ancient state, which
may be said to be epitomized in the earthen ramparts that enclose it
on all sides but that guarded by the waters of the Frome. Upon and
around these grassy walls the old-time inhabitants fought the Danes
with varying fortunes; for early in the eleventh century the town was
captured by Cnut, who made it his port, and to some extent his
headquarters, until bought off with a grant of money.

The antiquary should not fail to visit St. Martin's Church, a reputed
Saxon building, with some interesting Early Norman features that
include a narrow chancel arch. The parish church of Lady St. Mary has
been over-"restored", but the exquisite little side chapels of St.
Edward the Martyr and St. Thomas à Becket remain unspoilt. An old
stone coffin, a lead font, and two interesting cross-legged effigies
are worthy of attention, as also are two inscribed pillars of stone
that have been alleged to be portions of an old Roman altar. Of Holy
Trinity Church, Hutchins, the historian of Dorset, was once rector.

Before the silting up of Poole Harbour, Wareham was an important port,
and here in 1291 Edward I came to superintend the manning of some
ships for one of his numerous expeditions against the French; and in
later days the profits of the salmon fishery were given by Henry VIII
to Catherine of Aragon as a dowry. In the reign of the third Edward
the town furnished three ships and fifty-nine men for the siege of
Calais.

Mr. Hardy's pre-eminence as a novelist is apt to make us forget that
Mrs. Craik (Miss Mulock) was a frequent visitor here, and _Agatha's
Husband_ is full of references to the town and the neighbourhood,
and contains some delightful character sketches of its inhabitants.
Here also lives "Orme Agnus" (Mr. J. C. Higginbotham), at Northport
House close to the railway station.

[Illustration: CORFE CASTLE]

Situated halfway between Wareham and Swanage, and easily reached from
either place, are the ruins of Corfe Castle, all that is left of what
was, until the building was demolished by order of the Parliament, one
of the most powerful fortresses ever erected in Europe. Tradition
associates Corfe Castle, or Corfe, with the murder of "Saynt Edward
Kyng and Martyr"; but certain modern antiquaries are rather suspicious
of the story, and it is very doubtful if any portion of the existing
masonry is of an earlier date than the Conquest, although it is quite
possible that so favourable a site would be chosen for its natural
defensive properties long before the advent of the Normans. The _Saxon
Chronicle_, recording the murder of Edward, does not mention a castle,
but says the foul deed was done "at Corfes Geät", where stood the
_domus Elfridæ_. It has not inaptly been termed the "Royal Prison
of Purbeck", and the many famous personages incarcerated here include
some French nobles whom King John starved to death early in the
thirteenth century. Here also the same monarch imprisoned his niece
Eleanor, together with two daughters of the Scottish King, William,
sent as hostages. Edward II was confined here by Queen Isabella and
her paramour, Roger Mortimer. After being held by various nobles,
including George, Duke of Clarence, of Malmsey-wine celebrity, the
castle was bought by Sir Christopher Hatton from Queen Elizabeth, and
was eventually purchased by Sir John Bankes, to whose descendants it
still belongs. On Sir John's joining Charles I at York, in 1642, Lady
Bankes held Corfe for the King, and so successful was her heroic
defence, that it was only through the treachery of Colonel Pitman, one
of the garrison, that she was forced to capitulate in 1645, when the
brave defenders were allowed to march out, bearing their arms and with
their colours flying. The estates of this "Brave Dame Mary" escaped
confiscation, but she was mulcted in heavy fines, while the fortress
she had so gallantly held against overwhelming odds was reduced to a
mass of picturesque ruins, where wall-flowers grow in the crannies,
sweetbrier twists around the base of a bastion, and ivy and
honeysuckle crown a detached fragment of a ruined gateway. On every
side great masses of broken masonry lie in heaps on the grass, or
are seen suspended as if by magic in mid-air, a testimony to the
destructive power of gun-powder and to the excellence of the mortar
used by the Norman builders. The ancient name of the place was
Corvsgate, from _Ceorfan_ to cut, and referred to the natural cutting
that surrounds the hill on the summit of which this magnificent
fortress was erected.

The little old-world village of Corfe has also many architectural
attractions in the way of projecting upper stories supported on
columns, gabled houses, and the fine old manor house of the Dackombes.
The ruined castle on its scarped hill is fascinating from every point
of view. Whether flushed with the warm tints of sunset, veiled by
opalescent haze, or looming stern and dark against a dull and stormy
sky, it has always great pictorial charm, and a rugged beauty that
suggests the embodiment of mediaevalism, its grandeur, pride, cruelty,
arrogance, and death.

In the Wessex novels Corfe Castle appears under its ancient name of
Corvsgate, and it figures as such in _The Hand of Ethelberta_, a
novel in the early editions of which it is also referred to as "Coomb
Castle". Here came Ethelberta on the donkey she had hired at Knollsea
(Swanage) on the occasion of the meeting of the Imperial Association,
to which she had been invited by Lord Mountclere.

    "Accordingly Ethelberta crossed the bridge over the moat, and rode
    under the first archway of the outer ward.... The arrow-slits,
    portcullis-grooves, and staircases met her eye as familiar
    friends, for in her childhood she had once paid a visit to the
    spot."

Among these historic ruins and the fashionable company that had come
to inspect them, Ethelberta disowned her donkey, the faithful steed
that had served her so well; and here Lord Mountclere presented her to
"Sir Cyril and Lady Blandsbury; Lady Jane Joy; also the learned Dr.
Fore; Mr. Small, a talented writer, who never printed his works; the
Reverend Mr. Brook, Rector; the Very Reverend Dr. Taylor, Dean; and
the rather reverend Mr. Tinkleton, Nonconformist, who had slipped into
the fold by chance."

Five miles from Corfe Castle is Swanage, a town that is rapidly coming
to the front as a fashionable watering-place. During the summer an
excellent steamboat service connects it with Bournemouth and Weymouth,
from both of which it is also easily reached by rail. The place has
changed vastly since it served as a background for Ethelberta's life
history, the place where she retired to marry Lord Mountclere, with
Sol and the bridegroom's brother vainly endeavouring to reach
"Knollsea" in time to stop the ceremony. Mr. Hardy writes: "Knollsea
was a seaside village, lying snug within two headlands as between a
finger and thumb. Everybody in the parish who was not a boatman was a
quarrier, unless he were the gentleman who owned half the property and
had been a quarryman, or the other gentleman who owned the other half,
and had been to sea."

"The row of rotten piles" to which the steamer was moored in the days
when _The Hand of Ethelberta_ was penned, have long since been
supplemented by a substantial pier, while in place of the boatmen and
quarriers the inhabitants to-day seem to depend for a living on
attending to the needs of the many tourists attracted to Swanage by
its splendid climate and beautiful surroundings.

A fine walk over Ballard Down not only commands some exceptional and
sweeping views of the Dorset and Hampshire coast, but leads to
Studland, a charming village with an ancient Norman church and a
glorious little bay of golden sand, that is edged by the wide expanse
of unenclosed moorland known as Studland Heath. The magnificent
panorama from the high land above Studland embraces nearly the whole
of the eastern half of Dorset, the far-famed Isle of Purbeck, and as
we turn from the amphitheatre of rolling downs the eye ranges to the
blue sea breaking at the base of the chalk cliffs of the Isle of
Wight, or foaming round the near promontory of Peveril Point.

Away in a north-easterly direction the low-lying lands that edge the
creeks and mudflats of Poole Harbour spread out like a map, and
contrast their warm greens with the silvery tones of the great
harbour. A brief description of Poole is given in one of the short
stories of _Life's Little Ironies_, where it figures beneath the
thin disguise of "Havenpool".

[Illustration: POOLE HARBOUR FROM STUDLAND]

During the smuggling days Poole, together with the majority of these
south-country ports, enjoyed a very unenviable reputation, and was the
home of the celebrated Harry Paye, or "Arripay" as the Spaniards who
so dreaded him rendered the name, who is said to have brought into
Poole Harbour, on one occasion, more than one hundred prizes from the
ports of Brittany, and "to have scoured the channel of Flanders so
powerfully that no ship could pass that way without being taken".

Poole has retained quite a number of its ancient domestic buildings,
including the problematical fifteenth-century structure known as the
"Town Cellars"; but nothing is known with regard to the purposes for
which it was originally erected. Some antiquaries believe it to have
been connected with the Guild of St. George, others hold that it was
used as a manorial storehouse, wherein were deposited the goods left
by the lord of the manor. Michael Drayton in his _Polyolbion_ depicts
the rivers Frome and Puddle as entertaining each other, "oft praising
lovely Poole, their best beloved bay"; and in truth Poole Harbour is
charming at any state of the tide. It has been the haunt of the
painter since the days when Turner found such uncommon sources of
inspiration along the shores of its wooded creeks, and counterfeit
presentments of this Dorset lakeland hang on the walls of many a
European picture gallery. Exclusive of all islands the area of this
vast sea-lake is ten thousand acres, while it has been calculated that
thirty-six million tons of water flow into and out of the narrow
entrance at every spring tide.

The sheet of water is studded with wooded islands that add not a
little to its manifold charms. The most considerable of these islands
are Branksea or Brownsea, Fursey, Long, Round, and Green Islands.

For the pedestrian there is a delightful walk along the edge of the
water to Haven Point with its Marconi installation, thence by way of
cliff and chine to Bournemouth; but the beauties of this great salt
lake are only fully revealed to those who woo them from the water.

By means of a motor launch, with a dinghy in tow for landing purposes,
a thorough exploration can be made of such little-known spots as
Pergins' Island, with its clumps of fir trees, Hole's and Lychett
Bays.

Another charming water trip is by way of that arm of the harbour where
there is a confluence of three waters--the creek of Middlebere; the
Corfe river, that debouches at Wych Passage House, the ancient port of
Corfe Castle; and the Upper Bushey. As someone has fittingly said:
"All will agree that a fairer sight than the panorama of Poole and its
much-fretted and freakish harbour one would have to go far to see!"

The still meadows that lie around this landlocked haven are green with
the growth of centuries; and over the golden corn waving freely on the
upland slopes, or above the lavender fields of Broadstone, the lark in
summer air is singing. Quietly, with clear spaces of light above them,
in silver lapses under the darkening trees, the little rivers thread
the fertile valleys, and the Frome runs eastwards from Dorchester,
linking, as with a liquid thread, the far-famed county town with the
equally ancient maritime port of Wareham.

If this land of Purbeck as a whole has altered but little since the
days when our Norman rulers made it a happy hunting ground, its people
have changed still less, and its distinctive class--the marblers or
quarriers--have been practically unaffected by the tide of
civilization that has affected the rest of the county in thought,
dress, and customs.

The working of Purbeck marble is one of the oldest industries in the
country, for the material was used by the Romans for the lining of
sepulchral cists, and in later days it was in great demand for the
fashioning of effigies, monuments, pillars, and similar architectural
adornments. From Purbeck came the stone for some of the gates of
London, for the Cross at Charing, for the abbeys of Westminster and
Bindon, and for many portions of the cathedrals of Exeter, Salisbury,
and Winchester.

It is a matter for regret that the early history of the Purbeck
quarriers is obscure, owing largely to the records of the company
having been destroyed by a fire at Corfe Castle. It is generally
agreed, however, that they are of Norman descent, for certain names
indicative of French origin are still very common among the natives of
Corfe and Swanage. Although the trade is a declining one, a good deal
of quarrying for the rougher kinds of stone is still carried on by the
"Company of Marblers of the Isle of Purbeck". No one but the son of a
freeman can become a member of this ancient association, though a
freeman's wife is made a freewoman on payment of a shilling--the
"marriage shilling" as it is called--so that she may be able to carry
on the work should she outlive her husband. One of the articles of the
guild, and one that is still rigidly enforced, is that not even a
day's work shall be given to a non-member. Some serious disturbances
have taken place when attempts have been made to introduce "outside"
labour. The most important right claimed by the marblers, the right to
enter on any man's land and work the stone, has not been conceded for
many years. The natives assert that this concession was granted to
them by royal charter, but it is doubtful if their claim could be
legally enforced at the present time. The admission of apprentices is
governed by a number of curious laws. A "free boy" may enter the
quarries and work without being bound, and until he attains his
majority he is subject to his father, to whom his wages are supposed
to belong by right.

It is to be hoped that the demand for the stone will continue, and
that the "Company of Purbeck Marblers" will long remain a link with
the dim and distant past.


While in the neighbourhood of Poole the tourist should not fail to
visit Wimborne, with its magnificent minster, and Bournemouth, which
latter, although just beyond the eastern boundary of Dorset, was the
town (Sandbourne) where was enacted almost the final scene of Mr.
Hardy's great drama of _Tess_:

    "This fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its western
    stations, its piers, its groves of pines, its promenades, and its
    covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place suddenly
    created by the stroke of a wand, and allowed to get a little
    dusty. An outlying tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at
    hand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such
    a glittering novelty as this pleasure city had chosen to spring
    up. Within the space of a mile from its outskirts every
    irregularity of the soil was prehistoric; every channel an
    undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there
    since the days of the Cæsars. Yet the exotic had grown here,
    suddenly as the prophet's gourd; and had drawn hither Tess. By the
    midnight lamps he went up and down the winding ways of this new
    world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and
    against the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers
    of the numerous fanciful residences of which the place was
    composed. It was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean
    lounging-place on the English Channel; and as seen now by night it
    seemed even more imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand,
    but not intrusive; it murmured, and he thought it was the pines;
    the pines murmured in precisely the same tones, and he thought
    they were the sea."

Space fails one to trace the boundaries of the re-created Wessex
any further. Very rightly, very thoroughly has the novelist _par
excellence_ of our day, appreciated all the nobleness and all the
poetry that lies within the area of his chosen _mise en scène_.
Not the least of the services which Mr. Thomas Hardy has rendered us,
perhaps even to be prized more than his faithful portraying of rustic
character, is his thus revivifying, and by consequence exciting the
popular taste for and delight in so interesting a portion of our
English homeland.

Nor let it be forgotten that his novels are not altogether fictitious,
but are impregnated with authentic social and national history. There
is truth enough in his works of fiction to make him a famous
historian, omitting altogether what belongs to the proper region of
romance.


PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

_At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_


Transcriber's Note:

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Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as
printed.

Words printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_.

The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby
placed in the public domain.








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