{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43565/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43565","id":"gutenberg_43565","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43565","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Dorset (England)","Hardy, Thomas, 1840-1928"],"text":"THOMAS HARDY'S DORSET\n\n\n_Works by the same Author_\n\n\nRUDYARD KIPLING: A CHARACTER STUDY\nGEORGE BORROW: LORD OF THE OPEN ROAD\nWAR AND THE WEIRD\nTHE AMBER GIRL\nKIPLING'S SUSSEX\nFRIENDLY SUSSEX. (_In the Press_)\n\n\n[Illustration: Birthplace of Thomas Hardy, Upper Bockhampton]\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS HARDY'S DORSET\n\n\nBY R. THURSTON HOPKINS\n\nWITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. HARRIES\nAND FROM PHOTOGRAPHS\n\nNEW YORK\nD APPLETON AND COMPANY\n1922\n\n\nFIRST EDITION 1922\nCOPYRIGHT\n\n\nPRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED\nEDINBURGH\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCHAPTER                                                   PAGE\nI. DORSET FOLK AND DORSET WAYS                              13\n\nThe Dorset Rustic a Genial Fellow--Unconscious Humour--The\nJovial Blacksmith--Cider-making--The Poetic\nTippler--Anglo-Saxon Tongue--Enigmatical Sayings and\nProverbs--A Dorset Rector and his Ale--Whiplegs--Thatch\nand \"Cob\"--A Beautiful Tract between Seaton\nand West Bay--The Devil's Own Card--Thomas Hardy's\nStory of Witchcraft--Conjurer Trendle--The Piskies--The\nBibulous Farmer and the Piskies--The Cider Mill--Happy\nDays at Hovey's Barn--Marc Bricks--A Game\nof \"Hunting\"--A Dorset Vicar on Miracles--Akermann's\n_Wiltshire Glossary_--William Barnes--\"Dorset's good\nenough for me!\"--Large Farm Kitchens\n\nII. BARFORD ST MARTIN TO TISBURY AND SHAFTESBURY            33\n\nTisbury--John Lockwood Kipling--The Green Dragon\nat Barford St Martin--The Man who laughed gloriously--Points\nof Perfection in a Greyhound--The Best Dog\nthat ever breathed--Shaftesbury and its Traditions--A\nCurious Custom--A Story of Water-carrying Days at\nShaston--Bimport and _Jude the Obscure_--Old Grove's\nPlace--Marnhull--Pure Drop Inn\n\nIII. THE VALE OF BLACKMOOR                                  45\n\nFortune scowls on me--The Song of the Nightingale--A\nLittle Round-Faced Man--The Hauntings of Woolpit\nHouse--The Vale of Blackmoor--White-Hart Silver--King's\nStag Inn--The Length of Life in Animals--Folk-Sayings\nof Blackmoor--The Maidens of Blackmoor--Barnes\nthe Poet\n\nIV. BLANDFORD TO DORCHESTER                                 59\n\nBlandford--Winterborne Whitchurch--Turberville the\nPoet--Milborne St Andrews--\"Welland House\"--Hardy's\n_Two on a Tower_--Puddletown--The Story\nof Farmer Dribblecombe and the Christmas Ale--The\nAncient Family of Martins--The Ape of the Martins--The\nLast of the Martins--The Church of Puddletown--A\nSad Love Story--\"Weatherbury Upper Farm\"\n\nV. DORCHESTER                                               69\n\nDaniel Defoe's Description of Dorchester--Doctor\nArbuthnot--St Peter's Church--Thomas Hardy of\nMelcombe Regis--William Barnes--Judge Jeffreys--Maumbury\nRings--Mary Channing strangled and burnt--Thomas\nHardy and Relics of Roman Occupation--Maiden\nCastle--Old Inns--The Grammar School--Napper's\nMite--Hangman's Cottage--The Bull Stake--\"Jopp's\nCottage\"--Priory Ruins--High Place Hall--Colyton\nHouse--The Mask with a Leer--Thomas Hardy\nand the Habits of Bridge Haunters--Dorchester Ale--\"Groves\"\nStingo--_The Trumpet Major_--Toby Fillpot--A\nDorchester Butt--_Far from the Madding Crowd_--\"Yellowham\nWood\"--The Brown Owl--The Hedge Pig--Fordington--Church\nof St George--Hardy's\n\"Mellstock\"--Winterborne Villages--Original Manuscript\nof _Mayor of Casterbridge_--Wolverton House--Knightly\nTrenchards--Cerne Abbas and \"The Giant\"\n\nVI. A LITERARY NOTE: THOMAS HARDY AND WILLIAM BARNES        98\n\nHardy's Grandfather--Hardy as a Poet--Primitive\nNature Worship--Prose Poem of the Cider-Maker--William\nBarnes--Troublous Days--\"Woak Hill\"--Pathetic\nTouch\n\nVII. BERE REGIS AND THE ANCIENT FAMILY OF TURBERVILLE      122\n\nYellowham Hill--\"The Royal Oak\" at Bere Regis--My\nFriend the Thatcher--The Complete Guide to Thatching--Bere\nRegis Church--Humorous Norman Carvings--Sepulchre\nof the Turbervilles--Outline of Hardy's _Tess_--A\nTurberville Tradition--The First of the Turbervilles--Bryant's\nPuddle--The Old Turberville Manor House--Descendants\nof the Illegitimate Turbervilles--A Flagrant\nPoacher--The Tyrant of the Tudor Inn--Hodge the\neternally efficient--Hardy's Tess and Wellbridge Manor\nHouse--Tess's Ancestors--Smoke Pence--Superstition\nand Shrewdness mingled in the Rustic--\"Old Gover\"--The\nStory of the Turberville Coach--Bindon Abbey--Tess--A\nSinister Old Wood\n\nVIII. ROUND AND ABOUT WEYMOUTH                             147\n\nWeymouth and Melcombe Regis--Rivalry of the Old\nBoroughs--George III.--The Sands--Uncle Benjy and\nInflated Prices--Sandsfoot Castle--Weymouth Localities\nin _The Trumpet Major_--_The Dynasts_--The Dorset\nRustic and Boney--The Girls of Budmouth--The \"Naples\nof England\"--Mr Harper on the Hardy Country--Georgian\nHouses--The Realest Things--Interesting\nRelics--Preston--Sutton Poyntz--_The Trumpet\nMajor_--Overcombe Mill--To keep Dorset fair--A\nSoldier Poet--Bincombe--Racy Saxon Speech--Hardy\non Wessex Words--Poxwell--Owermoigne--Lulworth\nCove--Portisham--Admiral Hardy--Abbotsbury\n\nIX. POOLE                                                  163\n\nPoole Harbour--The Quay--An English Buccaneer--Brownsea--\nLytchett--\"To please his Wife\"--An Enjoyable Coast Ramble\n\nX. SWANAGE AND CORFE CASTLE                    168\n\nKingsley's Description of Swanage--Tilly Whim--Thomas\nHardy's \"Knollsea\"--The Quarry Folk--A\nMedi\u00e6val Trades Guild--Old Dorset Family Names--Marrying\nthe Land--High Street at Swanage--Quaint\nHouses and a Mill-Pond--St Mary's Church--Newton\nManor--Studland--The Agglestone--Langton Matravers--\nKingston--Enckworth Court--Corfe--The Greyhound\nHotel--An Elizabethan Manor-House--Corfe Church--A\nBrave Good Chest--Curfew--Churchwardens and the\nDegrees of Inebriation--Reward for killing a Fox--Lonely\nKingdom of an Inn--Wareham--Wild Life on the\nFrome--Wareham once a Port--The \"Bloody Bank\"--Peter\nof Pomfret--Meaning of the Name Wareham--Bishop\nCating--St Mary's Church--\"Black Bear\" and\n\"Red Lion\"--Chapel of St Martin\n\nXI. MY ADVENTURE WITH A MERRY ROGUE                        191\n\nMy Sentimentalism over old Inns, old Ale and old\nDrinking Vessels--Morcombe Lake--\"Dorset Knobs\"--The\nLonely Singer--The Leather Black Jack--Sleeping\nwith Miss Green--Lyme Regis--The Curiosity Shop--\"The\nSpirit of the Artist and the Soul of a Rogue\"--We\nare all Rogues!\n\nXII. THE DEVON AND DORSET BORDERLAND                       207\n\nStirring Events--Duke of Monmouth--New Inn--Youth\nbeckons with Magic Poignancy--Smuggling Days--Buddle\nRiver Manners--The Cobb--Granny's Teeth--Buddle\nBridge--Town Hall--Henry Fielding--Church of\nSt Michael--Broad Street--The Master Smith of Lyme--M'Neill\nWhistler--Old Songs--Beware of Late Shooting--Axminster--George\nInn--Musbury--Colyton--Knightly\nPoles--\"Little Choke-Bone\"--The Courtenays--A\nRare British Flower--Lambert's Castle--Charmouth--Charles\nII.\n\nXIII. RAMBLES AROUND BRIDPORT                              230\n\nToller of the Pigs--Noble Windows--Whyford Eagle--A\nCurious Tympanum--A Remarkable Oven--Rampisham--\"The\nTiger's Head\"--Cross-in-Hand--Alec D'Urberville--Batcombe--\nConjuring Minterne--The Conjurer of\nBygone Days--Hardy's Story, \"The Withered Arm\"--Minterne's\nTomb--Kipling and a Sussex \"Conjurer\"--Bridport--Charles\nII.--Hardy's _Fellow Townsmen_--\"Greyhound\nHotel\"--A Lover of Horses--\"Bucky\nDoo\"--\"The Bull\" and Thomas Hardy--Footpath to\nWest Bay--The Chesil Beach--The \"Anchor Inn\" at Seatown\n\nXIV. ROUND ABOUT BEAMINSTER                                244\n\nBeaminster--Lewson Hill and Pil'son Pen--Blue Vinny\nCheese--\"Trinkrums\" on a Church--An Eerie Story--\nNetherbury--Robert Morgan and his \"Feeble Hedde\"\n\nA GLOSSARY OF WEST-COUNTRY PROVINCIALISMS                  249\n\nChosen in part from _Notes and Queries_; Akermann's\n_Wiltshire Glossary_; _The Peasant Speech of Devon_, by\nSarah Hewett; Crossing's _Folk Rhymes of Devon_; _The\nSaxon-English_, by W. Barnes; The Works of Thomas\nHardy; and many Sources not generally known\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nBirthplace of Thomas Hardy     _Frontispiece_\n\n                                  FACING PAGE\nStocks at Tollard Royal                    34\n\nThe Green Dragon at Barford St Martin      38\n\nThe Giant, Cerne Abbas                     92\n\nBingham's Melcombe                        100\n\nHurdle-making at Bere Regis               126\n\nWoolbridge House                          136\n\nCorfe Castle, 1865                        160\n\nThe Famous Tillywhim Caves, 1860          170\n\nCorfe Castle, 1860                        176\n\nThe Lonely Singer                         194\n\nThe River Buddle, Lyme Regis              202\n\nThe Master Smith of Lyme Regis            218\n\nDrake Memorial at Musbury                 222\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS HARDY'S DORSET\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nDORSET FOLK AND DORSET WAYS\n\n     So to the land our hearts we give\n       Till the sure magic strike,\n     And Memory, Use, and Love make live\n       Us and our fields alike--\n     That deeper than our speech and thought\n       Beyond our reason's sway,\n     Clay of the pit whence we were wrought\n       Yearns to its fellow-clay.\n                            RUDYARD KIPLING.\n\n\nTo the traveller who takes an interest in the place he visits, Dorset\nwill prove one of the most highly attractive counties in the kingdom. To\nthe book-lover it is a land of grand adventure, for here is the centre\nof the Hardy Country, the home of the Wessex Novels. It is in Dorset\nthat ancient superstitions and curious old customs yet linger, and\nstrange beliefs from ages long ago still survive. It is good to find\nthat the kindly hospitality, the shrewd wisdom and dry wit, for which\nthe peasantry in Thomas Hardy's novels are famous, have not been\nweakened by foolish folk who seek to be \"up to date.\" Old drinks and\ndishes that represent those of our forefathers, and the mellow sound of\nthe speech that was so dear to Raleigh and Drake, are things that are\nnow giving way to the new order of life, alas! but they are dying hard,\nas behoves things which are immemorial and sacramental. The rustics are\nperhaps not quite so witty as they are in Hardy's _The Return of the\nNative_ and other novels, but they possess the robust forms and simple\nmanners of a fine old agricultural people, while they show their spirit\nby the proverb, \"I will not want when I have, nor, by Gor, when I\nha'n't, too!\"\n\nHeavy of gait, stolid of mien, and of indomitable courage, the true\nWessex man is a staunch friend and a very mild enemy. He is a genial\nfellow and, like Danton, seems to find no use for hate. He knows that\nall things done in _hate_ have to be done over again. Imperturbable to\nthe last ditch, he is rarely shaken into any exclamation of surprise or\nwrath. When he is, \"Dang-my-ole-wig!\" \"Dallee!\" with a strong accent on\nthe \"ee,\" or \"Aw! dallybuttons!\" are the kind of mild swear-words one\nhears. But when he gets into the towns he forgets these strange phrases\nand his dialect becomes less broad.\n\nHeavy and stolid the Dorset rustic may be, though there is no reason to\nsuppose that he is slower than any other rustic, but one is inclined to\nthink that the \"stupidity\" of the countryman covers a deep, if only\nhalf-realised, philosophy. Nevertheless we must admit that Hodge often\nwins through in his slow way. There is a good deal of humour in the\nDorset rustic, but perhaps most of his wit is unconscious. That reminds\nme of the story of a Dorset crier who kept the officials of the Town\nHall waiting for two hours on a certain morning. They were about to open\nthe proceedings without him when a boy rushed in and handed the Mayor a\nmessage. He read the message and seemed deeply affected. Then he\nannounced:\n\n\"I have just received a message from our crier, saying, 'Wife's mother\npassed away last night. Will not be able to cry to-day.'\"\n\nThat story may be a very ancient \"chestnut,\" but here is a true instance\nof Hodge's unconscious humour. The wife of a blacksmith at an isolated\nforge in Dorset had died rather suddenly, and it happened that during\none of my rambles I applied to the forge for food and lodging for the\nnight. The old fellow opened the door to me, and I guessed that he was\nin trouble by the fresh crape band round his soft felt hat, which is\nweekday mourning of the rustic. However, the old fellow was quite\npleased to have me for company, and I stayed at his forge for some days.\n\n\"Her was a clever woman; her kept my things straight,\" he said to me\none night at supper, as he looked wistfully at his old jacket full of\nsimple rents from hedgerow briars. \"But it's no manner of use\ngrumbling--I never was a _bull-sowerlugs_ [a morose fellow]. And thank\nthe Lord she was took quick. I went off for the doctor four miles away,\nand when I gets there he was gone off somewhere else; so I turned, and\nin tramping back along remembered I had a bottle of medicine which he\ndid give me last year, so says I, 'That will do for the ol' woman'; so I\ngave it to her and she died.\"\n\nThe old blacksmith drank his beer and dealt with his ham and bread for\nten minutes in silence. Then he looked into the amber depths of his ale\nand said: \"_Say, mister--wasn't it a good job I didn't take that bottle\nof physic myself?_\"\n\nDorset is only one of the several cider-making counties in Wessex. The\ngood round cider is a warming and invigorating drink that is in every\nway equal to a good ale, and sometimes--especially if it has been\ndoctored with a little spirit and kept in a spirit cask--is considerably\nstronger, and is by no means to be consumed regardless of quantity. And\none must be cautious in mixing drinks when taking cider. But the cider\nwhich is consumed by the Dorset rustic is, to use a local word, rather\n\"ramy\" or \"ropy\" to the palate of a person unaccustomed to it. That is\nto say that it is sour and often rather thick. Of course the rustic\nknows nothing, and would care nothing, for the so-called cider sold in\nLondon which resembles champagne in the way it sparkles. Such stuff is\nonly manufactured for folk out of Wessex.\n\nA Dorset rustic, on being reproved by a magistrate for being drunk and\ndisorderly, explained that his sad plight was the result of taking his\nliquor the wrong way up; for, said he,\n\n\n     \"Cyder upon beer is very good cheer,\n     Beer 'pon cyder is a dalled bad rider!\"\n\n\nThe worthy magistrate, not to be vanquished by the poetic tippler, told\nhim to remember--\n\n\n     \"When the cyder's in the can\n     The sense is in the man!\n     When the cyder's in the man\n     The sense is in the can.\"\n\n\n\"I wish,\" said an old shepherd to me, with regret in his voice, \"that\nyou might taste such beer as my mother brewed when I was a boy. Bread,\ncheese and ingyens [onions] with a drop of beer was parfuse [ample] for\na meal in those days, 'ess fay! But this beer they sell now is drefful\nwishee-washee stuff. I'll be dalled if I'll drink it; 'tez water\nbewitched and malt begridged [begrudged].\" In Hodge's uncouth speech are\nfound many words and usages of the Anglo-Saxon tongue, though it is not\nnow relished by fastidious palates. William Barnes, the Dorset poet,\nenumerates the chief peculiarities of the Dorset dialect in his books on\nspeech lore. He loved the odd phrases of children, and it is easy to see\nwhy. For a child, not knowing the correct method of describing a thing\nand seeking to express its meaning, will often go back to the strong old\nAnglo-Saxon definitions. The child can often coin very apt phrases. As,\nfor instance, the Dorset child who spoke of honey as \"bee-jam.\" Barnes\nwas delighted, too, with the boy \"who scrope out the 'p' in 'psalm'\n'cose it didn't spell nothen.\"\n\nMany of the humours of Arcady have been moulded into enigmatical sayings\nand metaphors which may still be heard on the lips of the Dorset rustic:\n\nTea with a dash of rum is called \"milk from the brown cow\"; the dead are\n\"put to bed with a shovel\"; a noisy old man is a \"blaze wig\"; a fat and\npompous fellow is a \"blow-poke\"; the thoughts of the flighty girl go\na-\"bell-wavering\"; the gallows is the \"black horse foaled by an acorn.\"\nThe Dorset rustic has devised many names for the dullard:\n\"billy-buttons,\" \"billy-whiffler,\" \"lablolly,\" \"ninnyhammer,\" and\n\"bluffle-head\" are some of them. The very sound of such names suggests\nfolly.\n\n\"Leer\" is a curious word still heard in Dorset and Devon. It is used to\nexpress the sense of craving produced by weakness and long fasting.\nPerhaps Shakespeare used _Lear_ in a metaphorical sense. I remember once\nhearing a Sussex labourer speak of taking his \"coager\" (cold cheer?), a\nmeal of cold victuals taken at noon, but I am told the mouthful of bread\nand cheese taken at starting in the morning by the Dorset rustic\nrejoices in the still more delightful name of \"dew-bit.\"\n\n\"Crowder\" (a fiddler) is a genuine British word, used up to a few years\nago, but I was unable to trace anyone using it in Dorset this year. In\nCornwall the proverb, \"If I can't crowdy, they won't dance\" (meaning,\n\"They will pass me by when I have no money to feast and entertain my\nfriends\"), was commonly quoted fifty years ago.\n\nAnother tale regarding unconscious humour is told of by a Dorset rector\nwho was holding a Confirmation class. He was one of the old-fashioned\nparsons and made it his solemn duty to call at the village inn and drink\na pint of ale with his flock every evening. One of the candidates for\nConfirmation was the buxom daughter of the innkeeper, and when he came\nto ask her the usual fixed question, \"What is your name?\" the girl,\nholding her head on one side, glanced at him roguishly, and said:\n\n\"Now dawntee tell me you don't know. As if you diddent come into our\nplace every night and say, 'Now, Rubina, my dear, give me a half-pint of\nyour best ale in a pint pewter!'\"\n\nThe story of village sports and the way in which the rustic was wont to\nenjoy himself is always interesting. One of the most singular forms of\ncontest once in common practice in the west of England was _whiplegs_.\nThe procedure of this pastime consisted of the men standing a yard or so\napart and lashing each other's legs with long cart whips till one cried\n\"Holt!\" The one who begged for quarter of course paid for the ale. The\nrude leather gaiters worn by tranters or carters fifty years ago would,\nof course, take much of the sting out of the whip cuts.\n\nThatch survives in nearly every village, and one of the favoured\nbuilding materials is stone from the Dorset quarries. At Corfe the\nhouses are built of stone from foundation to roof, and stone slabs of\nimmense size are made to take the place of tiles and slates. We find\n\"cob\" cottages here and there, and this perhaps is the most ancient of\nall materials, being a mixture of clay or mud and chopped straw. It is\npiled into walls of immense thickness and strength, and then plastered\nand white-washed. The natives in Egypt and Palestine construct their\nvillage homes with the same materials, and the result is not only\nwonderfully picturesque, but satisfactory in the more important respect\nof utility. But now the Dorset people seldom build their walls of \"cob\"\nas of yore, and yet such work is very enduring. As an old Devonshire\nproverb has it: \"Good cob, a good hat, and a good heart last for ever.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe beautiful tract of coast-line between Seaton on the west and West\nBay on the east is a region of great charm; for here will be found all\nthe most pleasing features of the sister counties, Dorset and Devon. The\ngracious greenery and combes of Devon trespass over the border at Lyme\nRegis and so bestow on this nook the wooded charm of the true West\nCountry, which is lacking on the chalky grass hills of other parts of\nDorset. If the coast is followed from Lyme Regis we soon thread our way\ninto the wild tangles of Devon. Things have changed somewhat in these\ndays, but still the true son of Devon carries his country with him\nwherever he goes; he does not forget that every little boy and girl born\nin the West is breathed over by the \"piskies.\" But modern education has\njust about killed the \"piskies,\" and there are no more ghosts in the old\nchurchyards. There is a reason for the non-appearance of spirits at the\npresent day. They have ceased to come out of their graves, said an old\nrustic, \"ever since there was some alteration made in the burial\nservice.\" A firm belief in \"_the very old 'un_\" is still, however, a\nmost distinctive article of the rustic creed. \"There was never a good\nhand at cards if the four of clubs was in it,\" said a rooted son of the\nsoil to me. \"Why?\" I asked. \"Because it's an unlucky card; it's the\ndevil's own card.\" \"In what way?\" I urged. \"It's the _old 'un's_\nfour-post bedstead,\" was the reply.\n\nAnother rustic remarked in all seriousness that he did think wizards\n\"ought to be encouraged, for they could tell a man many things he didn't\nknow as would be useful to 'un.\" The belief in witchcraft is almost\ndead, but it is not so many years ago that it was firmly held. Thomas\nHardy's tale, _The Withered Arm_, it will be recalled, is a story of\nwitchcraft. Farmer Lodge brought home a young wife, Gertrude. A woman\nwho worked on Lodge's farm, Rhoda Brook by name, had a son of which the\nfarmer was the father. Rhoda naturally resented the marriage, and had a\nremarkable dream in which Gertrude, wrinkled and old, had sat on her\nchest and mocked her. She seized the apparition by the left arm and\nhurled it away from her. So life-like was the phantom of her brain that\nit was difficult for her to believe that she had not actually struggled\nwith Gertrude Lodge in the flesh. Some time afterwards the farmer's wife\ncomplained that her left arm pained her, and the doctors were unable to\ngive her any relief. In the end someone suggested that she had been\n\"overlooked,\" and that it was the result of a witch's evil influence.\nShe was told to ask the advice of a wise man named Conjurer Trendle who\nlived on Egdon Heath. In the days of our forefathers the conjurer was an\nimportant character in the village. He was resorted to by despairing\nlovers; he helped those who were under the evil eye to throw off the\ncurse, and disclosed the whereabouts of stolen goods. His answers, too,\nwere given with a somewhat mystic ambiguity. \"Own horn eat own corn\"\nwould be the kind of reply a person would receive on consulting him\nabout the disappearance of, say, a few little household articles. Well,\nto continue the story, Rhoda Brook accompanied Gertrude to the hut of\nConjurer Trendle, who informed the farmer's wife that Rhoda had\n\"overlooked\" her. Trendle told her that the evil spell might be\ndissolved and a cure effected by laying the diseased arm on the neck of\na newly hanged man. During the absence of her husband she arranged with\nthe Casterbridge hangman to try this remedy. On the appointed day she\narrived at the gaol, and the hangman placed her hand upon the neck of\nthe body after the execution, and she drew away half fainting with the\nshock. As she turned she saw her husband and Rhoda Brook. The dead man\nwas their son, who had been hanged for stealing sheep, and they harshly\naccused her of coming to gloat over their misfortune. At this the\nfarmer's wife entirely collapsed, and only lived for a week or so after.\n\nThomas Q. Couch, writing in _Notes and Queries_, 26th May 1855, gives a\npleasant and light-hearted article on the prevailing belief in the\nexistence of the piskies in the West Country:\n\n\"Our piskies are little beings standing midway between the purely\nspiritual, and the material, suffering a few at least of the ills\nincident to humanity. They have the power of making themselves seen,\nheard, and felt. They interest themselves in man's affairs, now doing\nhim a good turn, and anon taking offence at a trifle, and leading him\ninto all manner of mischief. The rude gratitude of the husbandman is\nconstrued into an insult, and the capricious sprites mislead him on the\nfirst opportunity, and laugh heartily at his misadventures. They are\ngreat enemies of sluttery, and great encouragers of good husbandry. When\nnot singing and dancing, their chief nightly amusement is in riding the\ncolts, and plaiting their manes, or tangling them with the seed-vessels\nof the burdock. Of a particular field in this neighbourhood it is\nreported that the farmer never puts his horses in it but he finds them\nin the morning in a state of great terror, panting, and covered with\nfoam. Their form of government is monarchical, as frequent mention is\nmade of the 'king of the piskies.' We have a few stories of pisky\nchangelings, the only proof of whose parentage was that 'they didn't\ngoody' [thrive]. It would seem that fairy children of some growth are\noccasionally entrusted to human care for a time, and recalled; and that\nmortals are now and then kidnapped, and carried off to fairyland; such,\naccording to the nursery rhyme, was the end of Margery Daw:\n\n\n     \"'See-saw, Margery Daw\n     Sold her bed, and lay upon straw;\n     She sold her straw, and lay upon hay,\n     Piskies came and carri'd her away.'\n\n\n\"A disposition to laughter is a striking trait in their character. I\nhave been able to gather little about the personalities of these\ncreatures. My old friend before mentioned used to describe them as about\nthe height of a span, clad in green, and having straw hats or little red\ncaps on their heads. Two only are known by name, and I have heard them\naddressed in the following rhyme:--\n\n\n     \"'Jack o' the lantern! Joan the wad!\n     Who tickled the maid and made her mad,\n     Light me home, the weather's bad.'\n\n\n\"But times have greatly changed. The old-world stories in which our\nforefathers implicitly believed will not stand the light of modern\neducation. The pixies have been banished from the West, and since their\ndeparture the wayward farmer can no longer plead being 'pisky-led' on\nmarket nights.\n\n\"'Pisky-led!' exclaimed an old Devon lady to her bibulous husband, who\nhad returned home very late, pleading he had been led astray by the\npiskies. 'Now, dawntee say nort more about it'--and with a solemn voice\nand a shake of her bony finger she added: 'Pisky-led is whisky-led.\nThat's how it is with you!'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMay with its wealth of resurrecting life, its birds' songs, its flowers\nuplifting glad heads, is a beautiful month in Dorset; but cider-making\ntime, when the trees put on a blaze of yellow and red and the spirit of\nserenity and peace broods over everything, is the period that the true\nson of Dorset loves best. Cider-makin' time--what a phrase! What\nmemories! Why, then, time does indeed blot and blur the golden days of\nyouth! I had almost forgotten the sweet smell of pomace and the cider\nmill--things which loomed large in the days when I was a boy down Devon\nway. It is middle age, which Stevenson likened to the \"bear's hug of\ncustom squeezing the life out of a man's soul,\" that has robbed me of\nthe power to conjure up those happy days from the depths of my\nconsciousness. Certainly some virtue within me has departed--what? Well,\nI do not know, but I cannot recapture the delirious joy of the apple\nharvest in the West. It is only a memory. Perhaps it is one of those\nthings which will return unexpectedly, and by which I shall remember the\nworld at the last.\n\nWell, then, when I was a boy, cider brewing in Hovey's barn was one of\nthe joys of life. A steam-engine on four wheels arrived from Exeter, and\npulleys and beltings were fixed up to work the old-fashioned press.\nWithin the barn a rumbling machine crushed the apples (which had been\ngrowing mellow in the loft for a fortnight), and the press noisily\ndescended on the racks of pulp and sent the liquid into the tubs with a\nswish like the fall of tropical rain. Outside the still October air was\nbroken only by the chug--chug--chug of the stationary engine and the\nmellow voices and laughter of the farmers who delivered their apples and\nreceived in exchange barrels of cider. The marc from the cider-press was\nsometimes fed to cattle combined with bran, hay and chaff. But I suppose\nthat was an old-fashioned idea, and farmers to-day would ridicule such\na thing. But Farmer Hovey was a keen-eyed man of business--a man who\ncould farm his acres successfully in the face of any disaster. How I\nwish that, now grown up, I could re-open those records, the book of his\nmemory! But it has long been closed, laid away in the tree-shaded\nchurchyard in Fore Street, near a flat stone commemorating John Starre:\n\n\n          JOHN STARRE.\n\n         Starre on Hie\n     Where should a Starre be\n           But on Hie?\n         Tho underneath\n         He now doth lie\n         Sleeping in Dust\n         Yet shall he rise\n       More glorious than\n       The Starres in skies.\n             1633.\n\n\nMaking \"marc bricks\" at Farmer Hovey's was the highest pinnacle of my\ndesire. It was one of those peculiarly \"plashy\" jobs in which any child\nwould delight. One could get thoroughly coated from head to foot with\nthe apple pulp in about half-an-hour. The \"marc\" was made into bricks\n(about a pound in weight) to preserve it. It was first pressed as dry as\npossible, made into cubes with wooden moulds, and stacked in an airy\nplace to dry. Hovey liked these bricks for fuel in the winter months,\nand I remember they made a wonderfully clear fire. It was while making\nup the apple pulp into bricks that my brothers and their friends caught\nthe idea of the game of \"hunting.\" The apple pulp was first made up into\na score of heavy, wet balls. Having drawn lots as to who should be the\nhunter, the winner would take charge of the ammunition and retire to the\nbarn, which was known as the \"hunters' shack,\" while the other boys\nwould shin up the orchard trees, or conceal themselves behind walls,\nricks and bushes. A short start was allowed, and then the hunter sallied\nforth with unrestricted powers to bombard with shot and shell anyone\nwithin sight. The first one who made his way home to the \"shack\" became\nthe next hunter. Many a satisfying flap on the back of the neck have I\n\"got home\" with those balls of apple pulp. It was a very primitive game,\nsometimes a very painful one, and not infrequently it ended in a general\nhand-to-hand fight. The game was certainly an excellent exercise in the\nart of encountering the hard knocks of life with a sunny fortitude. In\n1916 it was my fortune to suffer rather a sharp period of shell-fire in\nPalestine with one of the players of this game. My old playmate turned\nto me and yelled: \"Hi, there, Bob! Look out! These coming over are _not_\nmade of apple pulp!\"\n\nThen the smell of the cider-press came full and strong on the night air\nof the desert, and England and the West Country came back to me in the\nfoolishness of dreams, as the Garden of Hesperides or any other Valley\nof Bliss my erring feet had trodden in heedless mood.\n\nThere is a story of a Dorset vicar who was explaining to his flock the\nmeaning of miracles. He saw that his hearers were dull and inattentive,\nand did not seem to grasp what he was saying, so he pointed to an old\nrascal of a villager who always lived riotously yet never toiled, and\nsaid in a loud voice: \"I will tell you what a miracle is. Look at old\nJan Domeny, he hasn't an apple-tree in his garden, and yet he made a\nbarrelful of cider this October. There's a miracle for you.\"\n\nWhile cycling out of Swanage to Corfe--a backbreaking and tortuous\nsuccession of hills--I had the misfortune to meet a wasp at full speed\nand receive a nasty sting. I asked a little girl if her mother lived\nnear, as I wished to get some ammonia for it, and was delighted to hear\nthe child call to her mother through an open window: \"Lukee, mother, a\nwapsy 'ath a stinged this maister 'pon 'is feace.\" Which reminded me of\na story in Akerman's _Wiltshire Glossary_ of a woman who wished to show\noff her lubberly boy to some old dames, and accordingly called him to\nsay his alphabet. She pointed to the letter \"A\" and asked Tommy to name\nit. \"Dang-my-ole-hat, I dwon't know 'un,\" said the child, scratching his\nhead. His mother passed this letter by and moved the point of her\nscissors to the next letter. \"What be thuck one, Tommy?\" \"I knows 'un by\n_zite_, but I can't call 'un by's neame,\" replied the boy. \"What is that\nthing as goes buzzing about the gearden, Tommy?\" The boy put his head on\none side and considered a moment, then replied, with a sly grin:\n\"Wapsy!\"\n\nWilliam Barnes told a good tale of a West Country parson who preached in\nthe rudest vernacular. A rich and selfish dairyman of his flock died,\nand in place of the customary eulogy at the graveside, he said: \"Here\nlies old ----. He never did no good to nobody, and nobody spake no good\no' he; put him to bed and let's prache to the living.\"\n\nAnd here is a good story related to me by a West Country vicar. A lively\nold lady in his parish was very ill, and likely, as it seemed, to die.\nThe vicar called on her and talked with professional eloquence of the\nsplendours and joys of heaven. But the bright old creature had no fears\nfor the future, and indeed was not so ill as they supposed. \"Yes, sir,\"\nshe said, \"what you say may be very true, and heaven may be a\nbobby-dazzling place; but I never was one to go a-bell-wavering--old\nDorset's good enough for me!\"\n\nInside the old Dorset farm-houses there is much that belongs to other\ndays than these. Many old homes have deep porches, with stone seats on\neach side, which lead to the large kitchen. It is large because it was\nbuilt in the days when the farmer had labourers to help in the fields,\nand the mistress of the house had women servants to help with the\nspinning and the poultry, and all who lived under the same roof had\ntheir meals together in this room.\n\nMany of the doors are as large and solid as church doors, and one that I\nsaw was studded with nails and secured by a great rough wooden bar drawn\nright across it into an iron loop on the opposite side at night, and in\nthe day-time thrust back into a hole in the thickness of the wall. But\nthe majority are more homely than this and have only a latch inside\nraised from outside by a leather thong, or by \"tirling at the pin,\" as\nin the old ballad.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nBARFORD ST MARTIN TO TISBURY AND SHAFTESBURY\n\n     And she is very small and very green\n     And full of little lanes all dense with flowers\n     That wind along and lose themselves between\n     Mossed farms, and parks, and fields of quiet sheep.\n     And in the hamlets, where her stalwarts sleep,\n     Low bells chime out from old elm-hidden towers.\n                                         GEOFFREY HOWARD.\n\n\nStarting from Salisbury, the pilgrim of the Hardy country, when he has\npassed through Barford St Martin and Burcome, might think it worth while\nto take the road to Tisbury when he arrives at Swallowcliff. The large\nvillage of Tisbury is situated on the north side of the River Nadder, on\nrising ground, and is about twelve miles west of Salisbury. There is\nmuch of interest to be seen, and the spacious church, in the flat land\nat the bottom of the hill and close to the river, is well worth a visit.\nIt contains several monuments to the Arundels, and on an iron bracket\nnear the easternmost window is a good sixteenth-century helmet, which\nhas been gilded in places and is ornamented with a small band of\nscroll-work round the edges; there is an added spike for a crest. It is\na real helmet, not a funeral one; the rivets for the lining remain\ninside. Tradition says it belonged to the first Lord Arundel of Wardour,\nwho died in 1639. All the seats are of oak and modern, but against the\nwalls is some good linen-fold panelling of the seventeenth century or\nvery late sixteenth century. In the sacrarium is a fine brass to\nLawrence Hyde of West Hatch. He was the great-grandfather of Queen Mary,\n1689, and Queen Anne, 1702. He is represented standing in a church in\nfront of his six sons, facing his wife and four daughters. The\ninscription is:\n\n\n     \"Here lyeth Lawrence Hyde of West Hatch Esqr. who had issue by Anne\n     his wife six sons and four daughters and died in the year of the\n     incarnation of Our Lord God 1590. Beati qui moriuntur in domino.\"\n\n\nThe churchyard is a very large one, and the old causeway which was used\nin times of flood is most picturesque. Two massive black grave slabs at\nonce arrest the eye. In plain, square lead lettering one reads:\n\n\n     JOHN LOCKWOOD KIPLING\n             C.I.E.\n           1837-1911.\n\n        ALICE MACDONALD\n            WIFE OF\n     JOHN LOCKWOOD KIPLING\n             1910\n\n\n[Illustration: STOCKS AT TOLLARD ROYAL\n\n(Seven miles south of Tisbury)]\n\nThe village of Tisbury existed in the seventh century, the earliest\nextant spelling of the name being \"Tissebiri\" or \"Dysseburg,\" and there\nwas a monastery over which an abbot named Wintra ruled about 647. Mr\nPaley Baildon, F.S.A., who has devoted considerable time to the\ninvestigation of the origin of place names, thinks that without doubt\nTisbury is derived from Tissa's-burgh, Tissa or Tyssa being a personal\nname and owner of the estate; hence it came to be known as\nTissa's-burgh.\n\nIt was at Tisbury that Rudyard Kipling wrote some of his stories after\nleaving India, and there can be little doubt that after some years of\nabsence in the East the return to things desperately dear and familiar\nand intimate exercised a strong effect upon his thoughts and writing,\nand prepared a way for his delicately fashioned pictures of the Old\nCountry in _Puck of Pook's Hill_ and _Rewards and Fairies_.\n\nAt Barford St Martin I had the misfortune to burst the back tube and\ntyre of my motor cycle, and that is the real reason I arrived at\nTisbury. I wheeled my machine to the Green Dragon, hoping for a lift to\na place where I could get fixed up with a new tyre. A large wagon was\nstanding outside the inn, and as it bore the name, Stephen Weekes,\nTisbury, upon it, I penetrated to the bar-parlour, thinking that I\nmight induce the driver to take me with the machine into that village.\n\nThe owner of the wagon was sitting inside with two large bottles of\nstout before him. He was a burly fellow in shirt-sleeves and a broad\nstraw hat. I saw he was fifty or thereabouts--not a mere wagoner, but a\nsmall farmer who would have answered to the description of Farmer Oak by\nThomas Hardy in his opening to _Far from the Madding Crowd_. He was of a\nmore jovial type than most Dorset men I have met, and after submitting\nto his fire of questions I asked him gently, in jest, if he would\nrequire any assistance with his two bottles.\n\n\"Aye,\" he answered, quizzing at me with his merry eyes. \"I shall require\nanother bottle to assist me, I think.\"\n\nHe looked at me a moment with seriousness and then he laughed to the\npoint of holding his sides. He slapped his knees, shouted, roared and\nalmost rolled with merriment. I looked at the farmer, not without a\nfeeling of admiration. It was perhaps a very poor jest, you will say.\nBut how well a simple jest became the fellow; how gloriously he laughed.\nDown in my heart I knew that no man could laugh as he did and at the\nsame time possess a mean mind. He was as broad as the earth, and his\nlaughter was just as limitless. Talk of good things: there may be\nsomething finer than a hearty laugh--there may be--perhaps....\n\nAt this moment he called for two glasses, and explained to the landlord\nthat now he would drink out of a glass, seeing that he was in company.\n\n\"Then tell me,\" I said, \"why do you drink out of the bottle when you are\nalone?\"\n\n\"Why, you don't get no virtue out of the beer 'thout you drink it out of\nthe bottle. No, fay! Half of the strength is gone like winky when you\npour it into a glass.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" I said, \"and I especially commend you for\ndrinking beer. Ale is a great and generous creature; it contains all\nhealth, induces sleep o' nights, titillates the digestion and imparts\nfreshness to the palate.\"\n\n\"'Tis the only drink that will go with bread and cheese and pickling\ncabbage,\" dashed in the farmer.\n\n\"'Tis a pity,\" I said, \"that so many workers in London take bread and\ncheese with tea and coffee, for there is no staying power in such a\nmixture.\"\n\n\"It can't be good,\" he shouted. \"It can't be healthy.\"\n\nThe farmer's name was Mr Weekes--the same as it was painted on the\nwagon outside--and he said that he would be very glad to take me with my\nmachine into Tisbury, where there was a motor garage. He made an\nextraordinarily shrill noise with his mouth and a fine greyhound that\nhad been sleeping beneath the table bounded up.\n\n\"This long-dog,\" said Mr Weekes, \"is a wonderfully good dog--the best\ndog of his kind in the world.\"\n\nMr Weekes is never half-hearted about things. His enthusiasm is\nprodigious. He is like a human hurricane when he launches upon any of\nhis pet subjects. At once he fell to explaining the points and final\nperfection of a perfect greyhound. I remember a quaint rhyme he quoted,\nwhich is perhaps worth repetition here:\n\n\n     \"The shape of a good greyhound is:--\n     A head like a snake, a neck like a drake;\n     A back like a beam, a belly like a bream;\n     A foot like a cat, a tail like a rat.\"\n\n\nThe farmer, then, I say, was not the kind of man to qualify any of his\nremarks, and he reasserted his claim that, in the concrete, in the\nexistent state of things, his dog was the best that breathed.\n\n[Illustration: THE GREEN DRAGON AT BARFORD ST MARTIN IN 1860\n\nThis inn is one of the few remaining places in England where the\nlandlord brews his own ale\n\nThe adjoining barns have been regularly used for brewing since 1750]\n\nThis he said for the sixth time, drank up his stout, and after helping\nme to lift my machine into the wagon, climbed up on to his seat, I by\nhis side. He then flicked his horses gently with his whip and they began\nto amble along with the wagon. On the way to Tisbury the farmer talked\nwith the greatest friendliness, and when we arrived at his farm he\ninsisted on bringing me in to supper. He showed me his orchard, barns\nand a very fine apple-tree of which he was enormously proud, and pulled\nme an armful of the finest apples he could find.\n\n\"Take these apples home,\" he said, watching me with his merry eyes;\n\"they make the best apple pies in the world.\"\n\nAn armful of apples of prodigious size is not exactly the kind of thing\none welcomes with a broken-down motor cycle two hundred miles from home,\nbut I dared not refuse them, and so I stuffed them into all my pockets.\nFinally my good friend insisted on keeping me under his roof for the\nnight.\n\nAfter my machine had been repaired next morning I went on my way,\nthinking what a fine, merry, hospitable fellow the Dorset yeoman is--if\nyou only approach him with a little caution.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI left my friend the yeoman farmer with regret, regained the main road\nand soon came into Shaftesbury, or _Shaston_, as it is commonly called.\nThis town is very curiously placed, on the narrow ridge of a chalk hill\nwhich projects into the lower country, and rises from it with\nabruptness. Hence an extensive landscape is seen through the openings\nbetween the houses, and from commanding points the eye ranges over the\ngreater part of Dorset and Somerset. To add to the beauty of the\nposition, the scarped slope of the hill is curved on its southern side.\nShaftesbury is one of the oldest towns in the kingdom. Its traditions go\nback to the time of King Lud, who, according to Holinshed, founded it\nabout 1000 B.C. A more moderate writer refers its origin to\nCassivellaunus. However, it is certain that Alfred, in the year 880,\nfounded here a nunnery, which in aftertimes became the richest in\nEngland, and, as the shrine of St Edward the Martyr--whose body was\nremoved to this town from Wareham--the favourite resort of pilgrims.\nAsser, who wrote the _Life of Alfred_, has described Shaftesbury as\nconsisting of one street in his time. In that of Edward the Confessor it\npossessed three mints, sure evidence of its importance; and shortly\nafter the Conquest it had no less than twelve churches, besides chapels\nand chantries, and a Hospital of St John.\n\nThe view from the Castle Hill at the west end of the ridge is very\nextensive, and from all parts of the town you come unexpectedly upon\nnarrow ravines which go tumbling down to the plain below in the most\nheadlong fashion. The chief trouble in the olden days was the water\nsupply. On this elevated chalk ridge the town was obviously far removed\nfrom the sources of spring water, and the supply of this necessary\narticle had been from time out of mind brought on horses' backs from the\nparish of Gillingham. Hence arose a curious custom which was annually\nobserved here for a great number of years. On the Monday before Holy\nThursday the mayor proceeded to Enmore Green, near Motcombe, with a\nlarge, fanciful broom, or _byzant_, as it was called, which he presented\nas an acknowledgment for the water to the steward of the manor, together\nwith a calf's head, a pair of gloves, a gallon of ale and two penny\nloaves of wheaten bread. This ceremony being concluded, the\nbyzant--which was usually hung with jewels and other costly\nornaments--was returned to the mayor and carried back to the town in\nprocession.\n\nAbout 1816 the Mayor of Shaftesbury refused to carry out the custom, and\nthe people of Enmore were so put out by his omission in this respect\nthat they filled up the wells. The Shastonians paid twopence for a\nhorse-load of water and a halfpenny for a pail \"if fetched upon the\nhead.\" I heard a rather amusing story of the water-carrying days. A\nrustic who had been working on the land all day in the rain came\n\"slewching\" up Gold Hill, feeling very unhappy and out of temper. At the\nsummit of the hill he passed by the crumbling church of St Peter's, but\ndid _not_ pass the Sun and Moon Inn. Here he cheered his drooping\nspirits with a measure of old-fashioned Shaftesbury XXX stingo, and,\nthus strengthened, he went on his way home, expecting to be welcomed\nwith a warm, savoury supper. But the news of his call at the inn had\nreached his wife before he arrived home, and being rather an ill-natured\nperson, she decided to punish him for loitering on his way. \"Oh,\" she\nsaid to him, \"as you are so wet already, just you take this steyan\n[earthenware pot] and fill it with water at Toute Hill spring, and don't\ngo loafing at the Sun and Moon again.\" The rustic took up the pitcher\nwithout a word, filled it and returned to his sour housewife; but\ninstead of putting the pitcher down, he hurled the contents over her,\nsaying: \"Now _you_ are wet too, so you can go to the spring and fetch\nthe water.\"\n\nBimport is a wide and comfortable street which skirts the north crest of\nCastle Hill. It is a street of honest stone houses, and readers of\n_Jude the Obscure_ will look here for Phillotson's school and the\n\"little low drab house in which the wayward Sue wrought the wrecking of\nher life.\" Their house, \"old Grove's Place\"--now called \"Ox House\"--is\nnot difficult to find. As you come up from the Town Hall and Market\nHouse to the fork of the roads which run to Motcombe and East Stower,\nBimport turns off to the left, and a hundred or so yards down is Grove's\nPlace, with a projecting porch and mullioned windows. It was here that\nSue in a momentary panic jumped out of the window to avoid Phillotson.\nThe name of the house derives from that of a former inhabitant mentioned\nin an old plan of Shaftesbury. Poor, highly strung Sue Bridehead, with\nher neurotic temperament, could not throw off the oppressiveness of the\nold house. \"We don't live in the school, you know,\" said she, \"but in\nthat ancient dwelling across the way, called old Grove's Place. It is so\nantique and dismal that it depresses me dreadfully. Such houses are very\nwell to visit, but not to live in. I feel crushed into the earth by the\nweight of so many previous lives there spent. In a new place like these\nschools there is only your own life to support.\"\n\nThe village of Marnhull is situated in the Vale of Blackmoor, six miles\nfrom Shaftesbury. It is the \"Marlott\" of Hardy's novel _Tess_, the\nvillage home of the Durbeyfield family. It contains little of interest.\nThe Pure Drop Inn, where \"there's a very pretty brew in tap,\" may be the\n\"Crown.\" Here John Durbeyfield kept up Tess's wedding day \"as well as he\ncould, and stood treat to everybody in the parish, and John's wife sung\nsongs till past eleven o'clock.\" There is a Pure Drop Inn at Wooten\nGlanville and another at Wareham; one of these most probably suggested\nthe name. The fine church is of the eighteenth-century Gothic (1718),\nand it has often been regarded by strangers as being three hundred years\nearlier. The font bowl, late Norman, was unearthed in 1898, also the\nrood staircase and squint and the piscina. Some ancient alabaster\neffigies, ascribed to the middle of the fifteenth century and\nrepresenting a man in armour and two female figures, are placed on a\ncenotaph in the north aisle. Some authorities claim that they represent\nThomas Howard, Lord Bindon, and his wives, and are of a later date. Nash\nCourt, a little to the north, is a fine Elizabethan mansion, formerly\nthe seat of the Husseys.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE VALE OF BLACKMOOR\n\n\nMy motor cycle had carried me without a hitch from London to Melbury\nAbbas--then Fortune scowled on me. With ridiculous ease I had rolled\nalong the roads all day, and I had been tempted to ride through the warm\nautumnal darkness till I came to the Half Moon Inn at Shaftesbury, where\nthe roads fork away to Melbury Hill, Blandford and Salisbury. But a few\nhundred yards out of Melbury Abbas, and then Fortune's derisive frown.\nFrom a deceptive twist in the road I dashed into a gully, and my machine\nbumped and rattled and groaned like a demon caught in a trap. It\nperformed other antics with which this chronicle has no concern, and\nthen refused to move an inch farther.\n\nBut the song of a nightingale in a grove of elms near the road made full\namends for my ill luck! It is beautiful to hear his sobbing, lulling\nnotes when one is alone on a dark night, and Shelley was not far wrong\nin styling it voluptuous.\n\n\n     \"I heard the raptured nightingale\n     Tell from yon elmy grove his tale\n           Of jealousy and love,\n     In thronging notes that seem'd to fall\n     As faultless and as musical\n           As angels' strains above.\n     So sweet, they cast on all things round\n     A spell of melody profound:\n     They charm'd the river in his flowing,\n     They stay'd the night-wind in its blowing.\"\n\n\nI lit a pipe and made myself comfortable on the green bank of the\nroadside. It was simply a matter of waiting for a carter to give me a\nlift. Soon I heard footsteps approaching me. \"Good-evening,\" said a\nfriendly, quavering voice, and a little, round-faced gentleman in a grey\novercoat and straw hat emerged from the shadows. I questioned him as to\nthe distance of the nearest inn or cottage where I could get a shelter\nfor the night, and explained how my machine had failed me.\n\n\"The nearest inn is two miles away. I'm afraid they do not accommodate\ntravellers,\" he replied.\n\n\"Is this your home?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh yes! Woolpit House is just beyond those elms. I live there. I am not\na native of these parts. I have only lived there for the last six\nmonths. I am sorry I came here, for the place does not suit me. Do you\ncare to leave your motor cycle? You are most welcome to a bed in my\nhouse,\" he added with cheerful simplicity.\n\n\"I should be greatly indebted to you. But shan't I be a bother to your\nfamily at this time of the night?\"\n\n\"I have none.\"\n\nI wheeled my machine through a gate and left it the other side of the\nhedge, where I hoped it would be safe till morning. We came to the house\nacross a footpath--a small stone-gabled sixteenth-century building. A\nwhisp of mist from a bubbling stream circled the place and gave it an\nair of isolation. We entered a lit room, which was of solemn aspect, and\nmy friend gave me a deep-seated chair.\n\n\"Are you serious in saying that you do not like Dorset?\" I questioned.\n\nThe little man smiled quietly, sadly.\n\n\"It is not Dorset exactly. But since I came to live here I have become a\nbundle of nerves. It is nothing--I think it's nothing.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I only think--I only wonder----\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"This is such an old house. All sorts of things must have happened here.\nAnd from the first moment I came into the place I had a sudden\nsensation of there being something unseen and unheard near me. There is\nan essence in this house--an influence which stifles all laughter and\njoy. I wonder if you will feel it as I do!\"\n\n\"Bit creepy,\" I said, and at the same time I came to the conclusion that\nthe old fellow was a little eccentric, and this idea of the house being\non the left side of the sun was merely a foolish weakness.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" he said, musing; \"queer, isn't it? But you don't know the\nqueerest.\"\n\nHe pondered a moment, then suddenly he wagged his crooked fore-finger at\nme and said: \"It is something more than an essence--it is stronger. The\nother evening when it was getting dusk I got up from my chair to light\nthe candles, and I saw, as I thought, someone about six yards from that\nwindow--outside on the flagstones. It was more than a shadowy shape. So\nwithout waiting I ran out into the hall and opened the front door,\nfeeling sure I should see a tramp or someone there. But the drive was\nquite empty--I only looked out into the dusk. But as I looked out\nsomething that I could not see slipped through and passed into the\nhouse. The same kind of thing has happened a dozen times.\"\n\nThe little old man passed his hand over his brow.\n\n\"Here,\" I said rather brusquely, \"you're not well; you're just a bundle\nof nerves. Look here, sir, you want a holiday.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, wiping his brow. \"I try to tell myself that it is all\nrot ... all my fancy. But what would _you_ do?\"\n\n\"See a doctor,\" I replied.\n\n\"Doctors?... Bah! I'll tell you,\" he whispered. \"I want a ghost-doctor\nto rid me of this invisible, pushing thing. It gets stronger every time!\nAt first it just slipped through; just a bit more than a gust of wind.\nBut now it's getting compact. To-night it drove me out of the house:\nthat was how I came to be wandering out on the highroad like a lost\nsoul.\"\n\n\"But ... goodness, sir, such a thing outrages reason.\"\n\n\"You can say what you will, but _it_ is there, and it is growing\ntangible. Last night I could distinguish his features as he came up\nclose to the window. He smiled at me, but the smile was one of\ninscrutable evil. He resents me being in this house. I shall have to\nabandon it.\"\n\n\"This little man is either off his head, or worse,\" I said to myself.\n\nIn spite of the warmth of the room, I felt myself shiver.\n\nAt that moment I heard the sound of a stealthy footstep outside the\ndoor.\n\nThe little old man jumped up.\n\n\"I say,\" he said in an odd voice, \"did you hear?\"\n\nI pretended I had not heard.\n\n\"Ah, you didn't ... and, of course, you didn't feel anything. It must\nhave been my imagination.\"\n\nA wave of shame ran over me. I knew that I had not the courage to listen\nto the old fellow's story any longer. I finished my whisky-and-soda and\nstood up.\n\n\"It is very kind of you, sir, to offer me a lodging for the night. I am\nfeeling rather weary and would like to go to bed now, if it is\nconvenient to you.\"\n\n\"Come then, sir,\" he said, with his old-fashioned politeness, and he\nwalked towards the door.\n\nThen I saw the _thing_. There wasn't a shadow of doubt about it. I saw\nthe little old man open the door. The next moment he started back. Then\nhe thrust forward with his body, and I could see him bearing against\nsomething. He swayed, physically, as a man sways when he is wrestling. A\nsecond after he was free.\n\n\"Well, you've seen it--what do you think of it?\" he said presently, as I\nfollowed him into the hall. His face had turned cloudy whitish grey.\n\nI laughed, but the full horror of it had soaked into me.\n\nI followed my host up a series of stairs. He carried a candlestick, with\nhis arm extended, so as to give me a guiding light. The old house was\ndim and chilly in its barrenness. He stopped at a door in a long, narrow\ncorridor and set the candlestick down.\n\n\"This is your room.\"\n\nWith a gentle bow and a kindly smile he opened the door for me.\n\n\"Good-night, sir. Can you see your way down?\" I asked.\n\n\"I have a candle in my pocket.\"\n\nHe lit it at mine. Another quiet, friendly smile, and I watched him out\nof sight along the corridor.\n\nI stood perfectly still for a moment just inside. Then a curious feeling\nof something dreadful being close at hand was present in my mind. Of\ncourse it was all humbug, and my nerves were deceiving me. But I could\nnot shake myself free from the notion that I was _not_ alone.\n\nThere is an essence in all these old dwellings that comes out to meet\none on a first visit. I recognise the truth of that--for how often have\nI noticed how, under one roof, one breathes a friendly air, and under\nanother queerness runs across the spine like the feet of hurrying mice.\nIn this house there was something sinister and unwholesome. I cursed my\nluck for driving me into such a place. A night spent under a hedge would\nhave been more desirable. However, I turned into bed and passed rather a\nbroken night, with stretches of dream-haunted sleep interspersed with\nstartled awakenings. The old house seemed to be full of muffled\nmovements, and once (timid fool that I was) I could have sworn that the\nhandle of my door turned. It was with a considerable qualm, I must\nconfess, I lit my candle and opened the door. But the gallery was quite\nempty. I went back to bed and slept again, and when next I woke the sun\nwas streaming into my room, and the sense of trouble that had been with\nme ever since entering the house last evening had gone.\n\nWhen I arrived at the breakfast-table the little old man was seated\nbehind the coffee-pot, and his face was quite glowing and wreathed in\nsmiles. Morning had brought a flood of hard common sense to him, as\nclear as the crisp sunshine that filled the room. He had already begun\nand was consuming a plateful of eggs and bacon with the most prosaic and\nhealthy appetite.\n\n\"Slept well?\" he asked.\n\n\"Moderately,\" I said, feeling ashamed of my timidity in the morning\nlight.\n\n\"I am afraid I talked rather wildly last night,\" remarked the little\nman, in a voice pregnant with reason.\n\n\"Yes--an amazing quantity of nonsense,\" I consented. \"Where did you\nlearn hypnotism?\"\n\nMy host's brow clouded slightly.\n\n\"You see,\" I continued, \"you must have thrown a spell over me, for I\nreally believed in your ghost story, and now I have come to the\nconclusion that you were joking.\"\n\n\"Never mind. It doesn't matter.\"\n\nBut the little man didn't look up from his plate. He only shook his\nhead.\n\nWell (to get on), we finished breakfast. After smoking a pipe on the\nverandah with my host (who might have been a wizard for aught I knew, at\nleast this was my fantastic thought) I went out and looked at my\nmachine, and was fortunate enough after an hour's tinkering to get her\ngoing again. The little man insisted that I should take a small glass of\nsome liqueur brandy of which he was very proud. So I took some of the\nwonderful stuff--strong, sufficient, soul-filling, part of the good rich\nearth--and went out into the sunlight, and taking a foot-bridge over\nrunning water put myself out of the little wizard's power.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout six months later I was hunting in an old bookseller's shop in\nSalisbury when by something more than a mere coincidence I came across a\nsmall booklet called _Twenty-five Years of Village Life_, dealing with\nthe district around Shaftesbury, and I read:\n\n\"It is somewhat remarkable that, during the last ten years, two vicars\nof the parish have died under somewhat mysterious circumstances at\nWoolpit House. It is not necessary to go into details here, but many\nwild stories about this picturesque old house are told around the\ncountryside. The country people have an odd way of accounting for the\nill fortune that has always attended Woolpit House. They say that it was\nbuilt by the order of a dissolute old nobleman who had sold his soul to\nthe devil, and in order to pass bad luck to all his successors who might\noccupy the mansion he caused grave-stones from ---- churchyard to be\nrooted up and built into the walls.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Vale of Blackmoor or Blackmore, watered by the upper part of the\nStour, was formerly known as the White Hart Forest, but is now a strip\nof pasturage celebrated among farmers as one of the richest of grazing\nlands. Its marshy surface is speckled by herds of lazy cattle, and by\nbusier droves of pigs, of which this vale supplies to London a larger\nnumber than either of the counties of Somerset and Devon. Blackmoor is\nalso known for the vigorous growth of its oaks, which thrive on the\ntenacious soil. Loudon says it was originally called _White Hart Forest_\nfrom Henry III. having here hunted a beautiful white hart and spared its\nlife; and Fuller gives the sequel to the tale. He says that Thomas de la\nLynd, a gentleman of fair estate, killed the white hart which Henry by\nexpress will had reserved for his own chase, and that in consequence the\ncounty--as accessory for not opposing him--was mulched for ever in a\nfine called \"White-hart Silver.\" \"Myself,\" continues Fuller sorrowfully,\n\"hath paid a share for the sauce who never tasted the meat.\" Loudon also\ninforms us that the vale contained _Losel's Wood_, in which stood the\n_Raven's Oak_ mentioned by White in his _Natural History of Selborne_.\n\nThe Vale of Blackmore stretches westward from the Melburys north of\nCattistock (Melbury Bub, Osmund and Sampford) to Melbury Abbas south of\nShaftesbury.\n\nDown beyond Pulham, seven miles south-west of Sturminster Newton, on a\nflat and dismal road, stands at the King's Stag Bridge across the River\nLidden an inn called \"King's Stag,\" with a signboard representing a stag\nwith a ring round its neck, and the following lines below:--\n\n\n     \"When Julius C\u00e6sar reigned here,\n     I was then but a little deer;\n     When Julius C\u00e6sar reigned king,\n     Upon my neck he placed this ring,\n     That whoso me might overtake\n     Should spare my life for C\u00e6sar's sake.\"\n\n\nThe belief in the longevity of the stag prevails in most countries.\nLinn\u00e6us (_Regnum Animale_) says of the _Cervus Elaphus_: \"\u00c6tas Bovis\ntantum; fabula est long\u00e6vitatis cervi.\"\n\nFrom a formula, as old as the hills, relating to the length of life of\nanimals and trees we learn that--\n\n\"Three old dogs make one horse; three old horses make one old man; three\nold men, one old red deer; three old red deer, one old oak; three old\noaks, one brent-fir [fir or pine dug out of bogs].\"\n\nIf a dog be supposed to be old at eight years, this will give: horse,\n24; man, 72; deer, 216; oak, 648; bog fir, or brent fir, 1944 years.\n\nThe proverbs which follow are not folk-sayings, but they are given a\nplace here as being quaint and curious, and not devoid of a certain\ninterest, as they were collected by the author while tramping in the\nVale of Blackmore during the summer of 1921:--\n\n\"When the gorse is out of blossom, kissing is out of fashion\" (_i.e._\nkissing is _never_ out of fashion).\n\n\"Trouble ran off him like water off a duck's back.\"\n\n\"If you sing before breakfast, you'll cry before night.\"\n\n\"Turn your money when you hear the cuckoo, and you'll have money in your\npurse till the cuckoo comes again.\"\n\n\"Plenty of lady-birds, plenty of hops.\" (The _coccinella_ feeds upon the\n_aphis_ that proves so destructive to the hop-plant.)\n\n\n     \"March, search; April, try;\n     May will prove if you live or die.\"\n\n\n\"When your salt is damp, you will soon have rain.\"\n\n\"It will be a wet month when there are two full moons in it.\"\n\n\nCertainly the maidens of Blackmore have a benediction upon them, granted\nthem for their homeliness and kindness. Their eyes are quiet and yet\nfearless, and all the maids have something wifely about them. William\nBarnes, the poet of the Dorset valley, praising the Blackmoor maidens,\nsays:\n\n\n     \"Why, if a man would wive\n     An' thrive 'ithout a dow'r,\n     Then let en look en out a wife\n     In Blackmore by the Stour.\"\n\n\nWilliam Barnes was not a wild wooer, and he found joy and adventure in\na smile and a blush from a Blackmore milkmaid after having carried her\npail, and he was satisfied to know that she would have bowed when she\ntook it back had it not been too heavy. Perhaps--O dizzy fancy!--sweet\nNan of the Vale would not have refused a little kiss! At all events\nBarnes knew womanhood in its perfection when he met with it--the maid\nwho was \"good and true and fair\" was his preference.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nBLANDFORD TO DORCHESTER\n\n     If we return, will England be\n     Just England still to you and me?\n     The place where we must earn our bread?--\n     We who have walked among the dead,\n     And watched the smile of agony,\n     And seen the price of Liberty,\n     Which we have taken carelessly\n     From other hands. Nay, we shall dread,\n             If we return,\n     Dread lest we hold blood-guiltily\n     The thing that men have died to free.\n     Oh, English fields shall blossom red\n     In all the blood that has been shed,\n     By men whose guardians are we,\n             If we return.\n                                F. W. HARVEY.\n\n\nBlandford, or, to give the town its full title, Blandford Forum, gets\nits name from the ancient ford of the Stour, on a bend of which river it\nis pleasingly placed in the midst of a bountiful district. It is called\n\"Shottsford Forum\" in Hardy's _Far from the Madding Crowd_, and in _The\nWoodlanders_ we are told that \"Shottsford is Shottsford still: you can't\nvictual your carcass there unless you've got money, and you can't buy a\ncup of genuine there whether or no.\" The long chief street of the town\nhas a bright, modern aspect, due to the great fire of 1731 which\ndestroyed all but forty houses in the place. There is nothing to detain\nthe pilgrim here, but it makes a good centre for any who are exploring\nthe country around it.\n\nFive miles of rather hilly road brings us to Winterborne Whitchurch,\nwhich has a very interesting church containing a curious old font dated\n1450 and a fine old pulpit removed from Milton. The grandfather of John\nand Charles Wesley was vicar here from 1658 to 1662. Of the poet George\nTurberville, born here about 1530, very little is known. He was one of\nthe \"wild\" Turbervilles, and one would like to learn more about him.\nAnyway, here is a specimen of his verse:\n\n\n     \"Death is not so much to be feared as Daylie Diseases are.\n     What? Ist not follie to dread and stand of Death in feare\n     That mother is of quiet rest, and grief away does weare?\n     Was never none that twist have felt of cruel Death the Knife;\n     But other griefes and pining paines doe linger on thro life,\n     And oftentimes one selfsame corse with furious fits molest\n     When Death by one dispatch of life doth bring the soul to rest.\"\n\n\nWhen we arrive at Milborne St Andrews we are within eight miles of\nDorchester. The Manor House, up a by-road and past the church of St\nAndrew, is the original of \"Welland House\" in Hardy's _Two on a Tower_.\nThis was once the residence of the Mansell-Pleydell family, but since\n1758 it has been used as a farm-house. The village was formerly an\nimportant posting-place between Blandford and Dorchester, and we are\nreminded of the coaching days by the effigy of a white hart on the\ncornice of the post office, in time past a busy inn.\n\nPuddletown is our next halt on the road. It is a considerable village\nwhose church has a chapel full of ancient monuments to the Martins of\nAthelhampton. Canon Carter held the living here in 1838, and when he\nfirst arrived the news that he neither shot, hunted nor fished disturbed\nthe rustic flock, and they openly expressed their contempt for him. Then\nhe replaced the village church band with a harmonium, and the story\ngained so much bulk and robustity in travelling, as such stories do in\nthe country, that I have no doubt he seemed a sort of devastating\nmonster.\n\nAfter this he did a most appalling thing: he tampered with a very\nancient rectorial gift of a mince-pie, a loaf of bread and a quart of\nold ale to every individual in the parish, not even excluding the babies\nin arms, and ventured to assert that the funds would be better employed\nin forming a clothing club for the poor. Carter was a very worthy man,\nbut somehow I cannot forgive him for this. He should have placed himself\na little nearer to the full current of natural things. In the essence\nthe ancient gift was \"clothing\"--solid and straightforward. It was\nsurely in this spirit that Bishop John Still penned his famous drinking\nsong:\n\n\n     \"No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,\n           Can hurt me if I would,\n     I am so wrapt and throughly lapt\n           Of jolly good ale and old.\"\n\n\nSo at the next tithe-day supper at the Rectory a farmer who had in him\nthe Dorset heart and blood, a very demi-god amongst the poor of\nPuddletown, arose in his place and asked the good Canon Carter if he\nstill held to his purpose of converting the Christmas ale into nether\ngarments for little boys, and the Canon replied to the effect that it\nwas his intention to carry out that reform.\n\nThen the farmer, full of the West, who had not come to talk balderdash,\nshouted: \"I ban't agwaine tu see the poor folk put upon. I'll be blamed\nef I du.\" His voice was very strong and echoed in the rafters in an\nalarming way, for he was of the breed that said \"good-morning\" to a\nfriend three fields away without much effort. At this point certain\nstuffy people folded their hands, and called out \"Fie!\" and \"Shame!\" for\nit was their purpose to curry favour with the vicar, they having many\nsmall children in need of nether garments.\n\nBut the farmer cried out over them all (and all the other farmers\ncheered him on): \"I tellee what tez. I don't care a brass button for\nyou, with all your penny-loaf ways. That to ye all!\" And with that he\nsnapped his fingers in the face of all the company, walked out, mounted\nhis powerful horse and turned back to his great, spacious farm-house.\nHere he counted out a great bundle of Stuckey's Bank notes, and calling\nhis bailiff sent them post-haste to the landlord of the King's Arms with\nword to the effect that they were lodged against a quart of Christmas\nale for every soul who should care to claim it on Christmas Eve. That is\nthe story of Farmer Dribblecombe, and may we all come out of a trying\nposition as well as he.\n\nBut to return to the church. There are the old oak pews of bygone days,\na choir gallery with the date 1635, an ancient pulpit and a curious\nNorman font shaped like a drinking-bowl. The most interesting corner of\nthe church is the Athelhampton aisle, which is entered through a quaint\narchway guarded by a tomb on which lies an armed knight carved in\nalabaster. Buried here are the Martins of many generations. They once\nowned the old manor-house, with the great barns behind it and the\nfertile acres spreading far on every hand. They once went forth swiftly\nand strongly, on hefty and determined horses, and worked hotly, and came\nin wearied with long rides and adventures. Now they rest together,\n\"medi\u00e6vally recumbent,\" and when their ghosts walk they do not inquire\nwho owns the land where they tread. They let the hot world go by, and\nwait with patience the day when all the old squires of Athelhampton\nshall be mustered once again. A great company indeed! The offspring of\none noble family, who, following each other for nearly four hundred\nyears, ruled as lords of their little holding in Dorset. The first of\nthe family came to Athelhampton in 1250, and the last in 1595.\nEverywhere is to be found carved on their tombs the dark and menacing\nmotto, beneath their monkey crest, \"He who looks at Martins' Ape,\nMartins' Ape shall look at him!\" The crest is, of course, a play on the\nword Martin, which is an obsolete word for ape. But the menace of the\nmotto has lost its power these three hundred years, and nothing of the\nmight and affluence of the Martins remains but their mutilated effigies.\nI have been wondering to-day how they must look out upon us all with our\ncinematographs, jazzy-dances, lip-sticks, backless gowns, cigarettes,\nwhisky and pick-me-ups, and our immense concern over the immeasurably\ntrivial. I don't know that I said it aloud--such things need not be said\naloud--but as I read a touching epitaph which urged a little prayer for\ntwo of the family, I turned almost numbly away, while my whole being\nseemed to cry out: \"God rest your souls, God rest your souls.\"\n\nHere, since we are on the subject, is the touching prayer from the lips\nof one of the ancient house of the Martins:\n\n\n     \"Here lyeth the body of Xpofer Martyn Esquyer,\n     Sone and heyre unto Syr Wm: Martyn, knight,\n     Pray for their souls with harty desyre\n     That both may be sure of Eternall Lyght;\n     Calling to Remembrance that evoy wyhgt\n     Most nedys dye, and therefore lett us pray\n     As others for us may do Another day.\"\n\n\nThe last of the Martins was the Knight Nicholas who was buried here in\n1595, and the last passage of his epitaph are the words, \"Good-night,\nNicholas!\" With these appropriate words they put Nicholas to rest, like\na child who had grown sleepy before it was dark. After all, we are all\nchildren, and when the shadows lengthen and the birds get back to the\nprotecting eaves, we too grow tired--tired of playing with things much\ntoo large for us--much too full of meaning.\n\nThe church of Puddletown, or \"Weatherbury,\" brings us to the crowning\ncatastrophe of the sad love tale of Francis Troy and Fanny Robin, for it\nis the scene of the sergeant's agony of remorse. Having set up a\ntombstone over the poor girl's grave, Troy proceeds to plant the mound\nbeneath with flowers. \"There were bundles of snowdrops, hyacinth and\ncrocus bulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early\nspring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley,\nforget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow saffron, and others, for the\nlater seasons of the year.\" The author minutely describes the planting\nof these by Troy, with his \"impassive face,\" on that dark night when the\nrays from his lantern spread into the old yews \"with a strange,\nilluminating power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of\ncloud above.\" He works till midnight and sleeps in the church porch; and\nthen comes the storm and the doings of the gargoyle. The stream of water\nfrom the church roof spouting through the mouth of this \"horrible stone\nentity\" rushes savagely into the new-made grave, turning the mould into\na welter of mud and washing away all the flowers so carefully planted by\nFanny's repentant lover. At the sight of the havoc, we are told, Troy\n\"hated himself.\" He stood and meditated, a miserable human derelict.\nWhere should he turn for sanctuary? But the words that burnt and\nwithered his soul could not be banished: \"He that is accursed, let him\nbe accursed still.\"\n\nThe ill-named River Piddle--a rippling, tortoiseshell-coloured stream at\ntimes--runs through the streets. An old thatched house is peculiar by\nreason of the fact that it has broken out into a spacious Georgian bow\nwindow--a \"window worthy of a town hall,\" as Sir Frederick Treves has\nremarked. It is supported by pillars, and has a porch-like space beneath\ndevoted to a flower-bed.\n\n\"Weatherbury Upper Farm,\" the home of Bathsheba, which she inherited\nfrom her uncle, is not to be found in Puddletown, but if the pilgrim\ndesires to find it he must proceed up the valley of the Puddle, in the\ndirection of Piddlehinton. Before reaching the village he will come to\nLower Walterstone, where a fine Jacobean manor-house, bearing the date\n1586, will be easily recognised as the original which Thomas Hardy made\nto serve as the \"Upper Farm\" in _Far from the Madding Crowd_.\n\nIn the story the author has placed the farm a mile or more from its\nactual position, and it is vividly portrayed:\n\n\"A hoary building, of the Jacobean stage of Classic Renaissance as\nregards its architecture, and of a proportion which told at a glance\nthat, as is so frequently the case, it had once been the manorial hall\nupon a small estate around it, now altogether effaced as a distinct\nproperty, and merged in the vast tract of a non-resident landlord, which\ncomprised several such modest demesnes. Fluted pilasters, worked from\nthe solid stone, decorated its front, and above the roof pairs of\nchimneys were here and there linked by an arch, some gables and other\nunmanageable features still retaining traces of their Gothic extraction.\nSoft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone\ntiling, and tufts of the house-leek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves\nof the low surrounding buildings. A gravel walk leading from the door to\nthe road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss--here it was\na silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the\nwidth of only a foot or two in the centre. This circumstance, and the\ngenerally sleepy air of the whole prospect here, together with the\nanimated and contrasting state of the reverse fa\u00e7ade, suggested to the\nimagination that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes\nthe vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to\nface the other way.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nDORCHESTER\n\n     When I am dead, my body shall go back\n     To the hills between the Ridgeway and the Sea--\n     To the Earthworks and terracing and ancient bridle-track\n     To the Dorset hills my heart has held in fee;\n     My limbs that thrived on them shall be their very own,\n     I shall live again in little wayside flowers;\n     My flesh and bones and sinew shall give life to mighty trees\n     And my spirit shall abide in ancient towers.\n\n            *       *       *       *       *\n\n     When I am dead, my dust shall mix with clay,\n     And \"puddle\" some lone dew-pond on the hill,\n     So every Dorset lad who drinks upon his way\n     Will somehow lead me back to Dorset still.\n                                                      ANONYMOUS.\n\n\nDorchester deserves to be chosen as the headquarters of the earliest of\na series of excursions in Dorset, not only by reason of the premier\nposition which it holds in the country, but also on account of the\nmultitude of interesting surroundings which claim the attention of the\nliterary pilgrim, the antiquary and the arch\u00e6ologist. The town is\nsituated on a hill which slopes on the one side to the valley of the\nFrome, and extends on the other in an open country, across which run the\nRoman roads, still used as the highways. The principal thoroughfares\ndivide Dorchester pretty equally, the High Street intersecting it from\neast to west, the South Street and North Market in the opposite\ndirection. On the south-west is the suburb of Fordington. The principal\nstreet--on the line of the Via Iceniana--ends abruptly at the fields,\nand on the south and west is the rampart, planted with rows of sycamore\nand chestnut trees as a walk.\n\nDaniel Defoe, in his whimsical description of his pilgrimage _From\nLondon to Land's End_, published in 1724, gives an entertaining survey\nof the town at that period. He says: \"Dorchester is indeed a pleasant,\nagreeable town to live in, and where I thought the people seemed less\ndivided in factions and parties than in other places; for though here\nare divisions, and the people are not all of one mind, either as to\nreligion or politics, yet they did not seem to separate with so much\nanimosity as in other places. Here I saw the Church of England clergyman\nand the Dissenting minister or preacher drinking tea together, and\nconversing with civility and good neighbourhood, like Catholic\nChristians and men of a catholic and extensive charity. The town is\npopulous, though not large; the streets broad; but the buildings old and\nlow. However, there is good company, and a good deal of it; and a man\nthat coveted a retreat in this world might as agreeably spend his time,\nand as well, in Dorchester as in any town I know in England.... There\nare abundance of good families and of very ancient lines in the\nneighbourhood of this town of Dorchester, as the Napiers, the Courtneys,\nStrangeways, Seymours, Banks, Tregonwells, Sydenhams, and many others,\nsome of which have very great estates in the county, and in particular\nColonel Strangeways (ancestor of the present Earl of Ilchester), Napier\n(ancestor of the present Lord Arlington) and Courtney.\"\n\nAs to the healthiness of Dorchester, the editors of Hutchins's second\nedition wrote: \"The pleasant and healthy situation of this town deserves\nan encomium. The famous Doctor Arbuthnot, coming hither in his early\ndays with a view to settle in it, gave as a reason for his departure\nthat 'a physician could neither live nor die in Dorchester.'\"\n\nSt Peter's Church, a venerable edifice, occupies a prominent position at\nthe intersection of the four streets and rises in its tower to a height\nof ninety feet. It is a well-proportioned building, with Norman porch\nand some monuments, with effigies, to Lord Holles of Ifield and to two\nunknown Crusaders, in coats of mail, with their legs crossed.\n\nIn the north wall of the chancel is placed an altar-tomb, which is\nsupposed to be that of the founder. A mural tablet on the south wall\ncommemorates THOMAS HARDY, Esquire, of Melcombe Regis, who founded and\nendowed the Free Grammar School.\n\nThere were two brasses, now lost, one on the chancel floor, on grey\nstone, over the effigy of a woman kneeling, reading:\n\n\n     \"Miserere mei d's s'dum magnum mi'am tuam.\"\n\n\nThe other:\n\n\n     \"Hic jacet Johanna de Sto. Omero, relicta Rob'bi More, qui obiit in\n     vigilia ste. Trinitatis sc'do Die mensis Anno D'ni MCCCCXXXVI.\n     Cuj'. a'ie p'piciet' D. Amen.\"\n\n\nTradition says that the church was erected by \"Geoffrey Van, his wife\nAnne and his maid Nan.\" Two of the six bells are medi\u00e6val. Close to the\nsouth porch is a bronze statue of William Barnes. His learning, his\nwritings and poems in the Dorset dialect, his kindliness to his poor and\nhis parish made him universally beloved. The pedestal bears the simple\ninscription: \"William Barnes. 1801-1886,\" and the following lines from\nhis poem, _Culverdell and the Squire_:\n\n\n     \"Zoo now I hope his kindly feace\n     Is gone to vind a better pleace,\n     But still we' vo'k a-left behind,\n     He'll always be a-kept in mind.\"\n\n\nOn 3rd September 1685 Judge Jeffreys opened his Bloody Assize at\nDorchester. Lord Macaulay says: \"By order of the Chief Justice, the\ncourt was hung with scarlet, and this innovation seemed to the multitude\nto indicate a bloody purpose. More than 300 prisoners were to be tried.\nThe work seemed heavy, but Jeffreys had a contrivance for making it\nlight. He let it be understood that the only chance of obtaining pardon\nor respite was to plead guilty. Twenty-nine who put themselves on their\ncountry, and were convicted, were ordered to be tied up without delay.\nThe remaining prisoners pleaded guilty by the score. Two hundred and\nninety-two received sentence of death.\" Thirteen were executed here on\n7th September. The formidable judge's chair is preserved in the Town\nHall, and visitors are shown the picturesque timber house in High Street\nWest at which, tradition hath it, this brutal judge lodged.\n\nDorchester derives its name from the ancient Roman name of Durnovaria,\nand Thomas Hardy has transferred part of this Latinity in writing of\nFordington as \"Durnover\" in his novels. Close to the London and\nSouth-Western Railway station, on the Weymouth Road, is a field, now a\nmunicipal pleasure ground, containing what is called Maumbury Rings--a\nlarge, oval, grassy mound, curved like a horseshoe. This great earthen\nring, which it is estimated would hold 10,000 spectators, is supposed to\nbe the work of prehistoric man, adapted by the Romans to the purposes of\nan amphitheatre. Extensive excavations were carried on in the\namphitheatre by the British Arch\u00e6ological Association and the Dorset\nField Club during five summers--1908, 1909, 1910, 1912 and 1913--and\namong many interesting finds by the arch\u00e6ologists' spade must be\nmentioned the oblong cave at the east end, probably for the confinement\nof beasts, prehistoric shafts in which picks of red-deer antlers, worked\nflints, etc., were found, sundry human skeletons interred, and a well of\nthe Civil War period, during which the symmetrical terraces were\napparently added to the original ancient banks.\n\nA crowd of 10,000 people is said to have been gathered upon it at the\nexecution of Mary Channing, the wife of a grocer at Dorchester, who was\nstrangled and burnt in the arena for poisoning her husband in 1705.\n\nThe Via Iceniana or Icknield Street came out of Wiltshire by Blandford\nto Dorchester and strikes on towards the west by Eggerdun Hill, about\nten miles from the town, where it is clearly marked.\n\nA Roman road went from Dorchester to Ilchester, by Bradford and\nStratton, so called as the Stret-tun, the village on the Roman stratum\nor road.\n\n\"It is impossible,\" writes Mr Hardy, \"to dig more than a foot or two\ndeep about the town, fields and gardens without coming upon some tall\nsoldier or other of the Empire, who had lain there in his silent,\nunobtrusive rest for one thousand five hundred years. He was mostly\nfound lying on his side, in an oval scoop in the chalk, like a chicken\nin its shell, his knees drawn up to his chest, sometimes with the\nremains of his spear against his arm, a fibula or brooch of bronze on\nhis breast or forehead, an urn at his knees, a jar at his throat, a\nbottle at his mouth, and mystified conjecture poring down upon him from\nthe eyes of boys and men who had turned to gaze at the familiar\nspectacle as they passed on.\"\n\nIn the excavations made when Mr Hardy's house at Max Gate was commenced\ngraves were discovered, of which Mr Hardy wrote: \"In two of them, and I\nbelieve in a third, a body lay on its right side, the knees being drawn\nup to the chest and the arm extended downwards, so that the hand rested\nagainst the ankles. Each body was fitted with, one may almost say,\nperfect accuracy into the oval hole, the crown of the head touching the\nmaiden chalk at one end and the toes at the other, the tight-fitting\nsituation being strongly suggestive of the chicken in the egg-shell.\"\n\nMaiden Castle, the _Mai Dun_ or \"Hill of Strength,\" one of the finest\nold camps in England, is situated most conspicuously to the right of a\nRoman road (now the Weymouth highway). It may astonish the traveller by\nthe scale of its three earthen ramparts, the innermost being sixty feet\nin height and a mile or more in circumference. It is about two and a\nquarter miles south-west from the centre of the town, and may be reached\nby continuing on through Cornhill, crossing the bridge over the Great\nWestern Railway and turning to the right just beyond it. Here, where the\nroad reaches the open, the left-hand track must be followed. On climbing\nto the camp the pilgrim will find that these ramparts are as steep as\nthey are lofty, and that they are pierced by intricate entrances formed\nby the overlapping ends of the valla and additionally strengthened by\noutworks. The view is commanding, but not remarkable for beauty, the\nprincipal features being the Roman roads diverging from Dorchester and\nthe innumerable barrows which dot the hills near the sea. Opinions\ndiffer as to the origin of this remarkable hill fortress, but the weight\nof authority is in favour of its construction by the Britons and its\nsubsequent occupation as a summer camp by the Roman troops stationed at\nDorchester.\n\nThe visitor will be interested in the old inns of Dorchester. In High\nStreet East stands, just as described in _The Mayor of Casterbridge_,\nthat fine and most comfortable of country hotels--the King's Arms. From\na doorway on the opposite side of the street Susan and Elizabeth-Jane,\namid the crowd, witnessed the dinner given to the mayor. Through the\narchway of this inn Boldwood carried Bathsheba, fainting at the news of\nher husband's death. From the diary of a landowner of the neighbourhood\n(Mr Richards, of Warmwell), written more than a hundred and fifty years\nago, we find that the King's Arms and Antelope were Dorchester inns in\nhis days, as he writes that on Saturday, 13th October 1697, he \"agreed\nwth Captn Sidenham, at the Antelope in Dorchestr, for 100 great bushells\nof his choice oats, at 6s. 8d. pr sack,\" and at other times dined and\ntransacted other business there; and at the King's Arms bought \"choice\nearly pease for seed at 3s. 6d. per bushell.\"\n\nAt the Antelope Hotel, which is in South Street, Lucetta, passing\nthrough the town on her way to Budmouth (Weymouth), appoints to meet\nHenchard, but is not on the coach she mentioned. The White Hart Tavern\nstands at the east entrance to the town, close to the bridge. Here Troy\nlay in hiding, planning his surprise return to Bathsheba; we also\nencounter this inn again in _The Withered Arm_. Gertrude Lodge came here\non her fatal visit to Casterbridge gaol.\n\nOn the opposite side of the road to the King's Arms the pilgrim may\nstill take his ale at the Phoenix, the scene of Janny's last dance in\n_Wessex Poems_. In _The Mayor of Casterbridge_ Hardy mentions a low inn\nin Mixen Lane (Mill Lane, Dorchester) frequented by all sorts of bad\ncharacters. In early editions it is called \"St Peter's Finger,\" and it\nwould seem that the author borrowed this curious name from a genuine inn\nsign at Lychett Minster. The real inn was called the King's Head, which\nhas now been pulled down.\n\n_The Grammar School_ is in South Street, an Elizabethan foundation,\nbuilt in 1569, endowed with a small farm at Frome Vauchurch, and some\nhouses in the town, by Thomas Hardy, Esq., of Melcombe Regis. Additions\nwere made to it in 1618, on ground given by Sir Robert Napper.\n\nClose to the school are Napier's Almshouses, called Napper's Mite,\nfounded in 1616 by Sir Robert Napier for ten poor men, who have a weekly\ndole and a small section of garden ground. The front, which opens into\na small cloister, bears a clock, on a large stone ogee-corbelled\nbracket, a model of one that bears the sign of the old George, or\nPilgrim's, Inn at Glastonbury.\n\nThe Hangman's Cottage, mentioned in the story of _The Withered Arm_, is\nstill extant. It is a small grey cottage in the meadows by the Frome,\nopposite the gaol. It is one of a cluster of cottages built of flint and\nchalk, faced with red brick and strengthened with iron ties.\n\nThe Bull Stake and the gaol, both of which figure in the novels, are in\nNorth Square, near St Peter's and the Corn Exchange. Approaching the\nFrome, we pass close to the Friary Mill (the old mill of the suppressed\nFranciscan Priory), near which was Jopp's cottage, to which Henchard\nretired after his bankruptcy. \"Trees, which seemed old enough to have\nbeen planted by the friars, still stood around, and the back hatch of\nthe original mill yet formed a cascade which had raised its terrific\nroar for centuries. The cottage itself was built of old stones from the\nlong dismantled Priory, scraps of tracery, moulded window-jambs and\narch-labels being mixed in with the rubble of the walls.\" The remains of\nthe Priory ruins were used up as building material and no trace is left.\nThe prison was largely built from its remains, while in its turn it is\nsaid to have been erected from the ruins of a castle built by the\nChidiocks.\n\nIn South Street we shall find the High Place Hall, which was Lucetta's\nhouse. It stands at the corner of Durngate Street, but the fa\u00e7ade has\nbeen modernised and the lower portion has been converted into business\npremises. The depressing mask which formed the Keystone of the back door\nwas taken from Colyton House, in another part of the town. If we go to\nthe bottom of South Street and take the turning to the left we quickly\ncome to a quiet byway on the right near the shire hall, called Glydepath\nRoad. On the left of this narrow thoroughfare is the early\neighteenth-century mansion called Colyton House. Here will be found the\nlong filled-in archway, with the mask as its keystone: \"Originally the\nmask had exhibited a comic leer, as could still be discerned; but\ngenerations of Casterbridge boys had thrown stones at the mask, aiming\nat its open mouth, and the blows thereat had chipped off the lips and\njaw as if they had been eaten away by disease.\" The building to which\nthe archway belongs was formerly the county town residence of the\nChurchills. This is Lucetta's house as to character, though not as to\nsituation.\n\nJust beyond the White Hart we come to the first of the two bridges (the\nsecond, Grey's Bridge, being only a few hundred yards farther along)\nwhich have their parts in _The Mayor of Casterbridge_. Thomas Hardy has\nquaintly described these bridges and has discoursed upon the habits of\ntheir frequenters:\n\n\"Two bridges stood near the lower part of Casterbridge (Dorchester)\ntown. The first, of weather-stained brick, was immediately at the end of\nHigh Street, where a diverging branch from that thoroughfare ran round\nto the low-lying Durnover lanes, so that the precincts of the bridge\nformed the merging-point of respectability and indigence. The second\nbridge, of stone, was farther out on the highway--in fact, fairly in the\nmeadows, though still within the town boundary.... Every projection in\neach was worn down to obtuseness, partly by weather, more by friction\nfrom generations of loungers, whose toes and heels had from year to year\nmade restless movements against these parapets, as they had stood there\nmeditating on the aspect of affairs.\n\n\"To this pair of bridges gravitated all the failures of the town....\nThere was a marked difference of quality between the personages who\nhaunted the near bridge of brick and the personages who haunted the far\none of stone. Those of lowest character preferred the former, adjoining\nthe town; they did not mind the glare of the public eye.... The\nmiserables who would pause on the remoter bridge were of a politer\nstamp.\"\n\nDorchester has now lost its fame for brewing beer. But about 1725 the\nale of this town acquired a very great name. In Byron's manuscript\njournal (since printed by the Chetham Society) the following entry\nappears:--\n\n\"May 18, 1725. I found the effect of last night drinking that foolish\nDorset, which was pleasant enough, but did not at all agree with me, for\nit made me stupid all day.\"\n\nA mighty local reputation had \"Dorchester Ale,\" and it still commands a\nlocal influence, for this summer I was advised by the waiter of the\nPhoenix Hotel to try a bottle of \"Grove's Stingo\" made in the town. It\nis a potent beverage--and needs to be treated with respect, to be drunk\nslowly and in judicious moderation. Thomas Hardy thus describes this\nwonderful stuff, the \"pale-hued Dorchester\" in his novel, _The Trumpet\nMajor_:\n\n\"In the liquor line Loveday laid in an ample barrel of Dorchester strong\nbeer.... It was of the most beautiful colour that the eye of an artist\nin beer could desire; full in body, yet brisk as a volcano; piquant, yet\nwithout a twang; luminous as an autumn sunset; free from streakiness of\ntaste; but, finally, rather heady.\"\n\nFrancis Fawkes, in his song of the Brown Jug (1720-1777), mentions the\n\"Dorchester Butt,\" and perhaps the Dorset reader, with, it may be, some\ntender memories of his own, will fancifully identify \"sweet Nan of the\nVale\" with another maid down Blackmore Vale way.\n\n\n     \"Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale\n     (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale),\n     Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul\n     As e'er drank a bottle or fathom'd a bowl;\n     In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel,\n     And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.\n\n     It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease\n     In his flow'r-woven arbour as gay as you please,\n     With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away,\n     And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,\n     His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,\n     And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.\n\n     His body, when long in the ground it had lain,\n     And time into clay had resolved it again,\n     A potter found out in its covert so snug,\n     And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug:\n     Now sacred to friendship and mirth and mild ale,--\n     So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale!\"\n\n\n_Far from the Madding Crowd_ is a novel concerned with Dorchester and\nthe immediate neighbourhood, most of the incidents happening in\n\"Weatherbury\" (Puddletown) and \"Casterbridge\" (Dorchester). On market\nday at Dorchester one still meets prosperous farmers, stiffly dressed\nchildren, lean, tanned, rough-necked labourers caged in their Sunday\nclothes and stout horse-dealers in grey gaiters and black hats, and it\nis not difficult to conjure up a picture of the hiring fair mentioned by\nHardy, where Gabriel Oak appeared in search of a situation as bailiff.\nIt will be recalled that Bathsheba was in the habit of attending the\nCasterbridge market to sell her corn, and here she met William Boldwood,\nwho attracted her attention on account of his indifference to her.\nBathsheba comes vividly before us with her \"debut in the Forum\" in the\nplace of her uncle. We can picture her with her beautiful black hair and\nsoft, misty eyes attracting considerable attention as she displayed her\nsample bags, \"adopting the professional pour into the hand, holding up\nthe grains in her narrow palm for inspection in perfect Casterbridge\nmanner.\" There was \"an elasticity in her firmness that removed it from\nobstinacy,\" and \"a _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ in her cheapening which saved it from\nmeanness.\" In a \"Casterbridge shop Bathsheba bought the valentine which\nshe sent anonymously to Boldwood to tease him. It was this fatal\nvalentine that drew his attention to Bathsheba, and caused him to fall\nstrongly in love with her, and in the end to shoot Sergeant Troy dead.\nAfter this deed Boldwood travelled over Mellstock Hill and Durnover Moor\n(Fordington Moor) into Casterbridge, and turning into \"Bull-Stake\nSquare,\" halted before an archway of heavy stonework which was closed by\nan iron-studded pair of doors,\" and gave himself up for murder.\n\nThe White Hart Tavern at \"Casterbridge\" serves to call to the reader's\nmind the reappearance of Sergeant Troy, _in propria persona_, after\nplaying the part of Turpin in a circus at Greenhill Fair.\n\nYellowham Wood, \"Yallam\" Wood locally, and the \"Yalbury Wood\" of _Far\nfrom the Madding Crowd_, is about three miles from Dorchester on the\nroad to Puddletown. In a keeper's cottage here dwelt sweet Fancy Day,\nand here it was, as told in another novel, that Joseph Poorgrass had the\nexperience the recounting of which used to put that most bashful of men\nto the blush. \"Once he had been working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had\nhad a drop of drink, and lost his way as he was coming home along\nthrough Yalbury Wood.... And as he was coming along in the middle of the\nnight, much afeared, and not able to find his way out of the trees\nnohow, a' cried out, 'Man-a-lost! Man-a-lost!' An owl in a tree\nhappened to be crying 'Whoo-whoo whoo!' as owls do, you know, Shepherd,\nand Joseph, all in a tremble, said, 'Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury,\nsir!' 'No, no, now, that's too much,' said the timid man.... 'I didn't\nsay _sir_.... I never said _sir_ to the bird, knowing very well that no\nman of a gentleman's rank would be hollerin' there at that time o'\nnight. \"Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury,\" that's every word I said, and\nI shouldn't ha' said that if't hadn't been for keeper Day's metheglin.'\"\n\nHere, as in many other passages, Hardy shows his minute knowledge of\nnature. He appears to know every sight and sound of animal and bird\nlife, at all seasons of the year. Some readers have perhaps, as they\nwalked in the woods just before the thrushes and blackbirds have\nfinished their evensong, heard the note of the brown owl--a long and\nsomewhat tremulous \"Whoo-oo.\" It is a very musical note, and it does not\nat all resemble Shakespeare's \"To-whit, tu-whoo,\" which so many other\nwriters have copied. Long may the brown owl live to chant his dim song\nin \"Yallam\" Wood--and long may he escape the gun and trap of the\ngamekeeper! For, of all the cursed and vile things in this world, there\nis nothing that is worse than the trap that snares some beautiful wild\nthing and keeps it prisoner for long hours in patient suffering,\nunrelieved of any hope but of being torn from the cruel teeth and dashed\nto death against a wall. Yet thousands of owls have been destroyed for\nthe sake of a few pheasants in the coverts, and after all the mischief\ndone by hawks and owls has been greatly exaggerated--it is part of the\nhereditary ignorance of the rustic. Perhaps if we are in ferny glades of\nYellowham Woods \"when light on dark is growing\" we may hear that curious\nsound which has been compared to the quacking of a duck with a sore\nthroat, and after it a sniffing sound not unlike a dog might make while\nscratching at a rat-hole. This is a hedgehog taking his constitutional.\nThe witch in Macbeth says, \"Thrice the hedgepig whines,\" but as my\nacquaintance with \"hedgepigs\" goes, their conversation is limited to a\n\"quack\" and a \"snuff.\"\n\nFordington is a large suburb adjoining Dorchester. The Church of St\nGeorge is a fine old edifice, with a tall battlemented tower which is a\nlandmark for those approaching the town by road. Within is a stone\npulpit dated \"1592, E.R.\" Over the top of a doorway of the south porch\nthere is a carving of great antiquity representing a vision of St George\nat the battle of Antioch. The saint, mounted, has thrust his spear into\nthe mouth of a Saracen soldier with great force and unerring aim. He\nlooks very bored and might be saying: \"This is very tame sport to one\nwho is accustomed to slaying dragons.\" No doubt the semi-prone Saracen,\nwho is trying to pull the spear out of his mouth, feels very _bored_\ntoo!\n\nAway to the east of Fordington is the little village of Stinsford, which\nis reached by leaving Dorchester by the road leading east to Puddletown\nand bearing to the right soon after leaving the town. This is the\n\"Mellstock\" of the idyllic tale, _Under the Greenwood Tree_. In the\nchurchyard of the ivy-covered church there are tombstones of members of\nthe Hardy family, and on the face of the tower there is a bas-relief of\nSt Michael. The parish school is one in which Fancy Day is introduced as\nthe new teacher at Mellstock in _Under the Greenwood Tree_. \"The Fiddler\nof the Reels,\" Mop Ollamore, whose diabolical skill with the fiddle\nproduced a \"moving effect\" on people's souls, lived in one of the\nthatched cottages of this village.\n\nTo the south of Dorchester are the Winterborne villages, all places of\nrural content, in the shallow valley of a stream which only becomes\nvisible in the winter. The church of Winterborne Steepleton possesses an\nancient stone steeple. In the porch--a cool grey place on the hottest\nday--there are stone seats and flagstones of hoary antiquity, and on\nthe outer wall is an angel carved in stone which is said to date from\nbefore the Conquest. The most interesting of the Winterbornes is Came.\nBarnes, the Dorset poet, was rector here for the last twenty-five years\nof his life. The church is a thirteenth-century building, hidden in a\nhollow among flowers, winding paths, outbuildings and cottages of an\nunattractive mansion. Barnes is buried beneath a simple cross in the\nchurchyard. Herringtone adjoins Came, and its chief feature is the old\nmanor-house, the seat of the Herring family, and, since James I.'s\nreign, of the Williamses. Winterborne Monkton and Winterborne St Martin\nare both contiguous to Maiden Castle. The old church of the former has\nbeen much restored; that of the latter contains a Norman font and some\nold stone shafts near the altar.\n\nThe pilgrim who shall elect to reach Abbotsbury will find a road, which\nforks by a picturesque old pond, about half-an-hour's walk towards\nWinterborne Abbas.\n\nIt will be noticed in some of Hardy's novels that the name of a village\nor town will often crop up in the name of a character, as, for instance,\nJude Fawley living in Marygreen, which may be identified with the\nvillage of Fawley Magna, in Berkshire; and the name of the schoolmaster\nof Leddenton, really the village of Gillingham, near Shaftesbury, is\nGillingham. It was at Fawley Magna church that Phillotson and Sue were\nmarried after she had parted from Jude: \"A tall new building of German\nGothic design, unfamiliar to English eyes, had been erected on a new\npiece of ground by a certain obliterator of historic records who had run\ndown from London and back in a day. The site whereon so long had stood\nthe ancient temple to the Christian divinities was not even recorded on\nthe green and level grass-plot that had immemorially been the\nchurchyard, the obliterated graves being commemorated by ninepenny\ncast-iron crosses warranted to last five years.\"\n\nThe unusual way in which the town of Dorchester met in one line with the\nopen country is picturesquely described by Hardy: \"The farmer's boy\ncould sit under the barley mow and pitch a stone into the office window\nof the town clerk ... the red-robed judge, when he condemned a\nsheep-stealer, pronounced sentence to the tune of Baa, that floated in\nfrom the remainder of the flock browsing hard by; and at executions the\nwaiting crowd stood in a meadow immediately before the drop out of which\nthe cows had been temporarily driven to give the spectators room.\"\n\nThe intermixture of town and country life is again touched upon in a\nsketch of Fordington: \"Here wheat ricks overhung the old Roman street,\nand thrust their eaves against the church tower; great thatched barns\nwith doorways as high as the gates of Solomon's Temple opened directly\nupon the main thoroughfare. Barns, indeed, were so numerous as to\nalternate with every half-dozen houses along the way. Here lived\nburgesses who daily walked the fallow--shepherds in an intramural\nsqueeze.\"\n\nThe original manuscript of _The Mayor of Casterbridge_, which is\ndescribed in the Dorchester _Guide_ by Harry Pouncy (published by\nLongman, Cornhill Press, Dorchester), as \"an example of rare beauty of\npenmanship and of absorbing interest, especially in regard to the\nalterations\" is now in the Dorset County Museum. The leaves of the\nmanuscript have been bound in book form, and Captain Acland, the\nCurator, informs me the binding has resulted in the edges of the paper\nbeing cut, and the top edges being gilt. Let us hope that the marginal\nnotes have not been maimed by the binder's guillotine--that is, if any\nmarginal notes were added. However, the \"absorbingly interesting\nalterations\" are not yet for the public gaze, and Captain Acland was\nimmovable before my entreaties to be allowed to make notes on them.\n\nA most interesting jaunt from Dorchester is along the Sherborne Road\nnorthward for eight miles to Cerne Abbas. The road from Dorchester\nbears to the left not far from the Great Western Railway and follows the\nRiver Frome. A mile along the road on the right, lying back and\nsurrounded by trees, is Wolverton House, which figures in Hardy's _Group\nof Noble Dames_. This was formerly the seat of the knightly Trenchards,\nand is an interesting fifteenth-century house which has obtained a niche\nin history thus: \"In this house John Russel, Esq., of Berwick, laid the\nfoundation of the honours and fortunes of the illustrious family of the\nDuke of Bedford. Having resided some years in Spain, he was sent for by\nhis relation, Sir Thomas Trenchard, to attend and entertain the\nArch-Duke of Austria, King of Castile, who recommended him to the notice\nof King Henry VII., who took him into favour, and appointed him one of\nthe Gentlemen of his Privy Chamber; and afterwards recommended him to\nhis son Henry VIII.\" (Hutchins). The Russels were seated at Kingston\nRussel, where their old manor-house still remains. Wolverton was in\nlater days the scene of a dread omen recorded by credulous Aubrey. The\nchief feature of the hall was a screen carven with the effigies of the\nkings of England; and \"on the third of Nov., 1640, the day the Long\nParliament began to sit, the sceptre fell from the figure of King\nCharles the First, while the family and a large company were at dinner\nin the parlour.\" No wonder, when the Trenchard of that day proved a\nsturdy rebel, and did yeoman service for the Parliament in the county.\n\n[Illustration: The Giant, Cerne Abbas]\n\nLady Penelope, in Hardy's _A Group of Noble Dames_, was not an imaginary\ncharacter, but a noble dame in real life. She was a daughter of Lord\nDarcy and in turn married George Trenchard, Sir John Gale and Sir\nWilliam Hervey. She is described in Hardy's story as \"a lady of noble\nfamily and extraordinary beauty. She was of the purest descent.... She\npossessed no great wealth ... but was sufficiently endowed. Her beauty\nwas so perfect, and her manner so entrancing, that suitors seemed to\nspring out of the ground wherever she went.\" The three suitors mentioned\nabove would not be repulsed, and she jestingly promised to marry all\nthree in turn. In the end Fate determined that her jest should fall\ntrue. First Penelope married Sir George Trenchard, who in the course of\na few months died. A little while after she became the wife of Sir John\nGale, who treated her rather badly. Two or three years after he died and\nSir William Hervy came forward. In a short time she became Hervy's wife,\nand thus her promise, which was made so lightly, became an established\nfact. But the canker-worm of rumour attributed the death of Sir John\nGale to poison given him by his wife, and Sir William, believing it,\nwent abroad and remained there. Penelope divined the cause of his\ndeparture, and she grieved so much that at last nothing--not even Sir\nWilliam's return--availed to save her, and she died broken-hearted. Sir\nWilliam afterwards was assured by the doctor who had examined Gale's\nbody that there was no ground for the cruel suspicions, and that his\ndeath resulted from natural causes.\n\nThe road continues through Charminster, a large and scattered village,\nand steadily ascends to Godmanston, five miles from Dorchester.\n\nA mile beyond, the road still rising, is Nether Cerne, with a tiny\nchurch, prettily situated. Steadily climbing another two miles, we reach\nCerne Abbas, an exceedingly interesting little place, surrounded by\nchalk hills, on the River Cerne. It derives its distinguishing name from\nan _abbey_, which was founded in memory of Edmund the Martyr, King of\nEast Anglia, who met his death at the hands of the Danes A.D. 870. It\nwas erected about a hundred years later and was a place of some\nimportance. Canute plundered the church. Here Margaret of Anjou sought\nrefuge on the day following her landing at Weymouth, when she received\ntidings of the defeat of her cause at the battle of Barnet, 1471. The\nremains consist of a gate-house, bearing the escutcheon of the abbey,\nand those of the Earl of Cornwall, Fitz-James and Beauford; the\n_abbey-barn_, a long, buttressed building, and some traces of the park\nand gardens.\n\nThe church, dedicated to St Mary, is of Perpendicular style and supposed\nto have been built by the abbots.\n\nImmediately above the town rises a lofty eminence, popularly called the\n_Giant's Hill_, from an uncouth colossal figure cut on its chalky\nsurface. It represents a man, 180 feet in height, holding in his right\nhand a club and stretching forth the other. \"Vulgar tradition,\" says\nBritton, \"makes this figure commemorate the destruction of a giant, who,\nhaving feasted on some sheep in Blackmoor, and laid himself to sleep on\nthis hill, was pinioned down, like another Gulliver, and killed by the\nenraged peasants, who immediately traced his dimensions for the\ninformation of posterity.\" On the summit of the hill is an entrenchment\ncalled _Trendle_ (_i.e._ a circle, Saxon). The Cerne giant is believed\nby some authorities to be of Phoenician origin and to represent Baal,\nbut no one really knows much about him, and, it must be also added, the\nDorset rustic cares very little about the matter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nA LITERARY NOTE: THOMAS HARDY AND WILLIAM BARNES\n\n\nThomas Hardy is a Dorset man both by birth and residence. He was born on\n2nd June 1840, in a pretty, thatched cottage in the hamlet of Higher\nBockhampton. If one takes the London road out of Dorchester, a walk of a\nmile and a turn to the right will lead to the village of Stinsford;\npassing this hamlet and keeping to the road which crosses Kingston Park,\na turn to the left breaks on to Higher Bockhampton. The house stands on\nthe edge of Thorncombe Wood, skirting Bockhampton Heath, but Hardy has\ntold us that within the last fifty years the wood enclosed the house on\nevery side.\n\nCome into this old-world dwelling itself. The living-room is grey and\nwhite and dim. Ivy peers in at the open windows set deep in the thick\nwalls. The floor is grey and shining, stone-flagged; the ceiling\ncross-beamed with rich old oak; the fireplace wide and deep, and the\nwhole building covered with a fine roof of thatch. Here the earlier\nyears of the novelist were spent, here the aroma of the earth and woods\ninvaded his heart when it was young. The environment helped to feed the\nlong, long thoughts of the boy and gave him the image of the beginning\nof man living in the woods in the darkness, outwitting the wolves. It\nwas here in the cradle of nature that Hardy first gained his minute\nknowledge of nature, and learnt how life and the meaning of life must be\nlinked with place and the meaning of place. As in old Greek drama the\nchorus was directed to the audience at certain stages, so does Hardy\nturn the place spirit upon the progress of the story at certain moments\nwith a vital bearing upon the action. He sees, as only the artist can\nsee, how all the world is interwoven, and how the human spirit cannot be\ndivorced from the plain course of nature without pity and disaster. To\nHardy's delicate subtlety of mind in perceiving the right values of\ncharacter and environment we owe the tremendous effect of certain great\nscenes: the selection of Woolbridge House, the antique and dismal old\nhome of the Turbervilles, for the scene of Tess's confession; the\nthunderstorm during which Oak saved his beloved Bathsheba's ricks; the\nmist that rolled wickedly over the cart conveying Fanny Robin's body\nfrom the workhouse, and produced the horrible drip-drip-drip on the\ncoffin while the drivers caroused in an inn; the strange scene where\nWildeve, \"the Rousseau of Egdon,\" and the travelling ruddleman dice for\nMrs Yeobright's money by the light of glow-worms. The delineation of\nNorcombe Hill at the commencement of _Far from the Madding Crowd_ sets\nthe key to which the theme of the story must always return after many\ndelightful changes, and the vivid account of the lonely monarchy of the\nshepherd's night with his sheep, and the opulent silence when \"the roll\nof the world eastward is almost a palpable movement\" show the power and\nrelentless grip of Hardy's work. Incidentally, also, with what\nfascinating detail does he introduce Bathsheba Everdene to the reader,\nso that we at once perceive what a curious blend of joyfulness, pride,\nastuteness and irresponsibility she would gradually develop as the years\npass on--witness the little incident at the toll-gate, where, seated on\nthe top of the loaded wagon, she refused to concede his rightful pence\nto the aggrieved turnpike-keeper.\n\n[Illustration: Bingham's Melcombe\n\n(_Ten miles north-east of Dorchester_)\n\nA LOVELY DORSET MANOR-HOUSE]\n\nThe name of Hardy is very frequently encountered in Dorset, but the\nnovelist's family is commonly said to be of the same blood as Nelson's\nHardy. That Hardy's family possessed the sprightliness and resource of\nthe Dorset people there can be little doubt, and this fact is\naccentuated by an anecdote concerning Hardy's grandfather, told by Mr\nAlfred Pope, a member of the Dorset Field Club, at a meeting of the\nsociety. About a century ago Mr Hardy's grandfather was crossing a\nlonely heath one midnight in June when he discovered he was being\nfollowed by two footpads. He rolled a furze faggot on to the path, sat\ndown on it, took off his hat, stuck two fern fronds behind his ears to\nrepresent horns, and then pretended to read a letter, which he took from\nhis pocket, by the light of the glow-worms he had picked up and placed\nround the brim of his hat. The men took fright and bolted on seeing him,\nand a rumour soon got abroad in the neighbourhood that the devil had\nbeen seen at midnight near Greenhill Pond.\n\nAt the age of seventeen Hardy was articled to an ecclesiastical\narchitect of Dorchester named Hicks, and it was in pursuance of this\ncalling that he enjoyed many opportunities of studying not only\narchitecture, but also the country folk, whose types he has been so\nsuccessful in delineating. Architecture has deeply coloured all his\nwork, from _Desperate Remedies_ to _Jude the Obscure_. The former of\nthese stories (in which, as it will be remembered, three of the\ncharacters are architects practising the miscellaneous vocations of\nstewards, land surveyors and the like, familiar to architects in\ncountry towns) appeared in 1871, signed only with initials. It was\nfollowed in the next year by _Under the Greenwood Tree_, and at this\ndate Hardy departed from architecture (in which he had distinguished\nhimself so far as to be a prize-winner at a Royal Society's\ncompetition). In 1873 _A Pair of Blue Eyes_ appeared, and in 1874 _Far\nfrom the Madding Crowd_ ran through the _Cornhill_. It was the first of\nhis books to be published in yellow-backed form, which was then a sign\nthat the novel had reached the highest point of popularity.\n\nHis first novel, _The Poor Man and the Lady_, was never published, and\nprobably never will be, having been suppressed at Hardy's own request,\nalthough accepted for publication on the advice of George Meredith. But\nit was not long before he had finished a second story, _Desperate\nRemedies_, which first saw the light through the agency of Tinsley\nBrothers in 1871.\n\nHis first published article appeared without signature in _Chambers's\nJournal_, on 18th March 1865, entitled, \"How I Built Myself a House,\"\nand was of a semi-humorous character. But previous to this Hardy had\nwritten a considerable amount of verse, all of which, with the exception\nof one poem, _The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's_, was unfortunately\ndestroyed. This Wessex ballad appeared, bowdlerised, in _The\nGentleman's Magazine_ in November 1875. The ballad was first reproduced\nin its original form at the end of Mr Lane's bibliography, together with\nthe novelist's biographical note on his friend and neighbour, the Rev.\nWilliam Barnes, the Dorset poet, contributed to _The Athen\u00e6um_ in\nOctober 1886. Of Mr Hardy's remaining contributions to periodical\nliterature in other directions than fiction I need, perhaps, only\nmention his paper on \"The Dorset Labourer,\" published in _Longmans'_ in\nJuly 1893.\n\n_The Trumpet Major_ was published in 1881, and the next novel was _A\nLaodicean_, which appeared originally in _Harper's Magazine_.\n\n\"The writing of this tale,\" says Mr Hardy in the new preface to the\nbook, \"was rendered memorable, to two persons at least, by a tedious\nillness of five months that laid hold of the author soon after the story\nwas begun in a well-known magazine, during which period the narrative\nhad to be strenuously continued by dictation to a predetermined cheerful\nending. As some of these novels of Wessex life address themselves more\nespecially to readers into whose soul the iron has entered, and whose\nyears have less pleasure in them now than heretofore, so _A Laodicean_\nmay perhaps help to wile away an idle afternoon of the comfortable ones\nwhose lines have fallen to them in pleasant places; above all, of that\nlarge and happy section of the reading public which has not yet reached\nripeness of years; those to whom marriage is the pilgrim's Eternal City,\nand not a milestone on the way.\"\n\nHardy's next novel, _Two on a Tower_, was published in three volumes in\n1882. Four years elapsed before Mr Hardy's tenth novel, _The Mayor of\nCasterbridge_, made its appearance, though his story of _The Romantic\nAdventures of a Milkmaid_, which came out in _The Graphic_ Summer Number\nin 1883, was reprinted in book form in America in 1884. _The\nWoodlanders_ came next, this time through Messrs Macmillan, who\npublished it in 1887 in three volumes. _Wessex Tales_, in two volumes,\nappeared in 1888, though the stories had been making their appearance in\nvarious periodicals since 1879.\n\nIn 1891 came _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, which took the reading and\ncriticising world by surprise. Hardy became explicit and charged the\ncollective judgment of society with being shallow and contrary to the\nlaws of nature. He dashed aside the conventions and proclaimed a\n\"ruined\" girl a \"pure woman,\" and made definite charges against the code\nof society, which, in the belief that it was contending against\nimmorality, was all the while destroying some of nature's finest and\nmost sensitive material. Hardy does not preach, but there is more than\na dramatic situation in Angel Clare's confession to Tess on the night of\ntheir wedding, for he shows the hopelessness of any justice coming to\nthe \"fallen\" girl. Even if Tess had been faultless, all her faith,\ndevotion, love and essential sweetness would have been given to an\nunjust and sinful man. The whole situation is summed up in the\nconversation which follows Angel Clare's confession of an\n\"eight-and-forty hours'\" dissipation. Hardy shows (and endorses) that it\nwas quite right that Tess, with her natural, unsophisticated\nintelligence, should look upon her loss of virginity out of wedlock as a\nthing to be regretted and also a thing to be forgiven--just as the same\nevent in Angel Clare's life:\n\n\"Perhaps, although you smile, it is as serious as yours or more so.\"\n\n\"It can hardly be more serious, dearest.\"\n\n\"It cannot--oh no, it cannot.\" She jumped up joyfully at the hope. \"No,\nit cannot be more serious, certainly,\" she cried, \"because 'tis just the\nsame!\"\n\nFor life and light and movement it would be hard to surpass Chapter\nXXVIII. of _Far from the Madding Crowd_, where Sergeant Troy's skilful\nand dazzling exhibition with a sword bewilders Bathsheba and ends in\nthat unpropitious, fugitive kiss.\n\nIt is a curious fact that, although Hardy's novels are such a true\nliving influence, there are many people who feel that as a poet he has\nsomehow just failed to hit the mark. But he himself regards his verse as\nthe most important part of his work, and a section of his readers look\nupon it as the most distinctive English poetry of the past twenty years.\nIn some quarters his poems are received with that curiosity which is\nawarded to a man of genius who breaks out freakishly with some strange\nhobby. People might look upon Rudyard Kipling with just such curiosity\nif he invited his friends to inspect his latest experiments in fretwork.\nHowever, to those of us who have followed his lyric poems and his\nsupreme achievement, _The Dynasts_, it seems a well-nigh inexplicable\nphenomenon that much of his poetry should have passed into the limbo of\nforgotten things. Is there something wrong with his poems, or unusual\nabout them? There is certainly a puzzling quality in his work. When his\n_Wessex Poems_ were published in 1899 the reviewers, in a chorus,\ndecided that it was \"want of form\" which weakened his verse, and it is\ninteresting to read how _Literature_ summed up his position as a poet:\n\n\"Here is no example of that positive inability to write well in verse\nwhich has marked several great prose writers, such as in Carlyle and\nHume; nor of that still more curious ability to write once or twice\nwell, and never to regain the careless rapture, as in Berkeley and\nChateaubriand. The phenomenon is a strongly marked and appropriate\naccent of his own, composing (so to speak) professionally in verse, able\nto amuse and move us along lines strictly parallel with his prose, and\nyet lacking something. This is not a case like George Eliot's, where the\nessence of the writer's style evaporates in the restraint of verse.\nNever was Mr Hardy more intensely and exclusively himself than in 'My\nCicely.' Yet is this a complete success? Much as we admire it, we cannot\nsay that it is.\n\n\n     \"'And by Weatherbury Castle, and therence\n       Through Casterbridge bore I\n     To tomb her whose light, in my deeming,\n       Extinguished had He,'\n\n\nis not quite satisfactory. Why? Simply and solely because the form is\ngrotesque. Here is the colour of poetry but not its sound, its essence\nbut not its shape.\n\n\"It might seem only right that in the face of a volume of verse so\nviolent and rugged as _Wessex Poems_ we should protest that this is not\nthe more excellent way of writing poetry. At the same time, every man\nmust preserve his individuality, if he has one to preserve, as Mr Hardy\nassuredly has; and we have no reason to suppose that it is the desire of\nthe author of 'The Peasant's Confession' to found a school or issue a\npropaganda. On the contrary, it is far more likely that he has put forth\nhis Wessex verses with extreme simplicity and modesty, not asking\nhimself in what relation they stand to other people's poetry. As a\nmatter of fact, the _Wessex Poems_ will probably enjoy a double fate.\nThey will supply to lovers of emotional narrative verse several poetic\ntales which they will lay up in memory among their treasures; and in\ntime to come professors of literary history, when observing the\nretrogression of an imaginative period, and when speaking of Lydgate, of\nDonne, of the Spasmodists here, of the Symbolists in France, will\nmention Mr Hardy also as a signal example of the temporary success of a\nviolent protest against the cultivation of form in verse.\"\n\nBut critics of discrimination are now beginning to discover that Thomas\nHardy's poems do not lack the qualities which give poetic form a true\nbalance. He fails to achieve popularity as a poet, they argue, because\nthe \"concentrated and unpalatable expression of his philosophy proves\ntoo disagreeable to those who seek relief from life in literature,\" and\nbecause the first shock of the grinding harshness of his peculiar style\n\"is a barrier against the recognition of his merits.\" Certainly he makes\nno direct appeal to the ear of the reader. But on reading his lyric\npoems a second time--some of which, it must be admitted, must assuredly\noffend those who have unbounded faith in the human soul, whether from\nthe standpoint of the Church or otherwise--the first grotesqueness of\neffect wears off, leaving at times a clear-cut and bitter touch that it\nwould seem impossible to improve upon. It is true we find among the\nyouthful poems some of great gloom and sadness, but it is well to bear\nin mind when making an estimate of Hardy's work and personality that\ncertain natures express their thoughts in unusual ways. It is all the\ntime wrong to assume that Hardy does not perceive anything else in life\nbut a bitter and hopeless procession, just because his eloquence is\nalways keener upon perceiving tragedy. It is true, he himself has\nconfessed, that he shares with Sophocles the conviction that \"not to be\nborn is best\"; but at the same time the spirit which moves always under\nthe surface of his poetry tells us that man, being born, must make the\nbest of life, and _especially_ do what he can to ease the burdens of\nhis fellow-men. After his moments of depression he finds his own\nconsolations. He takes a great pleasure in the trivial little objects\nand customs of rustic life--those simple things that are best of all,\nand his poem _Afterwards_ is a good example both of his measured and\nharmonious style, and of his \"dark, unconscious instinct of primitive\nnature-worship\":\n\n\n     \"If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,\n     When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,\n     One may say, 'He strove that such innocent creatures should come\n       to no harm,\n     But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.'\n\n     If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at\n       the door,\n     Watching the full-starred heavens that Winter sees,\n     Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,\n     'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'?\"\n\n\nThe reader instinctively pictures Hardy as a morose, grim, cynical\nman--but he is really anything but that. From all accounts Hardy is\nmirrored in the whimsical and deep mirth that is so intermixed in the\nrustic characters in his novels. \"It is too often assumed,\" says the\ncapricious and tiresome Ethelberta--April-natured Hardy would call\nher--\"that a person's fancy is a person's real mind.... Some of the\nlightest of rhymes were composed between the deepest fits of dismals I\nhave known.\"\n\nSome years ago _The English Illustrated Magazine_ printed an account of\na visit paid by a cyclist to Hardy at his Dorchester home. Authentic\npictures of Hardy are so scarce that I venture to draw on this\ninterview:\n\n\"The picture he presented was, for the moment at least, all-satisfying;\nthere was more than nervousness in the strangely harassed-looking face,\nwith the most sensitive features that I had ever seen. The deep-set eyes\nwere troubled, but there was no mistaking their fearless courage. I knew\nthat I was looking at a man whose soul was more ravaged than ever his\ncareworn features were with the riddle of life and the tragedy of it,\nand yet a soul utterly self-reliant, for all the shyness of the outward\nman.\n\n\"I attempted no compliments, and asked him instead why he was so\npessimistic a writer, why he wrote at once the most beautiful and the\nmost dreadful of stories, and why he had not shown us far more often\nthan he has done a picture of requited love, or of requited love that\nwas not victimised at once by some pitiless act of fate.\n\n\"Mr Hardy had not sat down himself, but had stood by the fireplace,\nwith his white hands holding the lapels of his old-fashioned tweed coat.\n\n\"We were on better terms in a moment, as Mr Hardy replied, his voice\ncuriously halting, but not as if he was in any doubt of his sentiments.\nIt seemed a mixture of irony and diffidence.\n\n\"'You are a young man,' he said. 'The cruelty of fate becomes apparent\nto people as they grow older. At first one may perhaps escape contact\nwith it, but if one lives long enough one realises that happiness is\nvery ephemeral.'\n\n\"'But is not optimism a useful and sane philosophy?' I asked him.\n\n\"There's too much sham optimism, humbugging and even cruel optimism,' Mr\nHardy retorted. 'Sham optimism is really a more heartless doctrine to\npreach than even an exaggerated pessimism--the latter leaves one at\nleast on the safe side. There is too much sentiment in most fiction. It\nis necessary for somebody to write a little mercilessly, although, of\ncourse, it's painful to have to do it.'\"\n\nThat is what we must do if we wish to move on the higher ideal of\nphilosophical speculation as Hardy explains it. He points out that there\nis something in a novel that should transcend pessimism, meliorism or\noptimism, and that is the search for truth:\n\n\"So that to say one view is worse than other views without proving it\nerroneous implies the possibility of a false view being better or more\nexpedient than a true view; and no pragmatic proppings can make that\n_idolum specus_ stand on its feet, for it postulates a prescience denied\nto humanity.\"\n\nCharges of pessimism Hardy dismisses as the product of the\nchubble-headed people who only desire to pair all the couples off at the\nend of a novel and leave them with a plentiful supply of \"simply\nexquisite\" babies, hard cash and supreme contentment.\n\nAs I have hinted before, the face and the wealth of the earth are a\nconstant joy to Hardy, and he has great admiration for the Dorset\nrustics--those sprack-witted, earthy philosophers who have won support\nfor his novels even in circles where his ideals of life are not in\nfavour. He enthusiastically follows the ways and works of nature in\nwhich man co-operates. One instantly calls to mind Winterborne, the\ntravelling cider-maker in _The Woodlanders_, as an instance of this: \"He\nlooked and smelt like Autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to\nwheat colour, his eyes blue as cornflowers, his sleeves and leggings\ndyed with fruit stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples,\nhis hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that atmosphere\nof cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable\nfascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards.\"\n\nThe above is a prose-poem which is worthy to stand beside Keats' _Ode to\nAutumn_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWilliam Barnes was born at Rushay, near Pentridge, a village about four\nmiles from Cranborne, in the north-east of the county, on the Wiltshire\nborder, and in the heart of the Vale of Blackmore, the beauties of which\nhe was never tired of extolling in his gentle poems enriched with his\nnative dialect. His mother was a woman of good education and refined\ntastes, and he attended an endowed school at Struminster, where the\nclasses were composed of boys and girls and conducted in the American\nway. On leaving school he entered a solicitor's office in the same town,\nbut at the age of eighteen he removed to Dorchester. In 1823 he went to\nMere, in Somerset, where he worked as a schoolmaster for four years in\nloneliness. At this time he married Miss Julia Miles, and after an\nadditional eight years at Mere he returned to Dorchester, where teaching\nwas still his profession. One might almost say that Dorchester was his\nspiritual birthplace, for here his genius began to attract more than\nlocal attention, and here he grew into the hearts of the people so\ndeeply that when he passed away all wished to preserve his memory in the\nform of a public statue. Barnes was one of the secretaries of the Dorset\nField Club. His most earnest wish was to enter the Church, and from St\nJohn's College, Cambridge, he was ordained by the Bishop of Salisbury in\n1847, and became pastor of Whitcombe. He fell on troublous days and\npassed through a labyrinth of trials--sickness, death and sordid money\nembarrassments. Only once did he allow his pent-up humours of\ndiscouragement to break loose. One day he came in to his family with a\nsheaf of correspondence in which letters from duns were accompanied by\nothers containing warm eulogy of the poet. \"What a mockery is life!\" he\nexclaimed; \"they praise me and take away my bread! They might be putting\nup a statue to me some day when I am dead, while all I want now is leave\nto live. I asked for bread and they gave me a stone,\" he added bitterly.\nAt about this time he was awarded a Civil List pension of seventy pounds\na year, while the gift of the living of Came relieved him of the anxiety\nover money matters. The happiest days of his life were spent at Came,\nand here he followed with great diligence his one hobby--the Anglicising\nof the Latinised English words in our vocabulary, which he called\nspeech-lore.\n\nHe wrote two books on this subject, called _Redecraft_ and\n_Speechcraft_. In his preface to _Speechcraft_ he announced it as \"a\nsmall trial towards the upholding of our own strong old Anglo-Saxon\nspeech and the ready teaching of it to purely English minds by their own\ntongue.\" It was his fancy to replace all foreign and derived words with\nwords based on Saxon roots. The following are selected from his glossary\nof Latinised words, with their Saxon equivalents facing them:--\n\n\n     Accelerate       to on-quicken.\n     Accent           word-strain.\n     Acoustics        sound-lore.\n     Aeronaut         air-farer.\n     Alienate         to un-friend.\n     Ancestor         fore-elder.\n     Aphorisms        thought-cullings.\n     Botany           wort-lore.\n     Democracy        folkdom.\n     Deteriorate      worsen.\n     Equilibrium      weight-evenness.\n     Equivalent       worth-evenness.\n     Foliate          to leafen.\n     Initial          word-head.\n\n\nThomas Hardy's note on the genius of his dead friend is a generous\nestimate: \"Unlike Burns, B\u00e9ranger, and other poets of the people, Barnes\nnever assumed the high conventional style, and he entirely leaves alone\nambition, pride, despair, defiance, and other of the grander passions\nwhich move mankind, great and small. His rustics are as a rule happy\npeople, and very seldom feel the sting of the rest of modern\nmankind--the disproportion between the desire for serenity and the power\nof obtaining it. One naturally thinks of Crabbe in this connection, but\nthough they touch at points, Crabbe goes much further than Barnes in\nquestioning the justice of circumstance. Their pathos, after all, is the\nattribute upon which the poems must depend for their endurance; and the\nincidents which embody it are those of everyday cottage life, tinged\nthroughout with that 'light that never was,' which the emotional art of\nthe lyrist can project upon the commonest things. It is impossible to\nprophesy, but surely much English literature will be forgotten when\n_Woak Hill_ is still read for its intense pathos, _Blackmore Maidens_\nfor its blitheness, and _In the Spring_ for its Arcadian ecstasy.\"\n\nIn 1896 he published a copy of _Early English and the Saxon English_. In\nthis he traces both Angles and Saxons. It was his idea that the ancient\ndykes which cut up so much of our land were delved by them to mark their\nsettlements rather than to use in the case of warfare. He also sturdily\nasserted that the Britons were accomplished road-makers before the\nRomans came, and that the Romans merely improved roads already existing.\n\nThe poem of _Woak Hill_ is based on a Persian form of metre called _The\nPearl_, because the rhymes are supposed to represent a series of beads\nupon a rosary. The pearl, or sequence of assonance, is shown in the\nsecond word in the last line of each stanza:\n\n\n     \"When sycamore-trees were a-spreading\n     Green-ruddy in hedges\n     Beside the red dust of the ridges\n     A-dried at Woak Hill,\n\n     I packed up my goods all a-shining\n     With long years of handling\n     On dusty red wheels of a waggon\n     To ride at Woak Hill.\n\n     The brown thatchen roof of the dwelling\n     I then were a-leaving\n     Had sheltered the sleek head of Mary\n     My bride at Woak Hill.\n\n     But now for some years her light footfall\n     'S a-lost from the flooring.\n     Too soon for my joy and my children\n     She died at Woak Hill.\n\n     But still I do think that in soul\n     She do hover about us\n     To ho' for her motherless children,\n     Her pride at Woak Hill.\n\n     So lest she should tell me hereafter\n     I stole off 'ithout her\n     And left her uncalled at house-ridden\n     To bide at Woak Hill,\n\n     I call'd her so fondly, with lippens\n     All soundless to others,\n     And took her with air-reaching hand\n     To my side at Woak Hill.\n\n     On the road I did look round, a-talking\n     To light at my shoulder,\n     And then led her in at the doorway,\n     Miles wide from Woak Hill.\n\n     And that's why folk thought, for a season,\n     My mind were a-wand'ring\n     With sorrow, when I were so sorely\n     A-tried at Woak Hill.\n\n     But no; that my Mary mid never\n     Behold herself slighted\n     I wanted to think that I guided\n     My guide from Woak Hill.\"\n\n\nBarnes saw the pathos in the joy of utter physical weariness of a\nlabourer, and one of his finest poems depicts a cottage under a swaying\npoplar:\n\n\n     \"An' hands a-tired by day, were still,\n     Wi' moonlight on the door.\"\n\n\nHe always has that deep, quiet craving for the hearth, the fire, the\nprotecting thatch of a cottage, which gives his work a pathetic touch. I\nthink sometimes that Barnes must have been nearer to being cold,\nhomeless and tired at times than is generally understood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nBERE REGIS AND THE ANCIENT FAMILY OF TURBERVILLE\n\n     We who have passed into the Upper Air\n     Thence behold Earth, and know how she is fair.\n     More than her sister Stars sweet Earth doth love us:\n     She holds our hearts: the Stars are high above us.\n     O Mother Earth! Stars are too far and rare!\n\n\nBere Regis, that \"blinking little place\" with a history extending back\nto Saxon times (identified by Doctor Stukeley with the Roman Ibernium),\nis a typical little Dorset town about seven miles to the north-west of\nWareham. It makes a capital walk or ride from Dorchester, and it was\nthis way I travelled. I left Dorchester by High Street East, ascending\nYellowham Hill, the \"Yalbury Hill\" of Troy's affecting meeting with\nFanny Robin, leaving Troy Town to pass through Puddletown and Tolpuddle.\nEvening had fallen when I arrived at Bere Regis, and the rising wind and\nflying wrack of clouds above seemed to presage a wild night. I was just\nwondering whether, although it looked so threatening, I dared ride on to\nWareham, when my eyes rested on the Royal Oak Inn, with its Elizabethan\nbarns, mossed and mouldering red tiles and axe-hewn timbers.\n\n\"It is at such houses,\" I thought, \"that men may stretch out weary legs\nand taste home-cured bacon (I heard the squeak of a pig in the\nouthouse), and such places are the homes of adventure. I will go in and\ncall for ale and a bed.\"\n\nSo I walked straight into the courtyard, which backs upon the church,\nand found there a large man with considerable girth, a square, honest\nface and kindly eyes. He was wearing a cap, and wearing it in a fine\nrakish way too. His appearance gave me the impression that his wife had\ntossed the cap at him and failed to drop it on his head squarely, but\nhad landed it in a lopsided manner, and then our friend had walked off\nwithout thinking anything more about it. He was singing a song to\nhimself and staring at a pile of bundles of straw. He looked up and\nnodded good-humouredly.\n\n\"Looks like rain!\" said I.\n\n\"Aw 'es, tu be sure, now you come to mention it. I dawnt think rain's\nfar off.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me,\" said I, \"if I can get a meal and a bed at this inn?\"\n\n\"What you like,\" returned the man, with a quick tilt of his head, which\ndrew my eyes with a kind of fascination to his ill-balanced cap, \"but as\nI've nothing to do with the place I should ask the landlord avore me.\"\n\n\"Ah, to be sure,\" said I. \"Sorry to trouble you. I thought you might be\nthe landlord.\"\n\nThe man stopped singing his song to stare at me wide-eyed.\n\n\"Well, I beant; but it's a fine thing to be a landlord, with barrels o'\nbeer down 'ouze and money in the bank.\"\n\n\"Then may I ask what trade you follow,\" said I, \"and why you study that\nstraw so intently?\"\n\n\"Young fellow,\" said he, staring, \"I follow a main-zorry trade in these\ndays. I be a thatcher, and thatching to-the-truth-of-music is about done\nfor. If you look at these thatched cottages about Dorset they will tell\ntheir own story. Why, the reed is just thrown on the roof hugger-mugger.\nThey can't thatch no more down this part, I can tellee; they lay it on\nall of a heap.\"\n\n\"And is this the straw for thatching?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, smiling; \"they call them bundles of reed in Dorset--but\nin my country, which is Devon, they call 'em 'nitches o' reed.'\"\n\n\"Then you are not contented with your trade?\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" answered the thatcher, his face falling. \"It has always\nbeen my wish to have a little inn--and barrels o' beer down 'ouze and\nmoney....\"\n\n\"Far better be a thatcher,\" said I.\n\n\"I'll be dalled ef I can see why.\"\n\n\"It's an out-of-doors life in the first place,\" said I.\n\nThe thatcher nodded, and his cap looked about as perilous as the Leaning\nTower of Pisa.\n\n\"It is a happier life, too, I should say.\"\n\n\"Aw! I an't ayerd nort about that,\" he returned.\n\n\"And who ever heard of a starving thatcher?\"\n\n\"Young fellow,\" he sighed, \"there soon will be no thatchers to starve.\nTez a lost art is thatching. I am the last of my family to follow the\ntrade, and we can go back three hundred years.\"\n\n\"Then thatch is dying out?\"\n\n\"Yes, chiefly on the score of it being hard to 'dout' in case of fire.\"\n\n\"'Dout' is a strange old word. It means extinguish, I take it,\" said I.\n\n\"To be sure--extinguished. Maybe you've heard the story about the Devon\ngal who went to London as a maid and when she told the mistress she had\n'douted' the kitchen fire she was told to say 'extinguished' in future,\nand not use such ill-sounding words. 'Ess, mum,' she said, 'and shall I\n_sting-guish_ the old cat before I go to bed?'\"\n\nThe thatcher laughed in his deep chest.\n\n\"But thatch suits us Devon folk middlin' well,\" he continued. \"It's\nwarm in winter and cool in summer, and will stand more buffeting by the\nwind and rain than all your cheap tiles and slates.\"\n\n\"And thatch is cheap too, perhaps?\" I ventured.\n\n\"On the contrary,\" he answered. \"Lukee, those nitches of reed cost four\nshillings each, and you want three hundred bundles for a good-sized\nroof. Then there is the best tar twine (which comes from Ireland), the\nspars and the labour to be counted in. It takes three weeks on the\naverage house, but if the thatch is well laid it will last for thirty\nyears, and if I set my heart on a job and finish it off with a layer of\nheath atop, well, then, it will last for ever. Ess, fay!\"\n\n\"And what is the way you proceed to thatch a roof?\" I asked.\n\n[Illustration: HURDLE-MAKING AT BERE REGIS]\n\n\"Well,\" he answered, \"it's not easy to explain. 'Lanes' of reed--wheat\nstraw, you would say--are first tied on the eave beams and gable beams;\nthese are called eave locks and gable locks. A 'lane of reed' is about\nas long as a walking-stick and a bit thicker than a man's wrist, and a\nthatched roof is composed of these 'lanes' tied on the roof beams, in\nridge fashion. Then when the reeds are all tied on, overlapping each\nother, they are trimmed with a 'paring hook.' The reed has to be wet\nwhen put up; that is why thatchers wear leather knee-knaps. The best\nthatching reed comes from clay soil out Exeter and Crediton way.\"\n\n\"And where do you think,\" I asked, \"can be seen the most perfect\nexamples of thatching in England?\"\n\n\"I lay you won't see any better than the cottages around Lyme Regis and\nAxminster. But soon Merry England will be done with thatch, for the boys\nof the village are too proud to learn how to cut a spar or use a\nthatcher's hook. Bless my soul! They all want to be clerks or school\nteachers.\"\n\nMy friend the thatcher had a profound contempt for \"school larning\" and\nhe waxed triumphantly eloquent when he touched upon Council School\nteachers.\n\n\"What poor, mimpsy-pimsy craychers they be, them teachers,\" he remarked.\n\"Fancy them trying to larn others, and ha'n't got the brains to larn\nthemselves!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBere Regis church is the most beautiful little building of its size in\nDorset. It is the captain and chief of all the village churches, and has\njust managed to touch perfection in all the things that a wayside\nshrine should achieve. There is an atmosphere about the old place that\nis soothing and above the pleasure of physical experience. The qualities\nof Bere Regis can only be fully appreciated with that sixth sense that\ntranscends gross sight and touch. Upon entering the building one is\ncaptivated by the remarkable roof and the number of effigies, half\nlife-size, in the dress of the period, which are carved on the\nhammer-beams. This magnificent carved and painted timber roof is said to\nhave been the gift of Cardinal Morton, born at Milborne Stileman, in\nthis parish. The roof effigies are supposed to represent the Twelve\nApostles, but they are not easily identified. The canopied Skerne tomb\npossesses a special interest for its brasses and verse:\n\n\n     \"I Skerne doe show that all our earthlie trust\n     All earthlie favours and goods and sweets are dust\n     Look on the worlds inside and look on me\n     Her outside is but painted vanity.\"\n\n\nIn the south porch will be found an interesting relic in the shape of\nsome old iron grappling-hooks used for pulling the thatch off a cottage\nin the event of fire. An ancient altar-slab on which, perchance,\nsacrifices have been offered has been preserved, and there is also a\nfine old priest's chair, the upper arms of which have supported the\nleaning bodies of a great company of Dorset vicars, for it must be\nremembered that the priest was not allowed to _sit_ on the chair--but\n\"leaning\" was permitted. The Norman pillars in the south arcade are\nstriking to the eye, and the humorous carvings on their capitals are\nobjects of great interest. One of them gives a very good picture of a\nvictim in the throes of toothache; apparently the sufferer has just\narrived at that stage in which the pain is mounting to a crescendo of\nagony, for he has inserted his eight fingers in his mouth in an attempt\nto battle with his tormentors. The other figure displays some poor\nfellow who is a martyr to headache--perhaps a gentle reproof and warning\nto those who were inclined to tarry overlong in the taverns. But the\nmain object of interest is the Turberville window in the south aisle,\nbeneath which is the ledger-stone covering the last resting-place of\nthis wild, land-snatching family, which is lettered as follows:--\n\n\n     \"Ostium sepulchri antiquae Famillae Turberville\n                     24 Junij 1710.\"\n\n(\"The door of the sepulchre of the ancient family of the Turbervilles.\")\n\n\nIt was at this vault stone that Tess bent down and said:\n\n\"Why am I on the wrong side of this door!\" Perhaps it is as well to\nrecite the outline of Hardy's story of _Tess_ at this stage of our\npilgrimage. Tess Durbeyfield, the daughter of poor and feeble-minded\nparents and descendant of a noble but somewhat wild old family, was\nforcibly seduced by a wealthy young loafer whose father had taken, with\nno right to it, Tess's proper name of \"D'Urberville.\" A child was born,\nbut died. Some years after Tess became betrothed to a clergyman's son,\nAngel Clare. On their wedding night Tess confessed to him her past\nrelations with Alec D'Urberville, and thereupon Clare, a man who was not\nwithout sin himself, left her. In the end Fate conspired to force Tess\nback into the protection of Alec. Clare, who cannot be looked upon as\nanything but half-baked and insincere, returns repentant from Canada and\nfinds her living with D'Urberville. In order to be free to return to\nClare, Tess stabbed Alec to the heart, for which she was arrested, tried\nand hanged.\n\nIn this romance Bere Regis figures as \"Kingsbere,\" and the church is the\nsubject of many references. It was on one of the \"canopied,\naltar-shaped\" Turberville tombs that poor Tess noticed, with a sudden\nqualm of blank fear, that the effigy moved. \"As soon as she drew close\nto it she discovered all in a moment that the figure was a living\nperson; and the shock to her sense of not having been alone was so\nviolent that she almost fainted, not, however, till she had recognised\nAlec D'Urberville in the form.\"\n\nHere Alec D'Urberville stamped with his heel heavily above the stones of\nthe ancient family vault, whereupon there arose a hollow echo from\nbelow, and remarked airily to Tess: \"A family gathering is it not, with\nthese old fellows under us here?\"\n\nIn the south wall a doorway which has been long filled in can still be\ntraced. There is nothing of special note in this alteration, but a\nlegend has been handed down which is worth recording here. It is said\nthat one of the Turberville family quarrelled with the vicar of Bere\nRegis and ended a stormy meeting by declaring that he would never again\npass through the old door of the church. As time went on the lure of the\nTurberville dead in the ancient shrine obsessed him and he grew to\nregret the haste in which he had cut himself off from the ancient\npossessors of his land. After some years Fate arranged a chance meeting\nbetween the vicar and Turberville at a village feast, and under the\ninfluence of the general good-fellowship and merry-making they buried\nthe hatchet and fell to discussing old times and friends. When time came\nfor the breaking up of the entertainment it was only Turberville's\ndogged determination to keep his vow which prevented a return to the\nold happy conditions before the breach of friendship.\n\n\"There is one thing I would ask you to do, Vicar,\" said Turberville as\nhe parted. \"When you attend vespers to-morrow just tell the old\nTurberville squires to sleep soundly in their vault. Although I have\nvowed never to pass through the church door while I am alive, I cannot\nstop 'em _carrying_ me through when I am dead--so I shall sleep with\nthem in the end.\"\n\nHowever, the worthy vicar went to the town stone-mason next morning and\narranged to cut a new doorway in the south wall, and thus it came to\npass that the independent and stubborn Turberville once again was able\nto worship with the shades of his fathers and yet keep to his promise\nnever to pass through the _old_ door again.\n\nThe first of the family of Turberville was Sir Payne de Turberville (de\nTurba Villa), who came over with William the Norman. From Sir Payne down\nto the last descendants of the family who form the theme of Thomas\nHardy's romance, _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, the Turbervilles were a\nstrange, wild company. It is excusable, too, in a way, for it appears\nthat the first of the line, after the battle of Hastings, was one of the\ntwelve knights who helped Robert FitzHamon, Lord of Estremaville, in\nhis evil work and returned to England when his commander was created\nEarl of Gloucester. In an ancient document of the time of Henry III. we\ncome across a striking illustration of the unscrupulous ways of this\nfamily, for it is recorded that John de Turberville was then paying an\nannual fine on some land near Bere Regis, which his people before him\nhad filched from the estate of the Earl of Hereford. The Turbervilles\nwere established in the neighbourhood in 1297. Bryants Puddle, a very\nrude little hamlet situated on the River Piddle a little to the\nsouth-west of Bere, receives its title from Brian de Turberville, who\nwas lord of the manor in the reign of Edward III. The village was\nanciently called \"Piddle Turberville,\" but this name has been replaced\nby Bryants Puddle.\n\nAt a later period the Turbervilles came into the possession of the manor\nof Bere Regis at the breaking up of Tarent Abbey, and at this time the\ngood fortune of the family was at its zenith. But with the spoils of the\nchurch came a gradual and general downfall of the old family, and with\nthe increased riches, we may conjecture, the Turbervilles went roaring\non their way more riotously than ever. There is an entry in the parish\nregisters of Bere, under the year 1710, of the interment of Thomas\nTurberville, the last of the ancient race. An intermediate stage of the\nhouse is represented by D'Albigny Turberville, the oculist mentioned by\nPepys, who died in 1696 and was buried in Salisbury Cathedral. After the\nyear 1710 the old manor-house of the Turbervilles, standing near the\nchurch, was strangely silent. Their time was over and gone, the wine had\nbeen drunk, the singers had departed. But the stories of their carousals\nand great deeds were still a matter for dispute and discussion at the\nvillage inn, and the eerie old house was especially regarded with\nfeelings of awe and few cared to go near it after dark. It was not what\nthey had seen, but what they might see, that caused them to shun the old\nplace. I can picture the Dorset rustic of that time (and the distance\nbetween Hodge the \"Goodman\" of 1710 and Hodge the driver of the motor\ntractor is almost nothing at all) shaking his head on being asked his\nreasons for avoiding the house, and saying, with a grin, as how he\n\"shouldn't like to go poking about such a divered [dead] old hole.\"\n\nThe ancient manor-house was allowed to lapse into ruin, and now nothing\nat all remains but a few crumbling stones:\n\n\n     \"Through broken walls and grey\n       The winds blow bleak and shrill;\n     They are all gone away.\n\n     Nor is there one to-day\n       To speak them good or ill;\n     There is nothing more to say.\"\n\n\nThere is reason to believe that the rustics in Wilts and Dorset who bear\ndifferent forms of the name Turberville, altered into Tellafield and\nTroublefield, are in truth the descendants of illegitimate branches of\nthe family. One ancient Dorset rustic with the name of Tollafield, who\naroused my interest, said to me in all seriousness that he would not\ncare to go rummaging into the history of the old Turberville people.\n\"You depend upon it, they were a bad lot--the parson told me so. There\nis no telling what them folks' speerits might not be up to, if so be the\nold devil had got ahold on 'em.\" This rustic, though an old man, had an\neye as keen as a hawk's, was a man of immensely powerful frame, and\nwould sleep under a hedge any night and feel little the worse for it.\nWhen I looked at his clear, hard blue eyes and straight, haughty nose he\ngave me the feeling that the Turberville blood had really survived in\nhim. Then I learned that he was a flagrant poacher and, like the old\nearth-stopper in Masefield's poem,\n\n\n     \"His snares made many a rabbit die.\n     On moony nights he found it pleasant\n     To stare the woods for roosting pheasants\n     Up near the tree-trunk on the bough.\n     He never trod behind a plough.\n     He and his two sons got their food\n     From wild things in the field and wood.\"\n\n\nIt was my fortune to run into the old fellow coming out of the Royal Oak\none night with his friends. He was very exuberant and arrogant. I heard\nhim offering to fight three men, \"knock one down, t'other come on\"\nstyle. Then it came over me with a sudden sense of largeness and\nquietude that the game old ruffian had his place in the order of things.\nThis tyrant of the low Tudor tap-room was perhaps a Turberville, one of\nthe rightful, immemorial owners of the land. If he has not the right to\na pheasant for his Sunday dinner, then tell me who has. Perhaps when we,\nwith our picture palaces and styles and jazzy-dances, have passed away\nour hoary friend the poacher will abide, his feet among his clods,\nrooted deep in his native soil. And if all this thin veneer of\ncivilisation was suddenly ripped away from us, how should we emerge?\nHodge would still go on poaching, sleeping under hedges, outwitting the\nwild things in the woods and drinking home-brewed ale. He would not even\nfeel any temporary inconvenience. How old-fashioned and out-of-date we\nwith all our new things would feel if we were suddenly brought into line\nwith the eternally efficient Hodge!\n\n[Illustration: Woolbridge House]\n\nFrom Bere Regis to Wool is a pleasant ride of five or six miles. Close\nto Wool station is the manor-house, now a farm, which was once the\nresidence of a younger branch of the Turberville family, and readers\nwill remember it is the place where Tess and Angel Clare came to spend\ntheir gloomy and tragic honeymoon. In Hardy's _Tess_ the house is called\nWellbridge Manor House, in remembrance of the days when Wool was called\nWelle, on account of the springs which are so plentiful in this\ndistrict. Of course the house is named from the five-arched Elizabethan\nbridge which spans the reed-fringed River Frome at this point. Each arch\nof the bridge is divided by triangular buttresses, which at the\nroad-level form recesses where foot-passengers may take refuge from\npassing motors or carts. The manor-house is of about the time of Henry\nVIII., and has been much renovated. Over the doorway a date stone\nproclaims that the building was raised in 1635 (or 1655), but it has\nbeen suggested that this is the date of a restoration or addition to the\nbuilding. The two pictures of Tess's ancestors mentioned in the novel\nactually exist, and are to be seen on the wall of the staircase: \"two\nlife-sized portraits on panels built into the wall. As all visitors are\naware, these paintings represent women of middle age, of a date some two\nhundred years ago, whose lineaments once seen can never be forgotten.\nThe long pointed features, narrow eye, and smirk of the one, so\nsuggestive of merciless treachery; the bill-hook nose, large teeth, and\nbold eye of the other, suggesting arrogance to the point of ferocity,\nhaunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams.\"\n\nOld records show that in ancient times a curious custom was observed on\nAnnual Court Day at Wool. It was known as collecting smoke-pence. It\nappears that the head of every house was called upon to pay a penny for\neach of his chimneys as a token that the property belonged to the manor.\nThe money was collected by the constable, who was obliged to bring\ntwenty pence into court, or make up the money himself.\n\nThe most characteristic and altogether unique feature of this nook of\nearth around Bere Regis is that superstition has not ceased to exist\namong the old people of the land. It is difficult to believe that there\nis a little district in England where superstition is still a part--a\nvery obscure part, it is true--of the life of the people. But here I\nhave noticed the shadow of witchcraft and magic thrown across the\ncommonplace things of rustic life again and again while talking with old\ncronies over their beer, or along the winding hill roads. But it must be\nunderstood that the Dorset man does not talk to any chance wayfarer on\nsuch matters: the subject of the \"Borderland\" and \"spiritual creatures\"\nis strictly set apart for the log fire and chimney corner on winter\nevenings. It is when the wooden shutters are up to the windows, and the\ntranquillising clay pipes are sending up their incense to the oak\ncross-beams, that we may cautiously turn the conversation on to such\nmatters. On one such occasion as I watched the keen, wrinkled faces, on\nwhich common sense, shrewdness and long experience had set their marks,\nI wondered if two local farmers had made such sinners of their memories\nas to credit their own fancy. But no, I would not believe they were in\nearnest. It was only their quaint humour asserting itself. They were\nsurely \"piling it on\" in order to deceive me! However, that was not the\nsolution, for when the time came, somewhere about midnight, for one of\nthe farmers to return home he stolidly refused to face the dark trackway\nback to his farm, and preferred to spend the night in the arm-chair\nbefore the fire. But let one of the dwellers on Bere Heath tell of his\nown superstitions. Here is old Gover coming over the great Elizabethan\nbridge which spans the rushy River Frome at Wool. One glance at his\ncheerful, weather-beaten face will tell you better than a whole chapter\nof a book that he is no \"lablolly\" (fool), but a man of sound judgment,\neasy notions and general good character, like Hardy's Gabriel Oak.\nLeaning on the ancient stonework of the bridge, and smacking his\nvamplets (rough gaiters used by thatchers to defend the legs from wet)\nwith a hazel stick, he stops to talk. A motor lorry filled with churns\nof milk passes on its way to drop its consignment at Wool railway\nsiding.\n\n\"Tellee what 'tis,\" said Gover to me, pointing to the lorry: \"'twill be\na poor-come-a-long-o'-'t now them motors are taking the place o' horses\neverywhere. Can't get no manure from them things, and the land is no\ngood without manure. Mr Davis the farmer at Five Mile Bottom hev got\nfive Ford cars now where ten horses used to feed. He sez to me that he\ndon't want any horse manure--chemical manures is good enough for him.\nBut he dunnow nort 't-all-'bout-et! He'll eat the heart out of his soil\nwith his chemicals, and his farm will be barren in a year or so. Ess, by\nGor! You bant agwain to do justice to the soil without real manure, and\nthem as thinks they can dawnt know A from a 'oss's 'ead.\"\n\nThen I asked Gover about the Turberville ghost which we are told haunts\nthis lane, and which is the subject of an allusion in Hardy's _Tess of\nthe D'Urbervilles_. His keen old face became serious at once. No ghosts\nor goblins had troubled him, he said, but John Rawles and another chap\nsaw as plain as could be a funeral going along from Woolbridge House to\nBere Regis, and they heard the priest singing in front of the coffin,\nbut they could not understand what he did say. There was a cattle gate\nacross the road in those days and Rawles ran to open it, but before he\ncould get there the coffin had passed through the gate and it had all\nvanished! He had often heard tell of people who had seen ghosts, and he\nwould not be put about if he did see one himself.\n\n\"So you have not seen the blood-stained family coach of the\nTurbervilles?\" I inquired.\n\n\"No, I never see that,\" said Gover, shaking his head, \"nor never heard\nof it.\"\n\n\"Then, as it is a tale that every child should know,\" I said, \"I will\ntell you now, and you shall believe it or no, precisely as you choose.\nOnce upon a time there was a Turberville who deserves to be remembered\nand to be called, so to speak, the limb of the 'old 'un' himself, for he\nspent all his days in wickedness, and went roaring to the devil as fast\nas all his vices could send him. I have heard it said that he snapped\nhis fingers in the face of a good parson who came to see him on his\ndeath-bed, saying he did not wish to talk balderdash, or to hear it, and\nbade him clear out and send up his servant with fighting-cocks and a\nbottle of brandy. Gradually all the drinking and vice, which had\nbesieged his soul for so long, swept him into a state of temporary\nmadness and he murdered a friend while they were riding to Woolbridge\nHouse in the family coach. The friend he struck down had Turberville\nblood in his veins too, so you may be certain the blame was not all on\none side. Ever since the evil night the coach with the demon horses\ndragging it sways and rocks along the road between Wool and Bere, and\nthe murderer rushes after it, moaning and wringing his hands, but never\nhaving the fortune to catch it up. The spectacle of the haunted coach\ncannot be seen by the ordinary wayfarer; it is only to be seen by\npersons in which the blood of the Turbervilles is mixed.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" nodded old Gover, \"I don't hold with that story. If so be as that\n'ere Turberville who murdered t'other hev a-gone up above, 'tain't\nlikely as how he'll be wishful to go rowstering after that ripping great\ncoach on a dalled bad road like this.\" And then he shook his bony finger\nin my face and added: \"And if the dowl have a-got hold on 'im he won't\nbe able to go gallyvanting about--he'll be kept there!\"\n\nWool has another attraction in the ruins of Bindon Abbey, lying in the\nthick wood seen from the station, a few minutes to the south of the\nline towards Wareham. The ruins are very scanty. A few slabs and coffins\nare still preserved, and one stone bears the inscription in Lombardic\ncharacters:\n\n\n     ABBAS RICARDUS DE MANERS HIC TUMULATUR\n       APPOENAS TARDUS DEUS HUNC SALVANS\n                   TUEATUR\n\n\nThe Abbey is in a wood by the river--a gloomy, fearsome, dark place.\nThis is the Wellbridge Abbey of Hardy's _Tess_, and we read that\n\"against the north wall of the ruined choir was the empty stone coffin\nof an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was\naccustomed to stretch himself.\" This is, of course, the lidless coffin\nin which Angel Clare, walking in his sleep, laid Tess. Woolbridge House\nis not so near to this spot as Thomas Hardy gives one to understand in\nthe novel. Near the ruin is the old mill of Bindon Abbey, situated on\nthe Frome, where Angel Clare proposed to learn milling. It is called\n\"Wellbridge Mill\" in _Tess_.\n\nThe old Abbey wood is full of shadows and is the kind of place that one\nwould write down as immemorially old, barren and sinister. The singular\nimpressiveness of its ivy-grown walls, shadowed by heavy masses of\nfoliage, depresses one dreadfully. The straight footpaths beneath the\ntrees have been worn into deep tracks by the attrition of feet for many\ncenturies. Under the trees are the fish-ponds which played such an\nimportant part in provisioning the monks' larder. They are so concealed\nfrom the daylight that they take on a shining jet-black surface. A book\nmight be written about the place--a book of terrible and fateful ghost\ntales.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nROUND AND ABOUT WEYMOUTH\n\n     I walk in the world's great highways,\n       In the dusty glare and riot,\n     But my heart is in the byways\n       That thread across the quiet;\n     By the wild flowers in the coppice,\n       There the track like a sleep goes past,\n     And paven with peace and poppies,\n       Comes down to the sea at last.\n                              E. G. BUCKERIDGE.\n\n\nModern Weymouth is made up of two distinct townships, Weymouth and\nMelcombe Regis, which were formerly separate boroughs, with their own\nparliamentary representatives. Of the two Weymouth is probably the\nolder, but Melcombe can be traced well-nigh back to the Conquest; and\nnow, although it is the name of Weymouth that has obtained the\nprominence, it is to Melcombe that it is commonly applied. Many visitors\nto Weymouth never really enter the real, ancient Weymouth, now chiefly\nconcerned in the brewing of Dorset ale. The pier, town, railway station\nand residences are all in Melcombe Regis. The local conditions are\nsomething more than peculiar. The little River Wey has an estuary\naltogether out of proportion to its tiny stream, called the Blackwater.\nThe true original Weymouth stands on the right bank of the estuary at\nits entrance into Weymouth Bay. Across the mouth of the estuary, leaving\na narrow channel only open, stretches a narrow spit of land, on which\nstands Melcombe. The Blackwater has thus a lake-like character, and its\ncontinuation to the sea, the harbour, may be likened to a canal. The\nlocal annals of the kingdom can hardly furnish such another instance of\njealous rivalry as the strife between the two boroughs. Barely a\nstone's-throw apart, they were the most quarrelsome of neighbours, and\nfor centuries lived the most persistent \"cat and dog\" life. Whatever was\nadvanced by one community was certain to be opposed by the other, and\nnot even German and English hated each other with a more perfect hatred\nthan did the burgesses of Weymouth and Melcombe Regis. As they would not\nlive happy single, it was resolved to try what married life would do,\nand so in 1571 the two corporations were rolled into one, the only\nvestige of the old days retained being the power of electing four\nmembers to Parliament from the joint municipality--a right which was\nexercised until 1832. Not until the union was the old-fashioned ferry\nover the Wey supplemented by a bridge, the predecessor of that which\nnow joins the two divisions of the dual town. The union proved to be a\nsuccess, and in this way Weymouth saved both itself and its name from\nbecoming merely a shadow and a memory.\n\nIt is to George III. that Weymouth must be eternally grateful, for just\nin the same way as George IV. turned Brighthelmstone into Brighton, it\nwas George III. who _made_ Weymouth. Of course there was a Weymouth long\nbefore his day, but whatever importance it once possessed had long\ndisappeared when he took it up. For many years the King spent long\nsummer holidays at Gloucester Lodge, a mansion facing the sea, and now\nthe sedate Gloucester Hotel.\n\nConsidering its undoubted age, Weymouth is remarkably barren in traces\nof the past, and a few Elizabethan houses, for the most part modernised,\nwell-nigh exhaust its antiquities.\n\nWeymouth, which figures as \"Budmouth\" in Hardy's romances, is the\nsubject of many references. Uncle Bengy, in _The Trumpet Major_, found\nBudmouth a plaguy expensive place, for \"If you only eat one egg, or even\na poor windfall of an apple, you've got to pay; and a bunch of radishes\nis a halfpenny, and a quart o' cider tuppence three-farthings at lowest\nreckoning. Nothing without paying!\"\n\nWhen George III. and the sun of prosperity shone upon the tradesfolk of\nWeymouth the spirit of pecuniary gain soon became rampant. The inflated\nprices which so roused poor old Uncle Bengy even staggered Queen\nCharlotte, and \"Peter Pindar\" (Dr John Wolcot) criticised her household\nthriftiness in bringing stores and provisions from Windsor:\n\n\n     \"Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar and mustard,\n     Small beer and bacon, apple pie and custard;\n     All, all from Windsor, greets his frugal Grace,\n     For Weymouth is a d----d expensive place.\"\n\n\nSandsfoot Castle, built by Henry VIII., on the southern shore of the\nspit of land called the Nothe, Weymouth Bay, is now a mere pile of\ncorroded stone. It was built as a fort when England feared an invasion\nprompted by the Pope. The old pile plays a prominent part in Hardy's\n_The Well-Beloved_. The statue of King George, which is such an object\nof ridicule to the writers of guide-books, was the meeting-place of\nFancy Day and Dick Dewy in _Under the Greenwood Tree_.\n\nThe \"Budmouth\" localities mentioned in _The Trumpet Major_ are: the\nQuay; Theatre Royal; Barracks; Gloucester Lodge; and the Old Rooms Inn\nin Love Row, once a highly fashionable resort which was used for dances\nand other entertainments by the ladies and gentlemen who formed the\nCourt of George III. It was also the spot where the battle of Trafalgar\nwas discussed in _The Dynasts_. However, the old assembly rooms and the\ntheatre have now vanished. Mention of Hardy's tremendous drama reminds\nme that it is rarely quoted in topographical works on Dorset, and yet it\nis full of the spirit and atmosphere of Wessex. Thus in a few words he\ntells us what \"Boney\" seemed like to the rustics of Dorset:\n\n\"WOMAN (_in undertones_). I can tell you a word or two on't. It is about\nHis victuals. They say that He lives upon human flesh, and has rashers\no' baby every morning for breakfast--for all the world like the Cernel\nGiant in old ancient times!\n\n\"SECOND OLD MAN. I only believe half. And I only own--such is my\nchallengeful character--that perhaps He do eat pagan infants when He's\nin the desert. But not Christian ones at home. Oh no--'tis too much!\n\n\"WOMAN. Whether or no, I sometimes--God forgi'e me!--laugh wi' horror at\nthe queerness o't, till I am that weak I can hardly go round house. He\nshould have the washing of 'em a few times; I warrent 'a wouldn't want\nto eat babies any more!\"\n\nThere are a hundred clean-cut, bright things in _The Dynasts_, and some\nof the songs are so cunningly fashioned that we know the author must\nsurely have overheard them so often that they have become part of his\nlife. Does the reader remember this from the first volume?--\n\n\n     \"In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the\n       land,\n     And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked\n       with sand,\n     And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands\n       are,\n     We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.\n\n     (_All_)  Had done,\n              Had done\n            For us at Trafalgar!\"\n\n\nOr the other ballad sung by a Peninsular sergeant--\n\n\n       \"When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,\n       Oh, the girls were fresh as peaches,\n     With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and\n       brown!\n       And our hearts would ache with longing\n       As we passed from our sing-songing,\n     With a smart _Clink! Clink!_ up the Esplanade and down.\"\n\n\nThe principal attraction of Weymouth is its magnificent bay, which has\ncaused the town to be depicted on the railway posters as the \"Naples of\nEngland\"; but Mr Harper, in his charming book, _The Hardy Country_,\ncruelly remarks that no one has yet found Naples returning the\ncompliment and calling itself the \"Weymouth of Italy.\" But there is no\nneed for Weymouth to powder and paint herself with fanciful\nattractions, for her old-world glamour is full of enchantment. The pure\nGeorgian houses on the Esplanade, with their fine bow windows and\nred-tiled roofs, are very warm and homely, and remind one of the glories\nof the coaching days. They are guiltless of taste or elaboration, it is\ntrue, but they have an honest savour about them which is redolent of\nWilliam Cobbett, pig-skin saddles, real ale and baked apples. And those\nare some of the realest things in the world. There is a distinct\n\"atmosphere\" about the shops near the harbour too. They shrink back from\nthe footpath in a most timid way, and each year they seem to settle down\nan inch or so below the street-level, with the result that they are\noften entered by awkward steps.\n\nNear the Church of St Mary is the Market, which on Fridays and Tuesdays\npresents a scene of colour and activity. In the Guildhall are several\ninteresting relics, the old stocks and whipping-posts, a chest captured\nfrom the Spanish Armada and a chair from the old house of the Dominican\nfriars which was long ago demolished.\n\nPreston, three miles north-east of Weymouth, is a prettily situated\nvillage on the main road to Wareham, with interesting old thatched\ncottages and a fifteenth-century church containing an ancient font, a\nNorman door, holy-water stoups and squint. At the foot of the hill a\nlittle one-arched bridge over the stream was once regarded as Roman\nmasonry, but the experts now think it is Early Norman work. Adjoining\nPreston is the still prettier village of Sutton Poyntz, hemmed in by the\nDowns, on the side of which, in a conspicuous position, is the famous\nfigure, cut in the turf, of King George III. on horseback. He looks very\nimpressive, with his cocked hat and marshal's baton. Sutton Poyntz is\nthe principal locale of Hardy's story of _The Trumpet Major_. The tale\nis of a sweet girl, Anne Garland, and two brothers Loveday, who loved\nher; the \"gally-bagger\" sailor, Robert, who won her, and John, the\neasy-going, gentle soldier, who lost her. _The Trumpet Major_ is a\nmellow, loamy novel, and the essence of a century of sunshine has found\nits way into the pages. Even the pensiveness of the story--the sadness\nof love unsatisfied--is mellow. The village to-day, with its tree-shaded\nstream, crooked old barns and stone cottages, recalls the spirit of the\nnovel with Overcombe Mill as a central theme. How vividly the pilgrim\ncan recall the Mill, with its pleasant rooms, old-world garden, and the\nstream where the cavalry soldiers came down to water their horses! It\nwas a dearly loved corner of England for John Loveday, and if to keep\nthose meadows safe and fair a life was required, he was perfectly\nwilling to pay the price--nay, more, he was proud and glad to do so. In\nthe end John was killed in one of the battles of the Peninsular War, and\nhis spirit is echoed by a soldier poet who went to his death in 1914:\n\n\n     \"Mayhap I shall not walk again\n       Down Dorset way, down Devon way.\n     Nor pick a posy in a lane\n       Down Somerset and Sussex way.\n\n     But though my bones, unshriven, rot\n     In some far-distant alien spot,\n     What soul I have shall rest from care\n     To know that meadows still are fair\n       Down Dorset way, down Devon way.\"\n\n\nThe mill is not the one sketched in the tale, but it still grinds corn,\nand one can still see \"the smooth mill-pond, over-full, and intruding\ninto the hedge and into the road.\" The real mill is actually at Upwey.\n\nBincombe, two miles north-east of Upwey, is one of the \"outstep placen,\"\nwhere the remnants of dialect spoken in the days of Wessex kings is not\nquite dead, and as we go in and out among the old cottages we come upon\nmany a word which has now been classed by annotators as \"obsolete.\" \"I'd\nas lief be wooed of a snail,\" says Rosalind in _As You Like It_ of the\ntardy Orlando, and \"I'd as lief\" or \"I'd liefer\" is still heard here in\nBincombe. There is a large survival of pure Saxon in the Wessex speech,\nand Thomas Hardy has made a brave attempt to preserve the old local\nwords in his novels. He has always deplored the fact that schools were\ndriving out the racy Saxon words of the West Country, and once remarked\nto a friend:\n\n\"I have no sympathy with the criticism which would treat English as a\ndead language--a thing crystallised at an arbitrarily selected stage of\nits existence, and bidden to forget that it has a past and deny that it\nhas a future. Purism, whether in grammar or vocabulary, almost always\nmeans ignorance. Language was made before grammar, not grammar before\nlanguage. And as for the people who make it their business to insist on\nthe utmost possible impoverishment of our English vocabulary, they seem\nto me to ignore the lessons of history, science, and common sense.\n\n\"It has often seemed to me a pity, from many points of view--and from\nthe point of view of language among the rest--that Winchester did not\nremain, as it once was, the royal, political, and social capital of\nEngland, leaving London to be the commercial capital. The relation\nbetween them might have been something like that between Paris and\nMarseilles or Havre; and perhaps, in that case, neither of them would\nhave been so monstrously overgrown as London is to-day. We should then\nhave had a metropolis free from the fogs of the Thames Valley; situated,\nnot on clammy clay, but on chalk hills, the best soil in the world for\nhabitation; and we might have preserved in our literary language a\nlarger proportion of the racy Saxon of the West Country. Don't you think\nthere is something in this?\"\n\nReturning from Bincombe and passing through Sutton to Preston we come in\na mile to Osmington. A short distance beyond the village a narrow road\nleads off seawards to Osmington Mills. Crossing the hills, this narrower\nroad descends to the coast and the Picnic Inn--a small hostelry noted\nfor \"lobster lunches\" and \"prawn teas.\" If we strike inland from\nOsmington we come to Poxwell, the old manor-house of the Hennings, a\ncuriously walled-in building with a very interesting gate-house. This is\nthe Oxwell Manor of _The Trumpet Major_ and the house of Benjamin\nDerriman--\"a wizened old gentleman, in a coat the colour of his\nfarmyard, breeches of the same hue, unbuttoned at the knees, revealing a\nbit of leg above his stocking and a dazzlingly white shirt-frill to\ncompensate for this untidiness below. The edge of his skull round his\neye-sockets was visible through the skin, and he walked with great\napparent difficulty.\"\n\nPressing onward from this village, we arrive, after a two-mile walk, at\n\"Warm'ell Cross,\" three miles south-west of Moreton station. The left\nroad leads to Dorchester, the right one to Wareham, and the centre one\nacross the immemorially ancient and changeless \"Egdon Heath.\" Here we\nturn to the right and Owermoigne, the \"Nether Mynton\" in which the\nevents of _The Distracted Preacher_ take place. Here indeed is a nook\nwhich seems to be a survival from another century; a patch of England of\na hundred years ago set down in the England of to-day. The church where\nLizzie Newberry and her smugglers stored \"the stuff\" is hidden from\nthose who pass on the highroad and is reached by a little rutty, crooked\nlane. The body of the church has been rebuilt, but the tower where the\nsmugglers looked down upon the coastguard officers searching for their\ncasks of brandy remains the same.\n\nThe highway leads for two miles along the verge of Egdon Heath, and then\nwe come to a right-hand turning taking us past Winfrith Newburgh and\nover the crest of the chalk downs steeply down to West Lulworth.\n\nLulworth Cove is justly considered one of the most delightful and\npicturesque retreats on the coast. It is a circular little basin\nenclosed by towering cliffs of chalk and sand and entered by a narrow\nopening between two bluffs of Portland stone. It exhibits a section of\nall the beds between the chalk and oolite, and owes its peculiar form to\nthe unequal resistance of these strata to the action of the sea. The\nperpetually moving water, having once pierced the cliff of stone, soon\nworked its way deeply into the softer sand and chalk.\n\nLulworth is the \"Lullstead Cove\" of the Hardy novels. Here Sergeant Troy\nwas supposed to have been drowned; it is one of the landing-places\nchosen by the Distracted Preacher's parishioners during their smuggling\nexploits, and in _Desperate Remedies_ it is the first meeting-place of\nCynthera Graye and Edward Springrove.\n\nThe cove is most conveniently reached from Swanage by steamer. By rail\nthe journey is made to Wool and thence by bus for five miles southward.\nBy road the short way is by Church Knowle, Steeple, Tyneham and East\nLulworth--but the hills are rather teasing; however, the views are\nwonderful. It is nine miles if one takes the Wareham road from Corfe as\nfar as Stoborough, there turning to the left for East Holme, West Holme\nand East Lulworth.\n\nThe entrance to the cove from the Channel is a narrow opening in the\ncliff, which here rises straight from the sea. Mounted on a summit on\nthe eastern side of the breach is a coastguard's look-out, while in a\nhollow on the other side are the remains of Little Bindon Abbey. The\ncove is an almost perfect circle, and in summer the tide, as it flows\nin, fills the white cove with a shimmering sheet of light blue water.\nEach wave breaks the surface into a huge circle, and the effect from the\nheights is a succession of wonderful sparkling rings vanishing into the\nyellow sands. To the east rise the ridges of Bindon Hill and the grey\nheights of Portland stone that terminate seaward in the _Mupe Rocks_,\nthen the towering mass of _Ring's Hill_, crowned by the large oblong\nentrenchment known as Flower's Barrow, which has probably been both a\nBritish and a Roman camp.\n\nIn the summer steamers call daily at the cove. The landing is effected\nby means of boats or long gangways. After having climbed the hill roads\ninto Lulworth, the pilgrim will not, I am certain, look with any delight\nupon a return to them, and will welcome an alternative trip to Swanage,\nWeymouth or Bournemouth by an excursion steamer.\n\n[Illustration: CORFE CASTLE\n\nFrom a photograph taken in 1865\n\nThe old-time shepherd stands in the foreground with his dog--a shaggy\nruffian of a now fast-disappearing breed]\n\nPortisham, under the bold, furzy hills that rise to the commanding\nheight of Blackdown, appears in _The Trumpet Major_ as the village to\nwhich Bob Loveday (who was spasmodically in love with Anne Garland)\ncomes to attach himself to Admiral Hardy for service in the Royal Navy.\nNotwithstanding the fact that Robert Loveday is merely an imaginary\ncharacter, the admiral was a renowned hero in real life, and no less a\npersonage than Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy. He lived here, in a picturesque\nold house just outside the village, and the chimney-like tower on Black\nDown was erected to his memory. In a garden on the opposite side of the\nroad to Hardy's house is a sundial, inscribed:\n\n\n           JOSEPH HARDY, ESQ.\n     KINGSTON RUSSELL, LAT. 50\u00b0 45'\n                1769\n             FUGIO FUGE\n\n\nAdmiral Hardy was born at Kingston Russell, and his old home at\nPortisham is still in the possession of a descendant on the female side.\n\nFrom Portisham a walk of four miles leads to Abbotsbury, situated at the\nverge of the Vale of Wadden and the Chesil Beach. The railway station is\nabout ten minutes' walk from the ancient village, which consists of a\nfew houses picturesquely dotted around the church and scattered ruins of\nthe Abbey of St Peter. The abbey was originally founded in King Knut's\nreign by Arius, the \"house-carl,\" or steward, to the king, about 1044,\nin the reign of Edward the Confessor. The building at the south-east\ncorner of the church is part of the old abbey. It is now used as a\ncarpenter's shop, but an old stoup can be seen in the corner. At the\nfarther end of this building is a cell in which the last abbot is said\nto have been starved to death.\n\nA gate-house porch and a buttressed granary of fourteenth-century\narchitecture, still used as a barn, and a pond, with a tree-covered\nisland, the ancient fish-pond of the monks, are all that remain to\nremind us of the historic past of this spot.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nPOOLE\n\n\nThe wide expanse of Poole Harbour is a well-known haunt of sportsmen,\nfor in the winter it is the home of innumerable wild-fowl, and for those\nwho are fond of yachting and pottering about with boats it is large\nenough to test their skill and patience in controlling a craft in the\nwind and wave. Here we get a double tide, the second rising rather\nhigher than the first, and when the tide is in the view is not unlike a\nDutch landscape. But the ebb lays bare acres of mud-banks, which mar the\nprospect. However, the marine emanations from the mud-banks are said to\nbe very salubrious. This harbour is the only haven between Southampton\nand Weymouth for yachting men.\n\nInland from Poole the country is pleasantly varied by hills and heaths,\nthrough which, on the west side of the harbour, the verge of Bournemouth\nis reached, and an hour's walk will take the pilgrim over the Hampshire\nboundary.\n\nPoole Quay, where we smell the smell of tar, piled-up teak and reeking\npine, is an interesting place for lovers of the picturesque. Here we\nfind an old postern gate of Richard III.'s day, and the Town Cellar or\nWool House. The last recalls the days when Poole was part of the manor\nof Canford. The lords of Canford sometimes received toll in kind, and\nthe goods handed over were stored in this \"Town Cellar.\" It is\nparticularly interesting for the way its walls are formed, of flint and\nlarge, squared pieces of stone.\n\nThe smuggling for which Poole was long notorious is handed down to\nposterity by the following doggerel:--\n\n\n     \"If Poole was a fish-pool, and the men of Poole fish,\n     There'd be a pool for the devil, and fish for his dish.\"\n\n\nOne of the most daring and successful of English buccaneers was _Harry\nPage_ of Poole, or, as he was more commonly called, _Arripay_. His\nenterprises were principally directed against the coasts of France and\nSpain, where he committed such havoc that a formidable expedition was\nfitted out in those countries to destroy him. It sailed along our\nsouthern shores, destroying as opportunity offered, until it reached\nPoole. Here it landed, and a battle ensued, in which the inhabitants\nwere driven from the town and the brother of Arripay killed.\n\nThe island of _Brownsea_ or _Branksea_ (it has a score of other\nvariations) is the most prominent feature in Poole Harbour. It is ovoid\nin shape, about one and a half miles long by one mile broad, and lies\njust within the narrow harbour entrance, the main channel sweeping round\nits eastern side. This made the island of considerable importance in the\ndefence of the port, and led to the erection of _Brownsea Castle_\ntowards the end of the reign of Henry VIII. Prior to this Brownsea had\nbeen part of the possessions of the Abbey of Cerne. The castle was\nalmost wholly destroyed by fire in 1896, and in the following year\nrebuilt.\n\nFrom Poole the pilgrim can cross by the toll-bridge to Hamworth and\nvisit Lytchett Minster, which is two miles north-west of the lonely\nrailway junction. Part of the action of _The Hand of Ethelberta_ takes\nplace in this neighbourhood. The sign of one of the village inns, \"St\nPeter's Finger,\" is one of the most interesting features of Lytchett\nMinster. The sign shows St Peter holding up a hand with two extended\nfingers, and is a curious instance of the way in which old terms and\ntraditions are exposed to corruption. Sir B. Windle explains the matter\ntersely and clearly: \"August the 1st, Lammas Day, known in the calendar\nof the Catholic Church as St Peter ad Vincula, was one of the days on\nwhich pr\u00e6dial service had to be done for the lord of certain manors, as\na condition of tenure by the occupants. Such lands were called St\nPeter-ad-Vincula lands, a term which easily got corrupted into St\nPeter's finger.\"\n\nA brief description of Poole--under the Wessex name of \"Havenpool\"--is\ngiven in Hardy's \"To please his Wife,\" one of the short stories of\n_Life's Little Ironies_. It is the story of Captain Shadrack Jolliff,\nwho gave up the sea and settled down in his native town as a grocer,\nmarrying Joanna Phippard. They had two sons, but the captain did not\nmake much progress in business and his wife persuaded him to go to sea\nagain, as they were in need of money. He bought a small vessel and went\ninto the Newfoundland trade, returning home with his makings, which were\ndeemed insufficient by his wife. Accordingly he resolved to make another\nvoyage, and take his sons with him so that his profits might be more\nconsiderable. From this voyage they never returned, and Joanna was left\npenniless. She spent the rest of her life expecting the return of her\nhusband and sons.\n\nIt is evident that Hardy chose the name of Jolliff from his counterpart\nin real life, an honest, deep-hearted son of Poole, Peter Jolliff by\nname, master of the _Sea Adventurer_. Off Swanage, in 1694, with only\nthe aid of a small boy, he captured a French privateer and made its crew\nprisoners of war. He secured royal recognition for this bold act and\nreceived a gold chain and medal from the hands of the King.\n\nTo the pilgrim who seeks things of antique beauty and interest on foot,\nwith staff and wallet, in the old way, I cannot recommend a more\nenjoyable route than along the coast from Poole to Lyme, which may be\ncovered in a week. But to do the thing comfortably ten days would be\nmore advisable. Here is the itinerary if a week is taken. First day,\nborders of Poole Harbour by Studland to Swanage; second day, Swanage to\nWest Lulworth; the third, Lulworth by Osmington to Weymouth; the fourth,\nWeymouth and Portland; the fifth, Weymouth by Abbotsbury to Bridport;\nand the sixth, Bridport to Lyme. Should the walker allow himself a few\nextra days he might give an extra day to Purbeck, to visit Corfe Castle,\npay a visit to Dorchester, and to give himself two days between Weymouth\nand Bridport, halting midway at Abbotsbury.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nSWANAGE AND CORFE CASTLE\n\n\nSwanage is a well-known seaside resort, rapidly growing in favour. It\nnestles in the farther corner of a lovely little bay, and though in the\nrapid extension of rows of newly arisen houses, consequent upon the\ndevelopment of its fame as a watering-place, much of its old-time,\nhalf-sleepy, half-commercial aspect has passed away, Kingsley's still\nremains the best description of this spot--\"well worth seeing, and when\nonce seen not easily to be forgotten. A little semicircular bay, its\nnorthern horn formed by high cliffs of white chalk (_Ballard Head_),\nending in white, isolated stacks and peaks (_The Pinnacles_, _Old Harry\nand his Wife_, etc.), round whose feet the blue sea ripples for ever. In\nthe centre of the bay the softer Wealden beds have been worn away,\nforming an amphitheatre of low sand and clay cliffs. The southern horn\n(_Peveril Point_) is formed by the dark limestone beds of the Purbeck\nmarble. A quaint, old-world village slopes down to the water over green\ndowns, quarried, like some gigantic rabbit-burrow, with the stone\nworkings of seven hundred years. Land-locked from every breeze, huge\nelms flourish on the dry sea beach, and the gayest and tenderest garden\nflowers bask under the hot stone walls.\"\n\nTilly Whim is one of the attractions here. A short walk by Peveril\nPoint, Durlston Bay and Durlston Head leads to Tilly Whim, which is on\nthe eastern side of oddly named _Anvil Cove_, and is the first of a\nseries of cliff quarries opened in the Portland-Purbeck beds along the\ncoast. The cliff has been tunnelled into a series of gigantic chambers,\nsupported by huge pillars of the living rock and opening on a platform\nin the face of the precipice, beneath which the waters roar and rage\nalmost unceasingly. The boldness of the headland, the sombre greys of\nthe rocks, the rude, massive columns which support the roof of the huge\ncavity, the restless sea--all are elements that heighten the scenic\neffect of a spot almost unique of its kind. Tilly Whim has been compared\nto a \"huge rock temple\"--like those of India.\n\nThomas Hardy has left us another interesting description of the Swanage\nof bygone days: \"Knollsea was a seaside village, lying snugly within two\nheadlands, as between a finger and thumb. Everybody in the parish who\nwas not a boatman was a quarrier, unless he were the gentleman who\nowned half the property and had been a quarryman, or the other gentleman\nwho owned the other half and had been to sea.\"\n\nAt the time this was written the steamers were moored to a \"row of\nrotten piles,\" but these have long passed away and their place has been\ntaken by a substantial pier. But, let there be what changes there may,\nthere will always be quarries in the town; it is one of those primeval\nvocations which remain unchanged and unchangeable in the midst of our\nchanging civilisation. The quarry folk were an exceptionally reserved\nand isolated people, and the way their occupation has worked in the\ncreation of a peculiar race is, while not at all surprising, yet very\nremarkable. The quarries have afforded a singular and most interesting\ninstance of the survival, in full working order, of a medi\u00e6val trades\nguild of a somewhat primitive type, and even in these days no stranger\nis permitted to share in their rights and privileges.\n\n[Illustration: THE FAMOUS TILLYWHIM CAVES\n\nThe mine-like entrance, from a photograph taken in 1860]\n\nThe right to become a quarryman is inherited from one family to another,\nand the admission into the guild is an important ceremony: \"The quarries\nand merchants have from time immemorial formed a sort of guild or\ncompany, whose rules are still enforced, affecting not only the prices\nof work, but determining the whole social position and character of the\npeople. The Society calls itself 'The Company of the Marblers and\nStone-Cutters of the Isle of Purbeck,' and its meetings are held\nannually on Shrove Tuesday in the Townhall of Corfe Castle. Here they\nchoose wardens and stewards, settle bye-laws and other business, and\ndetermine any difference between members in relation to the trade, or\npunish any infractions of their regulations. At these meetings the\napprentices, who can only be sons of quarrymen, are, when they have\nattained the age of twenty-one, made free members of this community, on\npresenting themselves in 'court' with a fee of six shillings and\neightpence, a penny loaf in one hand and a pot of beer in the other.\nAnother portion of the business consists in a visit to the old wharf at\nOwre, and there renewing their ancient custom of presenting a pound of\npepper to the landlord of the little inn there, receiving a cake from\nhim, and having a game of foot-ball, which, in connection with this\ncommemoration of the ancient acknowledgment for rent or use of wharfage,\nis called the 'Pepper Ball.' Seven years after taking up their freedom\nfreemen may take apprentices. The widow of a freeman may take up her\nfreedom on payment of one shilling, and then employ apprentices and\ncarry on business. At the annual meeting the sons of freemen are\nregistered, and are not allowed to work at any department of the\nbusiness unless duly registered.\"\n\nThe great majority of the old quarry-owners were members of a dozen\nfamilies only, there being just a score of Bowers; Collinses, Harrises,\nHaysomes, Normans, Phippards and Tomeses averaging half-a-dozen each;\nwith Coopers, Corbens, Landers, Stricklands and Bonfields not far\nbehind.\n\nNew-comers were much disliked by the quarrymen, and the custom of\n\"marrying the land\" was observed in former days and, for aught I know,\nmay be observed now. However, we do know that \"foreigners\" were not\nallowed to hold land in the Isle of Portland a hundred years ago, and\nthe inhabitants, who claimed to be true descendants of the Phoenicians\nwho traded with Cornwall and Devonshire for tin, kept themselves a\ndistinct people. In \"marrying the land\" the contracting parties met at\nchurch, and joining hands the one who handed over the property simply\nsaid: \"I, Uncle Tom\" (the surname was never used by the quarry folk),\n\"give to thee, Cousin Antony, such-and-such land.\" The clergyman then\nplaced his hands over the others, and the contract was concluded.\n\nAs I have said, the old-world village of Swanage has altered much, and\nhas become a town, and since the opening of the branch railway from\nWareham in the latter end of the eighties of the nineteenth century the\nancient customs and characters of those unhurried, simpler, happier days\nhave been swept away. The calming quietude of the quaint old stone\nhouses is now disturbed by ugly, modern erections of red brick. But the\nquaint cottages, solid in great stone slabs and stone tiles, still\nbreathe the true artlessness of the quarry folk. They are an instance of\nprovident care and sound workmanship defying the neglect of a hundred\nsuccessive tenants. The High Street of Old Swanage, which rises uphill\nfrom the Ship Hotel towards the church, traversing the centre of the\ntown from east to west, seems saturated with human influence and has a\nflavour all its own. Half-way up the street on the right is the Town\nHall, with an ornate fa\u00e7ade which once formed part of the Mercers' Hall\nin London, designed by Sir Christopher Wren. A few yards down the\nside-turning by the hall can be seen, on the left, an even greater\ncuriosity, the Old Lock-Up, of stone, \"erected,\" as an inscription\nrecords, \"for the prevention of wickedness and vice by friends of\nreligion and good order, A.D. 1803.\"\n\nOn the left is Purbeck House, a low, private residence, built by a\n\"local M\u00e6cenas,\" the late Mr Burt, the contractor, in 1876. The fish\nvane, of burnished copper, formerly adorned Billingsgate Market, and\nthe wall fronting the street is faced with granite chips from the Albert\nMemorial, Hyde Park.\n\nWhen we reach the highest point of the main street the hill pitches down\nto the right, and we look upon a prospect of the town with a character\nof its own, not unworthy of observation, in which the sturdy,\nsquare-towered church is a striking feature. To the left is a mill-pond,\nwhich begins to wear the airs of history and reflects in the unruffled\nlustre of its waters the inverted images of some very quaint houses\nbuilt of grey stone and almost entirely overspread with fungi and moss.\nThe lower walls of stone are black and polished with the leaning of\ninnumerable shoulders, and the steps of the external stone stairways are\nworn into gullies by the tread of generations. The extraordinary \"yards\"\nand byways are also worthy of attention. A few downward steps will bring\nthe pilgrim to St Mary's Church, which was rebuilt in 1859. The parish\nregisters date back to 1567, and the tower is thought to be Saxon. At\nthis church Ethelberta Petherwin, in _The Hand of Ethelberta_, is\nsecretly married to Lord Mountclere, and her father and brother arrive\ntoo late to interfere with the ceremony.\n\nA walk along the Herston Road brings us to Newton Manor, one of the old\nDorset manor-houses. The only relics of the ancient building are an\nElizabethan stone fireplace in the kitchen and the barn of the old\nhomestead, with an open timber roof, which has been converted into a\ndining-hall. In the latter is a fine carved stone chimneypiece brought\nfrom a Florentine palace.\n\nA favourite excursion from Swanage is a trip to Studland. Any native\nwill direct the pilgrim to the footpath way to the \"Rest and be\nThankful\" seat at the top of Ballard Down, where one can take a\nwell-beaten track to the entrance of the village. At the remains of an\nold cross bear to the right and follow a picturesque \"water lane\" to the\nshore. Studland is one of the most charming villages in England, and the\nchurch is one of the most notable in Dorset. It is an admirable example\nof intact Norman work, and its chief details are perfect--including a\nquaint corbel table in the nave, font, and moulded arches with carved\ncapitals.\n\nThe celebrated Agglestone is about a mile away on Studland Common. It is\na huge fragment of the iron-cemented sandstone of the locality, raised\non a mound above the heath. It has been regarded as a Druidical\nmemorial, but though that idea may now be considered exploded,\nassociations still attach to it, since we are told \"the name Agglestone\n(Saxon, _halig-stan_=holy stone) certainly seems to show that it was\nerected for some superstitious purpose.\" The country people call it the\n_Devil's Nightcap_, and there is a tradition that his Satanic Majesty\nthrew it from the Isle of Wight, with an intent to demolish Corfe\nCastle, but that it dropped short here! How it comes to be poised here\nhas puzzled the arch\u00e6ologist, but it has been explained as being simply\na block that has been insulated by process of nature, the result of its\nprotecting from the rigours of wind and rain the little eminence which\nit caps.\n\nCorfe is six miles by road from Swanage by way of Langton Matravers, a\nvillage of sombre stone houses, which is occupied by workers in the\nneighbouring stone quarries. The place-name \"Matravers\" is identified\nwith the family of Maltravers, one of whom was the unworthy instrument\nemployed by Mortimer and Queen Isabella in the murder of Edward II. This\nmember of the family having turned out to be such a particularly \"bad\nTravers,\" his descendants sought to hide their evil reputation by\ndropping the \"l\" out of their name.\n\n[Illustration: CORFE CASTLE\n\nFrom a photograph taken in 1860, showing the old Greyhound Inn, with\nprojecting porch and a capacious room poised above it. The\npicturesqueness and solid comfort of this inn, built three hundred years\nago, remains unimpaired to this day]\n\nThe \"Old Malt House,\" which is now a school, is a fine specimen of the\nold-time stone building, and one can still trace bricked-in windows,\nwhere the sacks were hoisted in to the malt floors. Passing Gallow's\nGore Cottages we come to Kingston, which is two miles from Corfe Castle,\nand is pleasantly situated on an eminence which commands a good view of\nthe surrounding country. Encombe, the seat of the Eldons, is about two\nmiles to the south-west and is the Enckworth Court (Lychworth Court in\nearly editions) of _The Hand of Ethelberta_. The house lies deep down in\nthe beautiful valley of Encombe, which opens out to the sea, with fine\nviews in almost every direction. This valley is known as the Golden\nBowl, by reason of the fertility of the soil. A short distance from\nKingston may be seen the remains of the old manor-house of Scowles.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the morrow, when I stepped out under the famous porch chamber of the\nGreyhound Hotel, Corfe wore her bright morning smile. The air was soft,\nwarm and redolent with the scent of good blue wood smoke. Corfe is one\nof the pleasantest villages in Dorset and has a wonderfully soothing\neffect upon the visitor. I should recommend this old-world retreat for\nthose who are weary of the traffic and frenzy of the city market-place.\nThe prevailing colour of the old houses makes the place ever\ncool-looking and lends the village an air of extreme restfulness. From\nthe humblest cottage to the Town House opposite the village cross the\nbuildings are of weather-beaten stone, and are a delicate symphony in\nthe colour grey, the proportions also being exactly satisfying to the\neye. Stone slabs of immense size form the roofs themselves. Look at the\nroof of the Greyhound Inn! When these roof stones were put down the\nbuilder did not put them there for his own day, selfishly, but for\nposterity. This, as Hilaire Belloc would say, is a benediction of a\nroof, a roof that physically shelters and spiritually sustains, a roof\nmajestic, a roof eternal. A walk through the town will reveal Tudor\nwindows, quaint doorways and several eighteenth-century porches, of\nwhich that at the Greyhound is the best example. The market-place, with\nthe Bankes Arms Hotel at one end, the Greyhound backing on to the castle\nand the castle and hills peering over the roof tops of the town, gives\none a mingled pleasure of reminiscence and discovery. Standing back a\nlittle from the Swanage road is the small Elizabethan manor-house of\nDackhams or Dacombs, now called Morton House, and one of the best\nmanor-houses in the country. The ground plan forms the letter E, and it\nhas a perfect little paved courtyard full of flowers.\n\nCorfe Church was rebuilt in 1860, but it preserves some historic\ncontinuity in its tower, which dates from the end of the fourteenth\ncentury. The churchwardens' chest in the porch was made in the year\n1672, and Hy Paulett, who made it, was paid the magnificent sum of eight\nshillings. And did Hy Paulett go often to the Greyhound and allay his\nthirst in the making of it? A man would require good ale to make such a\n\"brave good\" chest as this. And can they make such chests in these days?\nLord knows!... Anyhow, there is something in such a piece of work which\nappeals to me--something which seems to satisfy the memories in my\nblood. The clock dates from 1539. Curfew is tolled in Corfe daily, from\nOctober to March, at 6 A.M. and 8 P.M. Hutchins, writing at the end of\nthe eighteenth century, tells us that the people of Corfe were of an\nindolent disposition, and goes on to say that \"the appearance of misery\nin the town is only too striking.\" Perhaps they \"mumped\" around and\nwatched Hy Paulett work laboriously on the church chest and became\ndowncast when he only received eight shillings for it. However, the\nmorality of Corfe should have been high, for the churchwardens appear to\nhave been very exacting in the matter of Sabbath observance. In the\nquaint old church records, which date from 1563, are many interesting\nreferences to the offenders in this respect:\n\n\n     \"1629. We do Present William Smith for suffering two small Boys to\n     have drink upon the Sabbath day during Divine service.\n\n     _Item._ We do Present John Rawles for being drunk on the Sabbath\n     day during the time of Divine service.\n\n     _Item._ We Present the Miller of West Mill for grinding on the\n     Sabbath day.\n\n     _Item._ We do Present John Pushman Anthony Vye and James Turner for\n     playing in the Churchyard upon the Sabbath day.\n\n     1630. We do Present William Rawles for sending his man to drive\n     upon the Sabbath day.\n\n     _Item._ We do Present James Turner and George Gover for being\n     drinky on the Sabbath day during the time of Divine service.\"\n\n\nThe reader will note that the churchwardens at Corfe were blessed with a\nvery keen sense of moral acumen and split hairs over the degrees of\ninebriation. They found it intolerable to write a man down as\nintoxicated who had \"half-a-pint otherwhile,\" so they merely entered him\nin their records as \"drinky\"; while, on the other hand, the man who was\nvulgarly concerned in liquor was described as a plain \"drunk.\"\n\nAccording to an old rhyme the man who killed a fox was a great\nbenefactor and was considered as rendering a service a hundred and sixty\ntimes more important than the man who killed a rook.\n\n\n     \"A half-penny for a rook,\n     A penny for a jay;\n     A noble for a fox,\n     And twelve pence for a grey.\"\n\n\nBut a noble has not always been the reward of the wily rustic who could\nentrap Reynard, and the churchwardens of Corfe were certainly a little\nniggardly in their disbursements:\n\n\n                                                   s.  d.\n     \"1672 Paid Richard Turner for a Pole-Cat      0   4\n           Paid for three Fox Heads, 1s. each      3   0\n      1691 Margaret White, Son, for a Hedge-Hog\n             head                                  1   0\n           Paid for one dozen Sparrow Heads        0   2\n\n\n     1698 June 22nd--\n\n     It was then agreed by the Parishioners of Corfe Castle met in the\n     Parish Church that no money be paid for the heads of any vermin by\n     the Church Wardens unless the said heads be brought into the Church\n     yard within one week after they are killed and exposed to Public\n     View.\"\n\n\nBy the last entry it will be seen that the parishioners of Corfe were\ndetermined to get their money's worth, and the old churchyard must at\ntimes have contained quite a large collection of fur and feather.\nSpeaking of rewards for the extermination of the fox, I am reminded of\nan entry in the Holne Churchwardens' accounts for 1782 which has a tinge\nof sly humour about it. Four shillings and two pence is paid for\n\"running a fox to Okehampton.\" We can imagine the good churchwardens of\nHolne rubbing their hands and congratulating themselves on having got\nrid of Reynard, or speculating over future raids on domestic fowls in\nthe Okehampton district. But the churchwardens were not too hopeful;\nthey were a little doubtful. As \"dead men rise up never,\" so a dead fox\nwould not come prowling home again. So they talked the matter over and\ndecided that half the customary noble would be a fitting remuneration to\nthe hunter away of the fox.\n\nI cannot leave Corfe without saying a few words in praise of the\nGreyhound Inn. Here the beams of the roof are black oak and squared\nenormously, like the timbers of a mighty ship, and some of the odd, low\ndoorways remind one of the hatchways in a vessel. Visitors have so often\nknocked their heads against the low doors that it has been necessary to\npaint in large letters above several of them, \"MIND YOUR HEAD.\" In the\nlittle smoke-room at the back one might fancy himself on board a ship in\nstrange seas--especially does one experience this sensation in the\nevening before the candles are carried in. If it is wintertime the\nimpression is more intense--the wind howls and worries at the window and\nthe sky is swept clean in one broad, even stretch; then one may call\nfor a pint of Romsey ale, fill the pipe and enjoy the lonely kingdom of\nthe man at the helm of a great vessel. When morning comes this same\nlittle room is bright and cheerful. The window looks out on a narrow\ncourtyard paved with mighty stones, and Corfe Castle, which thrusts\nitself into every view of the town, fills the background. In the winter\nthe rustics sit about the board in this room, but they do not come there\nin summer, being shy of visitors. The labourers seldom wear the smocks,\nmade of Russian duck, which their fore-elders were so inclined to\nfavour. These smocks were much more stout than people would imagine, and\nthe texture was so closely woven and waterproof that no rain could run\nthrough it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFour miles of a good, comfortable road running through a breezy\nheathland brings the pilgrim from Corfe to Wareham. On these heaths\nlarge quantities of white clay are dug up and run in truckloads to fill\nvessels in Poole Harbour. This clay is used for making pipes and in the\nmanufacture of china. The clay pits are a very ancient and uninterrupted\nindustry, and they have been worked continuously since the Romans\ndiscovered them. The spade of the Dorsetshire labourer still\noccasionally turns up fragments of Roman pottery made from this\nidentical clay. When Stoborough, now a mere village, once an antique\nborough, is reached we come within sight of Wareham, which is entered\nacross a long causeway over the Frome marshes. More life can be seen in\nan hour here by the Frome than in a whole long day upon the hills. I\nhave noticed how the birds that fly inland, high above me, will follow\nthe river as a blind man feels his way, by natural impulse. Over the\nwater-meadows the peewits are twisting in eccentric circles, and\neverywhere in the reeds the little grey-brown, bright-eyed\nsedge-warblers are flitting about. It seems almost incredible that such\na small bird as the sedge-warbler can produce such a torrent of sound.\nFor a right merry, swaggering song, which, without being very musical,\nis indeed exhilarating, commend me to the sedge-warbler. He sings all\nthe day long, and often far into the night, and even if he wakes up for\na few seconds when he has once settled down to sleep he always obliges\nwith a few lively chirrups.\n\nThe ancient town of Wareham has been alluded to somewhat contemptuously\nby several writers as \"slumberous\" and dull. Perhaps it is, although it\nis brighter in appearance than some towns near London that I know. At\nall events its stormy youth--in the days when London itself was but a\n\"blinking little town\"--has entitled it to a peaceful old age. All the\nscourges against which we pray--plague, pestilence, famine, battle,\nmurder and sudden death--have been endured with great strength of mind\nand calmness by the people of the town. Sir Frederick Treves tells us\nthat its history is one long, lurid account of disaster, so that it\nwould need a Jeremiah to tell of all its lamentations. However, an\nindomitable temper and a readiness to believe that to-morrow will be\nbrighter than to-day is the prevailing spirit of her people, and the\ntown has an incredible hold upon life and the grassy ramparts which\nalmost encircle it. The ramparts, or town walls, are ten centuries old,\nand form three sides of an irregular square, and enclose, together with\nthe Frome, an area of a hundred acres. Before the silting up of Poole\nHarbour the sea came nearer to its walls than it does now and the river\nwas much wider. We learn from ancient records that a great swamp\nstretched seawards from the foot of the ridge. That Wareham was a port\nof a kind is probable enough, for it furnished Edward III. with three\nships and fifty-nine men at the siege of Calais. As far back as one can\nfollow the ancient records of the town a good number of ships called\nhere, and when one comes out on the ample quay it is clearly seen that\nthis place has once been a lively and animated wharf, resounding to the\nclatter of sea-boots and the songs of the chanty men. The waterside\ntaverns and huge storehouses on the boat-station speak of the brave days\ngone by, and I cannot imagine a more pleasant spot to linger in on a\nsunny day. The seats and tables outside the Rising Sun and New Inn are\nvery inviting, and when I passed this way it gave me peculiar pleasure\nto spend an hour here, looking broadly about me. As I looked across the\nquay to the grey bridge, meadows and beautiful fertile valley the odours\nand sounds of the country cropped up around me. The sun, laying a broad\nhand on the river, had smoothed all the eddies out and was sending it\nbetween the banks, not bubbling loud, but murmuring softly. Yes, the\nriver was very sleepy that day. However, the Frome has its share of\nliving interests. Here one can see the heron as he stands upon the\nshallows waiting till an eel shall move in the mud. A melancholy-looking\nfellow he looks, too, as he stands, gaunt and still, brooding some new\nspell. Anon a small bubble rising in the shallows, followed by a slight\nturbidness of the water around it, attracts the watcher. A swift step or\nso, a lightning flash of his sharp beak and he has secured his eel. One\nwatches him rising with labouring wings in a direct upward flight, the\neel writhing in fruitless efforts to escape.\n\nThe summit of the town wall is used as a promenade, and one part of the\nwest rampart, looking across the heath to the Purbeck Hills, is called\nthe \"Bloody Bank.\" Here were executed, by order of Judge Jeffreys, some\nof Monmouth's unfortunate adherents. Their bodies were cut up and placed\non the bridge, and their heads were nailed to a wooden tower in the town\non the completion of the execution. Here, too, Peter of Pomfret was\nhanged. He was a queer, cranky fellow and it appears that he was given\nto drawing horoscopes and meddling with secret and hidden things. He\nwould have been quite free from any trouble had he not ventured to read\nin the scheme of the twelve houses of the Zodiac the fortune of King\nJohn. He read, \"under a position of heaven,\" that the King's reign would\nend on Ascension Day, 23rd May 1213, and this prophecy reached the ears\nof the King, who had little faith in the sayings of Peter. However, the\nKing made up his mind that Peter's reign should end on this date, and he\npassed the unfortunate prophet on to Corfe Castle, where, we may be\ncertain, he was carefully looked after. The 23rd of May passed the same\nway as other long-lost May-days and pay-days have passed, but King John\nwas still very lively and active, and to convince Peter of Pomfret that\nhe was a poor soothsayer he ordered the fellow to be whipped at the back\nof a dung-cart from Corfe to Wareham, where a gallows had been erected\nto welcome him. At Wareham Peter was driven through the streets,\nfollowed by a crowd of yelling, bloodthirsty people, and then hanged\nfrom the Bloody Bank, with the heather-covered moor before his eyes and\nthe sky full of birds twittering and flying above his head.\n\nThe name Wareham is Saxon. Wareham=Wearth-ham--\"the dwelling on the\n'land between two waters'\" (one of the meanings of _wearth_ or _worth_),\na name descriptive in the fullest sense of the position of the town\nbetwixt the Frome and Piddle. Certainly the history and importance of\nWareham dates back to Saxon days. However, on the strength of a stone\nbuilt into the north aisle of St Mary's Church, which bears the\ninscription: \"Catug c ... (Fi) lius Gideo,\" this foundation has been\npresumed to be of the British period, a bishop bearing the name of\nCating having been sent from Brittany in or about 430. It is concluded\nthat this stone is the record of a consecration performed by him.\n\nBeohrtric, King of Wessex, is said to have been buried at Wareham, and\nhere for a time lay the body of Edward the Martyr. Wareham was a\nfavourite landing-place of the Danes, and despite its vicissitudes was\nimportant enough to sustain two sieges in the wars of Stephen and Maud,\nto be twice taken and once burnt. Wareham was once the chief port of\nPoole Harbour; but while Poole flourished Wareham decayed. Unlike other\nDorset towns it stood by the Cavaliers, but as the inhabitants were\nlacking in martial skill and a sufficient body of troops, the town was\nmade a kind of shuttlecock by the contending parties. The last\nmisfortune of the town was its almost total destruction by fire in 1762.\nAll things considered, it is little wonder, therefore, that in spite of\nits age Wareham has so few antiquities. The castle has left but a name,\nthe priory little more; but reconstruction has spared the most\ninteresting feature of St Mary's Church--the Chapel of St Edward--which\nis said to indicate the temporary burial-place of Edward the Martyr,\nwhose marble coffin is now to be seen near the font.\n\nIf we follow the road from where the town is entered across the\npicturesque old bridge we pass the Black Bear, a spacious old inn, with\nan excellent effigy of Bruin himself sitting grimly on the roof. The Red\nLion is the inn mentioned by Hardy in _The Hand of Ethelberta_. The\nqueer ivy-covered little Chapel of St Martin, on the left side of the\nmain street, at the top of the rise from the Puddle, is visited by\nantiquaries from all the counties of England. It is one hundred and\nseventy years since regular services were held here. The roof beams are\nvery ancient and still hold their own without any other aid. The\ninterior is vault-like and eerie, and about the old place there hangs an\natmosphere which has no affinity with the everyday world, but which\nreeks up from long-neglected tombs--a mystic vapour, sluggish and\nfaintly discernible. An inscription on the north wall is to the memory\nof a surgeon, his wife and four children. The surgeon died in 1791, at\nthe age of eighty-one, from an \"apoplectic fit.\" It is rather a puzzle\nwhy the doctor was buried in this church, for in 1791 no parson had\nofficiated here for fifty years or more. The pilgrim will be interested\nin the _Devil's Door_, by the altar, a memory of early Christian\nsuperstition. It was the custom to open this door when the church bells\nwere rung, to allow the devil to flee.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nMY ADVENTURE WITH A MERRY ROGUE\n\n             Here\n             With my beer\n     I sit,\n     While golden moments flit.\n             Alas!\n             They pass\n     Unheeded by;\n     And, as they fly,\n             I,\n             Being dry,\n             Sit idly sipping here\n             My beer.\n\n     Oh, finer far\n     Than fame or riches are\n     The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar!\n             Why\n             Should I\n             Weep, wail, or sigh?\n             What if luck has passed me by?\n     What if my hopes are dead,\n     My pleasures fled?\n             Have I not still\n             My fill\n     Of right good cheer,--\n     Cigars and beer?\n\n\nI like inns, and I like old ale, and all the old curious glasses, mugs\nand pewters which were so dear to our forefathers, and I begin this\nchapter in this way to forestall any possible charges of heresy that my\nnarrative may call forth. I would almost go further, and say that my\naffection for such things is wholly a private matter concerning only\nmyself, or, at least, no more than a few very intimate friends. That, I\nthink, is how sentimentalism should be conducted. When it is managed\notherwise, when it becomes a public thing, it becomes a public nuisance,\nbesides being contemptible. But, as I have gone so far, I might as well\ngo the length of admitting that I am addicted to the habit of collecting\nold drinking vessels, and I have allowed the disease to get the upper\nhand. I cannot pass a curio shop in which willow-pattern mugs, tapering\nglasses and \"leather bottels\" are displayed without a burning longing to\npossess them. I like to have these things about me, not merely as\nornaments or to drink from, but for---- Well, when I come to think of\nit, I cannot quite say; there is not sufficient reason. That is enough\nto brand me an incurable curio-hunter. Curios and ancient drinking\nvessels are to me what the sea is to a sailor. It is a passion which has\nbecome interwoven with my blood and fibre, and I can never again wholly\nbreak loose from it.\n\nBut all this is by the way; the point is, why do I commence this chapter\nby talking about such things?\n\nFor the reason that in this chapter I am going to tell of a singular\nadventure in which a \"black jack\" loomed very solidly.\n\nIt happened at Morcombe Lake. I will not write of this place. You must\nget it out of a guide-book, for the village is not a thing for fine\nwords; it stirred me in no way. But it shall not be said that Morcombe\nLake has not a small share of fame, for in this village is produced the\nfamous Dorset Knob Biscuit, without which no Dorset table is really\ncomplete. Mr Moores, who \"magics\" butter, milk and sugar in his small\nbake-house and brings forth these golden-brown \"Knobs,\" informs me that\nhis family has been busy sending them out in tins for over a hundred\nyears.\n\nI had walked from Bridport, passing through Chideock, with its\nvenerable-looking church beside the Castle Inn, and coming to Morcombe,\nwhere there is a deep-eaved, comfortable, ramshackle, go-as-you-please\nkind of a little inn, I could hear somebody singing inside. It was a\nclear, mellow voice, and I listened to the cadences of the song with a\nthrill of pleasure. It was a humorous trio, and the lonely singer\nchanged his voice for each verse with a largeness and confidence in his\nvocal powers that quite carried me away. Indeed, it was a song which we\nall should know, which runs:\n\n\n     \"A little farm well tilled,\n     A little barn well filled,\n     A little wife well willed--\n       Give me, give me.\n\n     A larger farm well tilled,\n     A bigger house well filled,\n     A taller wife well willed--\n       Give me, give me.\n\n     I like the farm well tilled,\n     And I like the house well filled,\n     But no wife at all--\n       Give me, give me.\"\n\n\nEntering, I saw one of the kind of men God loves. He was of middle age,\nvery honest and simple in the face, good-humoured and cheerful. He was\nsitting before a tall, leather black jack--one of the finest specimens\nof the old-fashioned leather jugs I have ever seen--quaffing his morning\nale from it. He paused from his song and lifted his wide straw hat in a\ngrandiloquent way.\n\n[Illustration: The Lonely Singer]\n\n\"Good marning, sir! Fine marning's marning! Tez mortel 'ot ta-day,\" he\nsaid, in a mellow voice, and he looked up at me with large, china-blue\neyes. I passed the time of day with him, but the fine leathern flagon\nhad already claimed all my attention; I had no eyes for anything else at\nthe moment. I dealt hotly with speculations over the ownership of the\nflagon. Did it belong to the rustic or the innkeeper? Did they know its\nvalue? This and a hundred other thoughts flashed through my mind. As I\nstood there I dwelt avariciously upon thought of possession. I said to\nmyself: \"I must have that flagon. I will buy. Beg it. Steal it, if\nnecessary.\" The desire to possess it consumed my soul.\n\n\"Wantee plaize to take a seat? The cider here be a prime sort, I\nshuree!\" said the rustic, breaking in upon my thoughts. He spoke very\nslowly and, as I have said, had a nice mellow voice, and he did what\nonly honest men do--looked straight at me when he spoke.\n\n\"Surely,\" I said, and sat down beside him. \"Pray excuse me,\" I\ncontinued, waving my hand towards the leather jack, \"but that is a\nremarkable old drinking vessel.\"\n\n\"Thickee there is the ownly wan I ever see like it,\" said he, holding it\nup and looking at it with admiration. \"Yes, sir, it be a brave good mug,\nand I have taken my cider and ale out of he for twenty year. It's just a\nfancy of mine to bring it along with me when I drink. I tellee that mug\nhas been with my folk for two hundred years. Parson says it is just a\n'miracle' of an old thing.\"\n\n\"Aha!\" said I to myself, \"the parson is after it too.\"\n\n\"They tell me,\" he said, \"that it may be worth a pound or two. Well,\nwell! It is an old friend, and I should be loath to part with the cheel,\nbut----\"\n\n\"But,\" I repeated eagerly.\n\n\"But,\" he continued, \"things have been cruel bad with me o' late, and I\nhave thought, whatever is the good o' keeping it when like 'nuff we can\nsell it for a pound or so and buy the chillern a few clothes against the\nwinter.\"\n\n\"True, true!\" I said, trying to keep my excitement undermost. \"But you\nwould only get a few shillings for it, I am afraid. Such things have no\nmarket value.\"\n\n\"No market value?\" he answered. \"Well, I suppose I dunnow much\n't-al-'bout-et!\"\n\nHe mused for a few moments. I narrowly watched him out of half-closed\neyes--\"Oh, yes; I was playing the old grey wolf, sure enough\"--and said,\nvery carelessly: \"I should hate drinking my ale out of a 'leather\nbottel.' They may look picturesque, but I am certain the beer would\ntaste vile. I have no sympathy with the enthusiast who sang:\n\n\n     \"'And I wish in heaven his soul may dwell\n     That first devised the leather bottel.'\n\n\nHowever, I would not mind giving you a few shillings for it.\"\n\nI happened to glance up as I said this. He sat there looking at me with\na troubled expression in his blue eyes.\n\nHe then said a number of things in broad Dorset, and the \"tellees\" and\n\"thickees\" and \"dallees\" became unintelligible, but he meant that I\ncould but be joking when I said \"a few shillings.\"\n\n\"Well, I won't disturb your peace of mind any more,\" I said. \"We will\nlet the matter drop.\"\n\nThen he stepped up close to me, put the black jack in my hand, and said,\nwith an appealing note in his voice: \"Two hundred years in my family,\nmaister. Just say what you've a-mind to give me; only let it be a fair\nprice. I would not be so anxious to sell it, but my rent is a bit\nbehind, and I shall have to sleep with Miss Green----\"\n\n\"Sleep with Miss Green?\" I gasped, somewhat shocked.\n\n\"Sleep under the hedge, then,\" he continued, making the expression clear\nto me. \"Now, you see the fix I'm in, maister.\"\n\nThen I was ashamed. Deep shame covered me, and I had a great revulsion\nof feeling. How could I be so niggardly as to beat down this poor\nfellow's price? Perhaps, after all, it was his only possession of any\nvalue at all. I turned the jack over in my hands. It was strong and\nblack and very highly polished with age--and the curves and proportions\nof it were exactly satisfying to the eye that looked upon it. It was a\nbenediction of a flagon....\n\nI held it up, and said, \"How much?\"\n\n\"Aw! dally-buttons! Take it for two pounds,\" he said, \"you nidden\nbegridge me that.\"\n\nAnd he added, in passing, that two pounds made it a kind of gift to\nme--just a token to signify it had changed hands: it was an act of pure\ncharity on his part.\n\n\"Then,\" I said, \"thirty shillings,\" and he waved his hand about\ngenially, and remarked that it \"twidden\" be worth his while to stretch\nout his hand for such a paltry sum.\n\nSo then I pulled out thirty shillings, and he pushed the flagon over to\nme and took the money. Thus the bargain was struck.\n\nSo this being settled, and I eager for a drink of ale, called the\ninnkeeper, who was in another room. Beer was brought and my friend\ninsisted on paying for it.\n\nI asked him about his wife and children. But I could get very little\nfrom him, and that little in a low voice. I felt sorry for him, for I\nunderstood that parting with his flagon had rather upset him. He seemed\nas different as one could imagine from the singer I had seen when I\nentered. He told me that his was a very old family in this place, and\nhis name was Ralph Copplestone. He also quoted the following adage to\nstrengthen his statement:--\n\n\n     \"Crocker, Cruwys and Copplestone,\n     When the Conqueror came were all at home.\"\n\n\nBefore he left me, however, he had recovered his cheerfulness. He set\noff down the road, and as he passed he began singing:\n\n\n     \"Dorset gives us butter and cheese,\n       Devonshire gives us cream,\n     Zummerzet zyder's zure to please\n       And set your hearts a-dream;\n     Cornwall, from her inmost soul,\n       Brings tin for the use of man,\n     And the four of 'em breed the prettiest girls--\n       So _damme_, beat that if you can!\"\n\n\nFinally his voice, still singing, died away in the distance. I sat\nbefore the flagon with a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with sadness.\nThe fresh breeze dropped, and it seemed as if the little inn parlour\ngrew dark and grey. He was a strange fellow!\n\nIt was not till the next day, in the late afternoon, when the air was\nalready full of the golden dust that comes before the fall of the\nevening, that I came down Broad Street into Lyme Regis. In passing, I\nwas attracted by a little curiosity shop. The dusty window was full of\nall sorts of things--red-heeled slippers, old bits of brass, quaint,\ntwisted candlesticks, blue enamel snuffboxes, jewellery--value and\nrubbish being mixed in confusion together. And there right in the\nfore-front was an exact counterpart of my black jack! It was truly an\namazing coincidence! I looked into the doorway, and saw the owner of the\nshop, a very old gentleman. His face was a network of wrinkles, which\ntime so pleasantly writes on some old faces that they possess a\nsweetness which even youth lacks. I made up my mind to seek information\nfrom him about the flagon. He was examining a piece of china with a\nmagnifying-glass when I entered.\n\n\"Good evening--good evening!\" he said, putting down the glass, and\nlooking up at me with a smile. \"What can I show you, sir?\"\n\nThe old man drew in his wrinkled lips expectingly.\n\n\"The odd black jack in your window,\" I said boldly.\n\nThe old man went to a corner of the window, and after much fumbling\nproduced the black jack, which he set upon the counter. As I examined it\nhe watched me in silence from beneath his penthouse brows. It was,\nindeed, a facsimile of the one I had purchased from the rustic.\n\n[Illustration: The River Buddle, Lyme Regis]\n\n\"It is not really antique. It is a very clever imitation, not more than\na few months old,\" came the old man's voice. He paused, the smile still\nlighting his face. \"A genuine specimen like this one is not to be found\nanywhere--outside the museums.\" He lifted his arm with a peculiar\ngesture that seemed to take in the whole world.\n\nOutwardly I remained calm, swinging my foot nonchalantly against the\nwooden panel of his counter. If I had burst out laughing that moment I\ncannot think what the old curio-dealer would have thought, but it was\nwith difficulty that I restrained myself from doing so. Little did he\nknow that I had just picked up a genuine black jack for a mere song!\nThen I told him, with gusto, my adventure with the rustic at the inn.\n\nSuddenly he broke out:\n\n\"What was his name?\"\n\n\"Copplestone--Ralph Copplestone,\" I replied.\n\n\"Why, he's the very rogue that sold me this one,\" said the old man,\nshaking his simple head.\n\n\"Is that possible?\" I said, and I jumped down from the counter where I\nhad perched myself. The strangest sensation came over me. I thought of\nthe honest, open face and the innocent blue eyes of my friend the\ntavern-haunter.\n\nThe curio-dealer smiled quietly, sadly.\n\n\"Yes, he imposed upon me, too. He is a very clever rogue. A\nharness-maker by trade, and all his people before him for three hundred\nyears have been of the same calling. So you see the secret of making a\nblack jack has been handed down from father to son. It is one of the\ntraditions of his family; a knowledge which is mingled with his blood\nand fibre, so to speak. Such skill is older than five thousand years. He\nhas the spirit of the artist--but the soul of the rogue.\"\n\n\"Why,\" I said, \"then if he is a rogue, then I'm a rogue too, for I knew\nI was paying him a paltry sum for an article I thought to be worth ten\npounds--perhaps twenty.\"\n\nSo I laughed, and I've been laughing gloriously ever since--at myself,\nat the merry rogue in the inn, at the silly old hypocritical world.\n\nAs I passed out of the dim old shop and walked down to the sea it came\nover me, with a sudden feeling of satisfaction in my soul, that the sun\nshone on Ralph Copplestone just as joyfully as it did on me, that the\ngood God had endowed him with strong arms and a mighty voice for songs.\n\n\"After all,\" I said to myself, \"we are all rogues if we are only\nscratched deep enough.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE DEVON AND DORSET BORDERLAND\n\n     \"How far is it to Babylon?\"\n     Ah, far enough, my dear,\n     Far, far enough from here--\n     Yet you have farther gone!\n     \"Can I get there by candlelight?\"\n     So goes the old refrain.\n     I do not know--perchance you might--\n     But only, children, hear it right,\n     Ah, never to return again!\n     The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,\n     Shall break on hill and plain,\n     And put all stars and candles out,\n     Ere we be young again.\n                               \"R. L. S.\"\n\n\nThe irregular and old-fashioned little town of Lyme Regis--\"so crooked's\na ram's horn,\" as the native would say--is situated in a most romantic\nposition at the foot of the hills, being built in the hollow and on the\nslopes of a deep combe, through which flows the small stream of the\n_Lym_ to the sea. It is seated on a grand coast, which rises to the east\nin the blackest precipices and west in broken crags thickly mantled with\nwood. As a port it is most ancient, having furnished ships to Edward\nIII. during his siege of Calais.\n\nLyme, in its day, has seen a good many stirring events. In the reigns\nof Henry IV. and V. it was twice plundered and burned by the French; and\nin that of Richard II. nearly swept from the earth by a violent gale.\nDuring the Rebellion it successfully withstood a siege which was one of\nthe most important of the time. In 1644 Prince Maurice invested it,\nestablished his headquarters at Old Colway and Hay House, and his troops\nalong the neighbouring hill. Day after day the assault continued, more\nthan once by storming parties; but the gallant governor, Colonel Ceeley,\nassisted by Blake, afterwards so famous as an admiral, most courageously\nrepulsed every attack, and after a siege of nearly seven weeks was\nrelieved by the approach of the Earl of Essex. In 1685 the town was\nagain enlivened by the bustle of arms, when, in the month of June, the\nDuke of Monmouth here landed, with about eighty companions, after\nrunning the gauntlet through a storm and a fleet of English cruisers in\nhis passage from Amsterdam. As he reached the sandy shore he fell upon\nhis knees and uttered a thanksgiving for his preservation. He remained\nhere four days, at the George Inn, when, having collected about two\nthousand horse and foot, he set forward on his disastrous expedition.\n\nThere can be no doubt that Lyme Regis has failed to prove itself\nanything like a popular watering-place; yet it has very good bathing,\nwith neither currents nor hollows, and has the most picturesque front in\nDorset. The fine scenery should tempt the holiday-maker to suffer the\nsomewhat enclosed situation, which makes the place very close during the\nhot summer days. It is in winter that Lyme should be popular, for then\nit can boast a remarkably genial climate.\n\nThe quaint old stone pier, called the Cobb, is the real lion of Lyme,\nand is the source of much satisfaction to the stout hearts of the town.\nThe Cobb, \"the oldest arnshuntest bit o' stone-work in the land, a\nthousand years old--and good for another thousand, I tellee,\" as\ndescribed to the present writer by a rustic, was probably first\nconstructed in the reign of Edward I. It has been frequently washed\naway, and restored at a great price, and was finally renewed and\nstrengthened in 1825-1826. It is a semicircular structure, of great\nstrength, the thick outer wall rising high above the roadway, so as to\nprotect it from the wind and sea.\n\nAt Lyme an inn received me: a room full of fishermen and agricultural\nworkers, a smell of supper preparing, and much drinking of cider. It was\nthe New Inn, and I was told that this room was only the tap-room and not\nusually used by visitors. I found that one wing of the old building had\nbeen specially fitted for travellers, and I will gladly name it to all\nmy readers who are satisfied with an old-fashioned comfort, a good bed\nand good fare.\n\nAfter supper I bought a packet of sailor's shag, and went out smoking\ninto the chief street. A few steps took me to the Cobb, and I leaned\nover the low wall and contemplated the glorious green sea, tumbling and\ngurgling below me. I always think that the union of mighty stone slabs\nand the sea is most satisfying to look upon--there is something\nendlessly good and noble about such a thing. I think a building of hewn\nstone when it dips into the water should act as a sedative to the mind,\nshould teach one to become calm, slow and strong; to deal generously in\nrectitudes and essentials.\n\nIt was late in August, and the mellow chimes of the parish church had\njust boomed eight o'clock. The great orange moon hung over the bay, and\nthe night came creeping over the rich yellow sand which crowns the\nGolden Cap. Then the cliffs merged into a fainter confusion. Bats came\nout and flitted about the old houses by the Buddle river, and the night\nbecame the natural haunt of restless spirits. A candle flickering behind\na leaded casement brought back suddenly the memory of a home long passed\naway and whatever blessings belong to my childhood. And all of a sudden\nthat inexplicable heart-hunger for the place of my birth gripped me, and\nYouth (whatever Youth may be), with its sights, its undefinable,\ninsistent spell, came back to me in one flash--Youth came to me from the\nold houses on the sea-wall, borne with the misty saltness of the sea\nair. Go away; travel the length and breadth of the land, visit a hundred\ncities, encounter a hundred new experiences, and form a hundred\nconflicting impressions of stranger scenes and places; go where you\nwill, and do what you will; one day you will have seen and done enough,\nand you will find your thoughts turned again to the haunts of Youth.\n\nAt the sight of those ruffianly looking old dwellings by the riverside\nmy memory was carried back to another small seaport town where, long\nenough ago, I played at smuggling. Are we not all haunted by certain\nlandscapes which come back unbidden, not as topographical facts, but as\nvestures of the soul? Their enchantment is in our blood, and their\nmeaning uncommunicable.\n\nHere, where one can smell the smell of venerable wooden fishing boats\nand tar, there is a suggestion of the good old smuggling days. There is\na hint of rum, brass-bound sea-chests, trap-doors and deep mouldy\ncellars about the Buddle River houses, and the people who inhabit them\nare of very settled habits, and the inconveniences to which they have\nbeen accustomed seem to them preferable to conveniences with which they\nare unfamiliar. To this day, therefore, they empty slops out of the\nwindows, burn candles, wind up their pot-bellied watches with large\nkeys, and attain ripe old age. This curious quarter of Lyme Regis was\nonce a smugglers' retreat and a favourite spot for their operations. A\nstranger visiting the banks of the Buddle could not fail to be struck\nwith the curiously formed streets, alleys, and passages thereabouts, and\nif he secured the good offices of a native to pilot him through the\nmazes he would be still further astonished at their intricacy. The\nhouses are connected in the most mysterious manner, whether from design\nor accident, or whether to meet the exigencies of the smuggling trade,\nand for the more readily disposing of the kegs of spirits, and bales of\nother excisable goods, it is impossible to say. The most reasonable\nconclusion to arrive at is that the latter was the case.\n\nThe curious name of Cobb has given rise to much discussion. Murray's\n_Handbook to Dorset_ (1859) puts forward the theory that it is of\nBritish origin, and calls attention to a barrow-crowned knoll above\nWarminster called _Cop_head, and a long embankment on the race-course at\nChester, which protects it from the River Dee, which has been known\nfrom time immemorial as the _Cop_. The length of the Cobb is 870 feet,\nand height above the sea-level 16 feet. It combines in one stone\ncauseway the duties of breakwater, double promenade and quay. The\nprojecting stone steps, which form one of the oldest parts of the wall,\nare known as Granny's Teeth, and are described by Jane Austen in\n_Persuasion_. The beach to the west of the Cobb is known as Monmouth's\nBeach. The Duke landed about a hundred yards west of the wall. A local\ntradition states that when the late Lord Tennyson visited the town one\nof his friends was anxious to point out the spot where Monmouth landed,\nbut the great man impatiently exclaimed: \"Don't talk to me of Monmouth,\nbut show me the place where Louisa Musgrove fell!\"\n\nThe bridge arch in Bridge Street is considered to be of an age second\nonly to that of the Parish Church, and is well worthy of inspection. The\nBuddle Bridge consists of one arch of large span, thought to have been\nbuilt in the fourteenth century, when the bed of the _Lym_, or _Buddle_,\nwas excavated to an extra depth of eight feet. An ancient Pointed arch\nwith dog-tooth moulding has recently been unearthed in the basement of a\nhouse abutting on the bridge. The arch is below the level of the\nroadway, and it no doubt formed part of a bridge of several arches built\nin the twelfth century. It rises from about two feet below the\nground-floor cellar of this house. The arch has been seen by the Rev. C.\nW. Dicker, of the Dorset Field Club, who sent to the editor of _The Lyme\nRegis Mirror_ the following letter:--\n\n\n     DEAR SIR,--I have just received a copy of last week's _Mirror_,\n     containing an account of the very interesting archway under Bridge\n     Street, which I was kindly invited to inspect. As far as I can\n     judge from the result of my one opportunity of examining it, the\n     evidence points to the assumption that Bridge Street formerly\n     crossed the Buddle upon a bridge of several arches, constructed in\n     the twelfth century, and that the archway in question was probably\n     the third from west to east. The street at this point is (or was)\n     obviously supported upon a masonry substructure, upon which the\n     houses abut. The masonry of the newly found arch is typical of the\n     middle of the twelfth century, at which time the manor was chiefly\n     in the hands of Roger of Caen, Bishop of Sarum and Abbot of\n     Sherborne, a great builder, much of whose work is still to be found\n     in Dorset. The archway clearly was built to support the roadway;\n     and as its alignment is exactly that of the larger archway\n     (apparently of the fourteenth century), under which the river now\n     runs, there seems little room for doubt as to its origin. Yours\n     faithfully,\n\n     C. W. H. DICKER,\n     _Vice-President and Hon. Editor\n     Dorset Field Club_.\n\n     PYDELTRENTHIDE VICARAGE,\n     DORCHESTER.\n\n\nThe Town Hall, at the farther end of Bridge Street, was rebuilt on the\nsite of the old Guildhall. The iron-cased door, that once led to the\nmen's \"lock-up,\" and the grating of the women's prison, have been fixed\nagainst the north front wall. This wall is pierced by two arches, with a\ndoorway to the Old Market, over the gateway of which is a carved\nprojecting window. Here are the ancient parish stocks, removed from the\nchurch. At the farther end, facing Church Street, a wide gable stands\nout, lighted by an old but plainer window. In the lower part is the\npassage through to the Gun Cliff, with a flight of steps in the wall,\nleading down to the beach. From Church Street there is an easy approach\nto the Drill Hall, which was opened in 1894. On the opposite side of the\nstreet, and directly facing Long Entry, there is \"Tudor House,\" a large\nold house possessing much fine oak panelling and carving. The interest\nof Tudor House is twofold, for it is associated with the \"Father of\nEnglish Literature,\" Henry Fielding, author of _Tom Jones_. Here lived\nSarah Andrew, a rich heiress, when Fielding became wildly enamoured of\nher. This love affair was opposed by Andrew Tucker, who was Sarah's\nguardian, but Fielding persisted in his suit with such energy that\nTucker had to appeal to the Mayor of Lyme to be protected from the\nviolence of Fielding and his men. This is recorded in the town journals.\n\nFielding lost the rich heiress, but immortalised her memory in the\nsupremely beautiful character of Sophia, in _Tom Jones_.\n\nThe Parish Church, dedicated to St Michael, contains some interesting\nrelics. A prominent feature is the carved Jacobean pulpit and\nsounding-board, bearing in capitals the inscription: \"TO GOD'S GLORY\nRICHARD HARVEY MERCER AND MERCHANT ADVENTURER THIS ANNO, 1613.\" It was\nremoved from a column near the south door and entrance to the vestry\nduring the renovation of the church by Dr Hodges, in 1833.\n\nThe building dates from the fifteenth century, though it is clear from\ntown records that a church stood near or on the spot in 1298, and there\nare remains of a Norman arch and pillar in the west porch. Note the two\nparish chests, one of Jacobean workmanship. The following interesting\ninscriptions are from six of the bells which were set up in 1770:--\n\n\n     1. \"O Fair Britannia Hail.\" T.B. f., 1770.\n\n     2. \"Harmony in sound and sentiment.\" T.B. 1770.\n\n     3. \"O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands.\" T.B. f., 1770.\n\n     4. Re-cast in 1843. Thomas Mears, founder, London. Fredk. Parry\n     Hodges, vicar. Robert Hillman, Mayor. John Church and George\n     Roberts, churchwardens.\n\n     5. \"O sea spare me.\" This peal of bells was erected partly by rate\n     and part by subscription in the year 1770.\n\n     6. \"_Pro Religione, pro Patria, pro Libertate._\" 1770. Mr Tuff and\n     Mr Tucker, C. W. Thomas Bilbie, _Fecit_.\n\n\nThe curfew is still rung at eight o'clock at Lyme Regis.\n\nFuller details of the history of the church and town will be found in a\nvery comprehensive little _History of Lyme Regis_, by Cameron, which is\npublished by Mr Dunster at \"The Library\" in Broad Street.\n\nBroad Street, leading downwards from the station to the sea, is the main\nthoroughfare, and the principal business part of the town. Half-way up\nthe street on the eastern side is a small passage leading to an ancient\nforge. It is scarcely to be noticed unless one is expressly seeking for\nit, but once up the narrow court there it is, with its open doorway all\nred inside like a wizard's cave, with the hammers ringing on the anvil,\nand the sparks showering out of the big flue. Here Vulcan has toiled,\nmoiled and, let us hope, aled for five hundred years without a break,\nand here, in spite of cheap machinery, Mr Govier, the master smith of\nLyme Regis, still seems to enjoy a regular and ready custom. The forge\nhas been in Mr Govier's family for three hundred years, and it has a\ngreat weather-beaten wooden-and-tile roof, which is all but on the verge\nof collapse. A long sweep of old oak wood controls the bellows, and as\nyou look in you will see the hand of Govier himself is on the bellows\nhandle. He draws it down and lets it up again with the peculiar rhythmic\nmotion of long experience, heaping up his fire with a cunning little\niron rake, singing a most doleful song to himself all about \"shooting\nhis true love at the setting of the sun.\" But you must not think the\nmaster smith is a gloomy man, for this song (and other still more\npathetic ones) is just a tune of acquiescence to his labours--a song in\nsympathy with the roar of the bellows and the ascending sparks of his\nfire.\n\n[Illustration: THE MASTER SMITH OF LYME REGIS]\n\n\"Come in, come in,\" he said, when I told him I had come to pay my\nrespects to him.\n\nHe turned from his forge, set his hands on his hips and looked at me a\nmoment. Then I realised why McNeill Whistler spent so much of his time\nin this forge making sketches of the smith. He looked like Vulcan's very\nbrother, his face sunburnt and forge-burnt to wheat-colour, his eyes\nblue as cornflowers, and his hair black and crisp, and everywhere about\nhim the atmosphere of the blacksmith. There are all kinds of interesting\nthings in the old forge, from Roman horseshoes to plates for\nrace-horses, and a pair of old beam-scales dated 1560. These scales have\nbeen hanging up as far back as Govier and his father before him could\nremember. Besides having the knowledge of a craftsman, Govier is a\nsinger of old songs.\n\n\"That song you were singing when I came in?\" I asked. \"I know it as well\nas anyone, but somehow it has escaped me.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the master smith. \"Well, well! It is years ago now that I\nfirst heard it, when the ships came inside our walls with coal and took\naway stone. We rarely see a ship in our walls now, but when I was a boy\nmy father and I frequently went down to the quay to repair ironwork\naboard the old sailing boats. Those old Devon sailors were the fellows\nfor songs. Upon my soul, I believe sailors no longer sing as they once\ndid. I find a great difference between the old-fashioned chanty man and\nthe modern seaman who never sings at his work. The man who sings loudly\nand clearly is in good health, prompt, and swift to the point, and his\nheart is as big as parson's barn. The silent sullen fellow may have\nthese qualities--he may have 'em, I say; but then the chap who sings is\nthe happier man.\"\n\n\"But there are some miserable fellows who reckon to be very happy,\" I\nsaid.\n\nAt this Govier gave a shrug of his ox-like shoulders, and waved away all\nsuch sorry triflers.\n\n\"There are such people,\" said he; \"but they are not entertaining.\nHowever, you want to get the hang of that song, and though I cannot\nremember the exact words I have the rhythm of it in my head right\nenough, and I think it runs like this:\n\n\n     \"'Come all you young fellows that carry a gun,\n     Beware of late shooting when daylight is done;\n     For 'tis little you reckon what hazards you run,\n     I shot my true love at the setting of the sun.\n         In a shower of rain, as my darling did hie\n         All under the bushes to keep herself dry,\n     With her head in her apron, I thought her a swan,\n     And I shot my true love at the setting of the sun.\n     In the night the fair maid as a white swan appears:\n     She says, O my true love, quick, dry up your tears,\n     I freely forgive you, I have Paradise won;\n     I was shot by my true love at the setting of the sun.'\n\n\n\"You should have heard that song as I heard it on board an old-time\nschooner, when the ship's company all banged and roared heartily, and\nshouted in enormous voices. When they came to 'I was shot by my true\nlove' the company would all join together in a great moan, and wag their\nheads in a most melancholy way. But there are no songs like that now.\nAll this complicated machinery in ships has darkened men's minds and\nshut out the old songs.\"\n\nA good many very interesting places may be cleared up by just\ntrespassing a few miles into Devon when we leave Lyme Regis, and taking\nthe main road to Axminster, a parish and market town on the River Axe.\nSt Mary's Church is of ancient origin, and contains some objects of\nantiquarian interest. The other churches are modern. South of the town\nare the ruins of Newenham Abbey; its history is interesting. Seven miles\nnorth, Ford Abbey affords another attraction. Membury Castle (one mile\nsouth) and Weycroft are ancient Roman or British fortifications. It is\nbelieved that the battle of Brunanburgh, A.D. 937, was fought near here.\n\nThe George Inn at Axminster, standing in a plot formed by George Street,\nVictoria Place and Lyme Street, is a noble old place with a spacious\ncourtyard. The barn above the archway at the back of the inn is very\npicturesque, with mouldering red and purplish tiles and hand-wrought\niron cleats. Three miles south of Axminster we come to Musbury--it was\nto see a thatcher at this village that I was tempted to make a short\nexpedition into Devon. The ancient Church of St Michael has been largely\nrebuilt. It contains many interesting old monuments, chiefly to members\nof the family of the Drakes, of Ashe. Musbury Castle is a British or\nRoman camp. Ashe House, the former seat of the Drake family, is now a\nfarm-house. The New Inn is an odd little place, with a grey and shining\nstone floor, and windows set deep in thick walls.\n\n[Illustration: DRAKE MEMORIAL AT MUSBURY]\n\nColyton is five miles south-west of Axminster in the picturesque valley\nof the River Coly, and three miles from the sea. The Parish Church of St\nAndrew contains much of great interest. The porch of the old vicarage\nhouse should be seen, with the inscription PEDITATIO TOTUM; MEDITATIO\nTOTUM, A.D. 1524, over the window. There is an ancient market-house\nhere. The \"Great House\" is another old and interesting building. It was\nonce the home of the Yonge family, and was built in the seventeenth\ncentury by John Yonge, a merchant adventurer who settled at Colyton, but\nit has been partly rebuilt, although the portion of the house which\nremains suggests something of the old building and contains some\ninteresting carving. The Duke of Monmouth stayed here in 1680. There are\ninteresting effigies of the Pole family in their chapel in the Church of\nSt Andrew, which is fenced off with a stone screen erected by the vicar\nof Colyton, 1524-1544. The vicar was also Canon of Exeter, and his rebus\nfigures prominently on the screen. The great tomb of Sir John Pole,\nburied in 1658, and Elizabeth his wife displays elaborate effigies,\nwhile the altar-tomb is that of William Pole, buried in 1587. Near by is\na mural monument to his wife, Katherine, and another to Mary, wife of\nSir William, the historian, and daughter of Sir W. Periham of Fulford.\nBoth these ladies have their children kneeling round them. The author of\nthe well-known _Description of Devon_ is buried in the aisle, but there\nis no monument. When I was staying with the headmaster of Colyton\nGrammar School (an ancient building bearing the date 1612) some twenty\nyears ago there were representatives of the knightly family of Poles\namong his pupils.\n\nIn the north aisle is the mausoleum of the Yonge family. Another\ninteresting monument is an elaborate altar-tomb in the chancel with a\nrecumbent female figure popularly known as \"Little Choke-Bone,\"\nreferring to Margaret Courtenay, daughter of William Earl of Devon, and\nKatherine, his wife, sixth daughter of Edward IV. She is said to have\nbeen choked by a fish-bone at Colcombe Castle in 1512.\n\nThe Courtenays, Earls of Devon, once held all the land in this\nneighbourhood, and their seat was at Colcombe Castle, hard by, for three\nhundred years, but Henry VIII. quarrelled with Henry Courtenay, Marquess\nof Exeter, and deprived him of his estates in 1538. It is a curious fact\nthat the parish charities of Colyton are still mostly derived from these\nforfeited estates.\n\nThe ruins of Colcombe Castle lie about half-a-mile from the town, and\nare now used as a farm-house. Near here grows _Lobelia \u00farens_, the\n\"flower of the Axe,\" a rare British flower, in appearance very like the\ngarden lobelia. Kilmington is said to bear, in the first syllable of its\nname, the trace of the great battle fought in the Axe Valley in Saxon\ntimes.\n\nAnother interesting excursion from Lyme might be taken to Lambert's\nCastle and Ford Abbey. Ford can be reached by rail to Card Junction.\nThe Abbey is about a mile east of the station. The first long climb out\nof Lyme by the Axminster road to Hunter's Lodge Inn is not encouraging.\nFrom this inn the road runs straight ahead along the road to Marshwood,\npassing Monkton Wyld Cross, and gradually ascending to Lambert's Castle,\nwhich is eight hundred and forty-two feet above the sea-level. The\nCastle is an important British and Roman camp. A fair and horse-races\nare still held here twice a year, and a magnificent view over the Char\nvalley is obtained from this point. Pilsdon Pen can be reached by the\nBeaminster Road, which can be picked up two miles north-east from\nLambert's Castle. At Birdsmoor Gate, two miles beyond, is the Rose and\nCrown Inn and a crossing of the ways. The road to Ford Abbey and Chard\nswings round to the left, but if the pilgrim wishes to view the home of\nWordsworth and his sister, he must change his route and proceed along\nthe Crewkerne road for half-a-mile until Racedown Farm is reached.\nDorothy Wordsworth described it as \"the place dearest to my\nrecollections upon the whole surface of the island; the first home I\nhad\"; and she wrote with great feeling about the charm and beauty of the\nneighbourhood.\n\nCharmouth is a pleasant walk of two miles from Lyme Regis, but the road\ngoes over a very steep hill at the top of which is a cutting known as\nthe \"New Passage,\" the \"Devil's Bellows,\" where in windy weather there\nis a chance of being carried off one's feet. The village consists of one\nlong street situated above the mouth of the _Char_, the leading feature\nof the view being the heights which hedge in the valley, particularly\nthose from which the road has just descended. It is an ancient place,\nwhich still preserves the memory of two sanguinary battles between the\nDanes and Saxons. In the first the Saxons were commanded by Egbert, in\nthe second by Ethelwolf. In both the Danes were victorious, but so\ncrippled in the fight that they were obliged to retreat to their ships.\nAt Charmouth, too, in the attempted escape of Charles II. to France,\noccurred the incident which so nearly led to the discovery of the\nfugitive. A plan had been concerted with the captain of a merchantman\ntrading to Lyme that a boat at a particular hour of the night should be\nsent to the beach at Charmouth. Charles rode hither under the guidance\nof Lord Wilmot and Colonel Wyndham and rested at the little inn to await\nthe appointed time. The vessel, however, from unforeseen circumstances,\nwas unable to leave the harbour, and the fugitive was obliged to give\nup the enterprise and to pass the night in the village. The next morning\nit was found that his horse had cast a shoe, and the village blacksmith\nwas summoned to repair the loss. This was a curious fellow, whose\nsuspicions were aroused on observing that the old shoes were fastened in\na manner peculiar to the north of England. The hostler, who was a\nRepublican soldier, carried the information to the Puritan minister.\nFrom the minister it went to the magistrate, and from the magistrate to\nthe captain of a troop of horse, who soon galloped with his men in\npursuit. Fortunately for the king, they took the wrong road, and he\nescaped.\n\nThe inn at which Charles rested is still standing. Part of it is now the\nCongregational Manse. The front of the house has now been entirely\nmodernised, but the interior has retained all the quaint features of the\nCarolean period, and here one may still see heavy ceilings and fine\noak-panellings. In the portion which is now a cottage a large chimney\n(which is said to have served as a hiding-place) and the \"king's\nbedroom\" are still pointed out to visitors. Until comparatively recent\ntimes the inn was still providing ale to thirsty rustics and was called\nthe \"Queen's Head,\" and several old natives can remember when the\nlandlord displayed a sign on which was inscribed:\n\n\n     \"Here in this house was lodged King Charles,\n     Come in, sirs, you may venture;\n     For here is entertainment good\n     For churchman or dissenter.\"\n\n\nIn 1902 a commemoration tablet was placed on the house. Similar tablets\nhave been placed on Ellesdon Farm, the George Inn (now a shop),\nBridport, and on the George Inn, Broadwindsor, at each of which Charles\nII. took refreshment or a night's lodgment during his passage through\nDorset.\n\nTwo lanes, one turning off near the top of the straight descent, and one\njust below the church, lead in a few minutes to the sea. The beach is\nsand, shingle and rock, and supports a coastguard station, bathing\nmachines and a few fishing-boats which are launched from the beach.\nThere are cliffs on each side of the bay, and here the Char, \"a small,\nirregular, alder-fringed, playful river, full of strange fish such as\ninland streams yield not,\" mingles very modestly with the sea. The river\nrises under Lewesdon and Pilesdon, about six miles distant in a direct\nline. Three miles north of Charmouth is Corrie Castle (King's Castle),\nsupposed to have been the camp of Egbert when he fought with the Danes.\n\nThe cliffs at Charmouth exhibit a fine section of the strata and abound\nin interesting fossil remains. These include the bones of those\ncolossal reptiles the ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus, of the\npterodactyl, and numerous fish; and, among other shells, those of the\nammonite and belemnite, which are found in great quantities on Golden\nCap. The lias contains much bituminous matter and iron pyrites, which\nhave frequently taken fire after heavy rains. At a bed of gravel near\nthe mouth of the river the remains of an elephant and rhinoceros have\nbeen discovered.\n\nThe tourist must look for the relic of the \"Queen's Head\" next above a\nchapel and opposite the picturesque George Inn. I think that the quiet\nfolk who occupy the genuine inn where the king stopped must often\nbreathe mild maledictions over the heads of inquisitive pilgrims who\npeep and peer into their windows, and I suspect that they have begged\nmine host of the George to claim for his house the honour of sheltering\nCharles Stuart from the troops. At all events the George is pointed out\nto the visitor as the great historical attraction, in spite of the fact\nthat it was built long after the time King Charles was in hiding in\nDorset.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nRAMBLES AROUND BRIDPORT\n\n     I, who am a pagan child,\n     Who know how dying Plato smiled,\n     And how Confucius lessoned kings,\n     And of the Buddha's wanderings,\n     Find God in very usual things.\n\n\nToller Porcorum (Toller of the Swine) has a railway station on the\nBridport branch line and is two miles from Maiden Newton. The name is\nexplanatory, and great herds of swine were once bred here. The affix\nserves to distinguish this Toller from its next neighbour, Toller\nFratrum (Toller of the Brethren, _i.e._ monks), which is one mile from\nMaiden Newton station. The mansion of Sir Thomas Fulford still stands\nand is a fine instance of early seventeenth-century domestic\narchitecture. The very first things I noticed about this house were the\ntall, narrow, thick windows--windows that any man might look upon with\ncovetous eyes. Such tall stone-mullioned windows are an enchantment,\nand, as Hilaire Belloc says, it is the duty of every man to keep up the\nhigh worship of noble windows till he comes down to the windowless\ngrave. A building with a thatched roof near the house is a refectory,\nand appropriately cut in stone on the wall will be noticed a monk eating\nbread.\n\nAt Wynford Eagle, two miles south, the church still preserves a curious\ntympanum of a Norman door. It shows two ferocious and\nunspeakable-looking beasts, who are about to fight. They are said to be\nwyverns--which are heraldic monsters with two wings, two legs and\ntapering bodies. The most remarkable discovery ever made in the vicinity\nof Wynford Eagle was recorded by Aubrey in connection with the opening\nof a barrow at Ferndown. The diggers came upon \"a place like an Oven,\ncuriously clay'd round; and in the midst of it a fair Urn full of very\nfirm bones, with a great quantity of black ashes under it. And what is\nmost remarkable; one of the diggers putting his hand into the Oven when\nfirst open'd, pull'd it back hastily, not being able to endure the\n_heat_; and several others doing the like, affirmed it to be hot enough\nto bake bread.... Digging further they met with sixteen Urns more, but\nnot in Ovens; and in the middle one with ears; they were all full of\nsome bones and black ashes.\"\n\nThe house of the Sydenhams still stands at Wynford Eagle. On the highest\npoint of the central gable a fierce-looking stone eagle arrests our\nattention, and under it is carved the date 1630.\n\nRampisham is three miles south of Evershot, and the churchyard contains\nan ancient stone cross, the decayed condition of which will test the\npatience and ingenuity of those who desire to satisfy themselves of the\naccuracy of Britton's description of the sculpture--namely, that it\nrepresents \"the stoning of St Stephen, the Martyrdom of St Edmund, the\nMartyrdom of St Thomas \u00e0 Becket, and two crowned figures sitting at a\nlong table, to whom a man kneels on one knee.\"\n\nThe inn called the \"Tiger's Head\" is of great antiquity; it has stooped\nand settled down with age, and, within, the low-ceiled rooms seem\nsaturated with influence, and weighty with the wearing of men's lives.\n\nCross-in-Hand stands on the verge of the down, which breaks away\nprecipitously to the vale where Yetminster lies. A bleached and desolate\nupland, it took its name from a stone pillar which stood there, a\nstrange, rude monolith, from a stratum unknown in any local quarry, on\nwhich was roughly carved a human hand. Differing accounts were given of\nits history and purport. Some authorities stated that a devotional cross\nhad once formed the complete erection thereon, of which the present\nrelic was but the stump; others that the stone as it stood was entire,\nand that it had been fixed there to mark a boundary or place of\nmeeting.\n\nIt was on this stone that Alec D'Urberville made Tess swear not to tempt\nhim by her charms. \"This was once a holy cross,\" said he. \"Relics are\nnot in my creed, but I fear you at moments.\" It was with a sense of\npainful dread that Tess, after leaving this spot, learned from a rustic\nthat the stone was not a holy cross. \"Cross--no; 'twere not a cross!\n'Tis a thing of ill-omen, miss. It was put up in wuld times by the\nrelations of a malefactor, who was tortured there by nailing his hands\nto a post and afterwards hung. The bones lie underneath. They say he\nsold his soul to the devil, and that he walks at times.\"\n\nDeep down below is the sequestered village of Batcombe. An uncanny story\nattaches itself to a battered old Gothic tomb in Batcombe churchyard.\nThe tomb stands near the north wall of the church, and it is said to be\nthe resting-place of one Conjuring Minterne, who Hardy in one of his\nnovels tells us left directions, after having quarrelled with his vicar,\nthat he was to be buried \"neither in the church nor out of it.\" It is\nsaid that this eccentric injunction was complied with, but the tomb has\nsince been moved. What deed Minterne had committed that prevented him\nfrom lying quietly in the usual grave like the other good folk of\nBatcombe who had departed this life no man can tell. All the rustics\ncould tell me was they had heard he had sold himself to Old Nick, and\nthat his request to be buried in such a unique manner was a ruse to\nprevent his master \"the old 'un\" from getting him when he died.\n\nIn bygone days the \"conjurer\" was an important character in the Dorset\nvillage, and he was generally of good reputation, and supposed to be\ngifted with supernatural power, which he exercised for good. By his\nincantations and ceremonies he cured anything from inflamed eyes to lung\ndisease. A Wessex dealer in magic and spells is mentioned in Hardy's\nstory, _The Withered Arm_. He lived in a valley in the remotest part of\nEgdon Heath:\n\n\"He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything\nabout their continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in\nfurze, turf, 'sharp sand,' and other local products. Indeed, he affected\nnot to believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been\nshown him for cure miraculously disappeared--which it must be owned they\ninfallibly did--he would say lightly, 'Oh, I only drink a glass of grog\nupon 'em--perhaps it's all chance,' and immediately turn the subject.\"\n\nBut to return to Minterne. The present vicar of Batcombe church--Rev.\nJoseph Pulliblank--thinks the fore-shortened stone of Minterne's tomb,\nwhich is square instead of the usual oblong, gives some support to the\nstory of the \"conjurer\" being buried with his feet under the masonry of\nthe church wall. The following paragraph is also from some notes kindly\nsent to me by the Rev. Joseph Pulliblank:--\n\n\"Batcombe Church, originally Saxon, has only two points which testify to\nthe fact--(1) A Saxon font inside, (2) a small portion of Saxon masonry\nworked into the outside south wall.\n\n\"In modern times Batcombe was the seat of 'the Little Commonwealth'\nsettlement founded by the Earl of Sandwich and run on the lines of the\n'George Junior Republic' in America--owing to financial and other\ndifficulties it came to an end during the war.\"\n\nIn the church are wall tablets to the Minterne family: one to a John\nMinterne who died in 1716, as well as a John Minterne who was buried in\n1592. There is a monument to Bridget Minterne in Yetminster church, who\nwas the wife of John Minterne of Batcombe. The inscription runs:\n\n\n     \"Here lyeth y body of Bridgett Minterne wife of John Minterne of\n     Batcombe esq., second daughter of Sir John Brown of Frampton Kt.\n     who died y 19th July Ano Domini 1649.\"\n\n\nWhich of the ancient possessors of Batcombe can claim the honour of\nbeing the famous Conjuring Minterne I was unable to discover. Little\nremains of his history. We only know that he was always kind, and knew\nhow to ride well, for he once jumped his horse from the crest of the\ndown into the village, knocking one of the pinnacles off the church\ntower on his way. He would not talk much about wizardry, but would\nrather sing songs. No doubt Minterne was a very lovable fellow!\n\nIn Rudyard Kipling's \"Marklake Witches\" (_Rewards and Fairies_) the\nSussex \"conjurer\" is represented by Jerry Gamm the witchmaster, and he\nis one of the most striking examples in literature of the rustic\nastrologer and doctor. The following charm--a very excellent one,\ntoo--was Jerry Gamm's charm against a disease of an obstinate and deadly\ncharacter:\n\n\"You know the names of the Twelve Apostles, dearie? You say them names,\none by one, before your open window, rain or storm, wet or shine, five\ntimes a day fasting. But mind you, 'twixt every name you draw in your\nbreath through your nose, right down to your pretty toes, as long and as\ndeep as you can, and let it out slow through your pretty little mouth.\nThere's virtue for your cough in those names spoke that way. And I'll\ngive you something you can see, moreover. Here's a stick of maple which\nis the warmest tree in the wood. It's cut one inch long for you every\nyear,\" Jerry said. \"That's sixteen inches. You set it in your window so\nthat it holds up the sash, and thus you keep it, rain or shine, or wet\nor fine, day and night. I've said words over it which will have virtue\non your complaints.\"\n\nBridport lies two miles inland from the sea and its unheard-of harbour\nof West Bay. We first hear of the town in the reign of Edward the\nConfessor, when it could boast a mint, a priory of monks and two hundred\nhouses. In Saxon days it was probably a place of some importance, owing\nto the fact of it being the port to the River Brit, but its early\nhistory is without any distinctive mark or important event. When Charles\nII. arrived at Bridport in his hasty flight from Charmouth the town was\nfull of soldiers, but the royal party went boldly to an inn (the\n_George_, now a shop, incorporating part of the old building opposite\nthe Town Hall) and mixed with the company. Every stranger was mistrusted\nby the troops, however, and Charles and his suite quitted the town after\na hasty meal. They retired by the main Dorchester road and took a lane\nleading to Broadwindsor and so escaped. Lee Lane, a mile to the east of\nBridport, is said to be the actual scene where the royal party retreated\nto security.\n\nThe first thing the pilgrim will notice when entering Bridport is the\ngenerous width of the streets, and it is a curious fact that the local\nindustries have left their stamp on the town in this way. The town was\nalways famed for its hempen manufactures, and it furnished most of the\ncordage for the royal fleet in the good old times of \"wooden walls.\" It\nwas for this reason the roads were made wider--to allow each house to\nhave a \"rope walk.\" At one time the town enjoyed almost a monopoly in\nthe manufacture of cordage. Gallows' ropes also were made here, hence\nthe grim retort often heard in Wessex: \"You'll live to be stabbed with a\nBridport dagger!\"\n\nGeorge Barnet, \"a gentleman-burgher of Port Bredy,\" in Hardy's _Fellow\nTownsmen_, was descended from the hemp and rope merchants of Bridport.\n\nThe church is fifteenth-century and contains a cross-legged effigy of a\nmail-clad knight, probably one of the De Chideocks. The old building was\nrestored in 1860, when two bays were added to the nave. Thomas Hardy\nwaxes bitterly jocular over this piece of restoration: \"The church had\nhad such a tremendous joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or\nother as to be scarce recognisable by its dearest old friends.\"\n\nWest Bay and Bridport are scenes in Hardy's tale, _Fellow Townsmen_,\nwhere they are dealt with under the name of \"Port Bredy,\" from the name\nof the little River Bredy, which here flows into the sea. The town\nmainly consists of one long highway, divided at West Street and East\nStreet by the clock tower of the Town Hall, which forms the very hub of\ncommercial liveliness, with the fine old inns and quaint shops about it.\nThe Greyhound Hotel is a place very much favoured by travellers, and for\nold-fashioned fare and comfort there is no inn in England which could\nbetter it. Mr Trump, the broad-shouldered landlord, is one of the old\nschool, a man of genial humour and generous strength, and his popularity\nreaches well over the borders of Dorset. He is a great lover of horses,\nand I stood by his side as he surveyed a manifestation of Divine Energy\nin the form of a horse of spirit and tremendous power owned by a local\nfarmer. \"Walter\" Trump took off his hat to the fine animal and turned to\nme, saying: \"If there are no horses in heaven I don't want to go there.\"\n\nSouth Street turns down to the quay near the Greyhound, and in the\nsummer traps will be usually found at this corner to take one down to\nthe sea.\n\nThe Literary and Scientific Institute, in East Street, opposite the\nBull Hotel, contains a number of coins and some natural history\nexhibits, as well as a library.\n\nThe Conservative Club has been established in a fine old Tudor building\nin South Street, on the opposite side of which is another ancient house\ncalled Dungeness. At the back of a house on the south side of the East\nBridge is a portion of the old Hospital of St John. The Bull has been\nmodernised, but it is the Black Bull where George Barnet put up on his\nreturn to his native town, in _Fellow Townsmen_.\n\nBetween the Town Hall and the Greyhound is a passage known as Bucky Doo,\nwhich the Rev. R. Grosvenor Bartelot traces to \"Bocardo,\" \"originally a\nsyllogism in logic, which was here, as at Oxford, applied to the prison,\nbecause, just as a Bocardo syllogism always ended in a final negative,\nso did a compulsory visit to the Bocardo lock-up generally mean a closer\nacquaintance with the disciplinary use of 'the Bridport dagger' and a\nfinal negative to the drama of life.\"\n\nIf the pilgrim wishes to make a pleasant excursion on foot to West Bay\nhe must take a track that goes round the churchyard and follow the\nriverside footpath on the right bank of the stream. Thus we arrive at\nBridport Quay and West Bay. The harbour never became of any importance\nowing to the microscopic shingle which has always obstructed and choked\nits mouth. Everywhere the pilgrim turns he sees hillocks of this waste\nsand which has prevented a willing port from serving its country. The\nfact that Bridport was not called upon to provide any ships either for\nthe siege of Calais in 1347 or for the fleet to oppose the Spanish\nArmada may be accepted as proof that the burgesses of the town possessed\nno vessels large enough for fighting purposes. So the little harbour\nfell into indolence and sluggishness, thus bearing out the truth of the\nold saying: \"That which does not serve dies.\"\n\nThe place is picturesque in an odd and casual way, and a scattering of\nquaint old dwellings contrast with a row of new lodging-houses which are\nvery showy (rory-tory the Dorset rustic would style them!) in spite of\ntheir affectation of the dandy-go-rusty tiles of antiquity. A little\ngroup of fishermen may always be seen loafing and smoking by the\nthatched Bridport Arms Hotel, and the only time these good fellows ever\nshow any quickening to life is when some barque, taking unusual risks,\nallows itself to be towed and winched between the narrow pier-heads. At\nsuch times the spirit of ships and men departed seems to enter into\nthem, and they shout and heave and sing randy-dandy deep-sea songs, and\nuse much profanity.\n\nThe shingle is part of one of the remarkable features of the Dorset\ncoast--the Chesil Beach or Chesil Bank, which runs as far as Portland.\nChesil is Old English for _pebble_, the old word being found in\nChesilton in Dorset and Chislehurst in Kent. The pebbles gradually grow\ncoarser as one progresses in a south-easterly direction, so that in\nolden days the smugglers, running their \"tubs\" ashore, at venture, in\nthe fog or during the night, knew the exact stretch of bank they had\narrived on by taking a handful of shingle to examine. The attractions of\nWest Bay are good bathing, good sea fishing and good boating, for the\ncurious little harbour is a particularly pleasing haunt for amateur\nsailors.\n\nThere are many pleasant short walks in the neighbourhood of Bridport and\nWest Bay. Eype is reached from Bridport by field paths passing through\nAllington and the Lovers' Grove. A bridle-way takes one to Eype church,\nstanding on the ridge, whence it leads through the village down a deep\nhollow to the beach. Continuing over Thorncombe Beacon, we reach\nSeatown, which is a seaside branch of Chideock. \"Chiddick,\" as any\nWessex man of the soil will pronounce the name, is a little less than a\nmile inland on the Lyme Regis road. The Anchor Inn at Seatown is an old\nplace of entertainment I have not personally visited, but a man who\nknows his Dorset informs me that it is a place where the centuries\nmingle; with black beams in the ceiling, oak settles, shining with long\nusage, and ironwork full of the rough simplicity of the Elizabethan\nforge. I shall call there next time I fare Dorset way, if only to stand\nin the great bay window which looks out to the sea. Such buildings\nremind one, not of decay but of immutableness. Perhaps even the summons\nof the dark Reaper would not sound quite so sharp in an ancient inn.\nThere are less perfect places one might die in, and if I had my wish I\nwould choose to pass away in an inn, where all my regrets would be\narrested by the stamping of feet on the sanded floor beneath, and the\nancient and untutored voices of farmhands and ploughmen singing some\nlively song.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nROUND ABOUT BEAMINSTER\n\n\nBeaminster is six miles to the north of Bridport, and is reached by a\npleasant walk, passing on the way the little village of Melplash.\n\nIt is a sleepy country town, deeply seated among hills, near the\nhead-waters of the _Birt_, which flows through it. It is a place of some\nantiquity, but not remarkable for much, if we except its sufferings by\nfire. In 1644, when Prince Maurice was quartered here, it was burnt\ncompletely to the ground, having been fired by a drunken soldier. The\ngreater part of it was a second time destroyed in 1684, and again in\n1788.\n\nVery prominent landmarks of the Beaminster district are Pilsdon Pen and\nLewesdon Hill, two eminences of green sand remarkable for their likeness\nto one another. The singularity of their appearance has naturally\nexcited much attention. Sailors, whom they serve as a landmark, call\nthem the _Cow and the Calf_; the Rev. William Crowe has sung the praises\nof Lewesdon in a descriptive poem, and the two hills together have\ngiven rise to a proverbial saying current in this country and applied\nto neighbours who are not acquainted:\n\n\n                  \"... as much akin\n     As Lew'son Hill to Pil'son Pen.\"\n\n\nThese hills command a charming prospect, and Pilsdon is further\ninteresting as the site of an ancient camp, of oval form, encompassed by\nthree strong ramparts and ditches. It is the highest point in the\ncounty, nine hundred and thirty-four feet above the sea. Crowe's\n_Lewesdon Hill_ was much admired by Rogers, who says in his _Table\nTalk_: \"When travelling in Italy I made two authors my constant study\nfor versification, Milton and Crowe.\"\n\nBeaminster is in a centre of a district famous for its great dairies,\nflowers, bees and rural industries, and here is produced the famous\nDouble Dorset and Blue Vinny cheese which has always a place on the\ntable of the true Dorset family. The word \"vinny\" means mouldy; thus\nwhen the rustic thinks his cheese is in a fine ripe condition he will be\nlikely to remark: \"This yer cheese is butvul now; tez vinnied through\nand through.\" The same word is also used in Devonshire for\n\"bad-tempered,\" thus, \"You vinnied little mullybrub, git out of my sight\nthis minut!\" The large dairies where the cheeses are made are called\n\"soap factories\" by the facetious natives, and one frequently meets\nmotor lorries grinding up the sharp hills beneath the burden of a\nhundred or so freshly pressed rounds of cheese.\n\nIn spite of the town's sufferings by fire the grand old church has\nfortunately always escaped. It is approached by a lane at the corner of\nthe market-place. The pride of Beaminster is the old church tower, which\nwas built in 1520. A native said to me: \"Didee ever see zich a\ncomfortable-looking old tower as that be, and I knaws you won't see more\ntrinkrums on any church in the county.\" By \"trinkrums\" I suppose he\nmeant the gargoyles, pinnacles and profusion of delicate carvings for\nwhich the gracious amber-coloured tower is justly famous. The church\nitself cannot vie with the tower for elegance or magnificence. Indeed\nthe church is quite a dull-looking place. However, the nave, arcade and\na squint from the south aisle into the chancel are Early English. The\npulpit is Jacobean. There are two handsome monuments to members of the\nStrode family and some memorial windows to the Oglanders and other\nbenefactors. Affixed to the pavement of the south aisle is an early\nbrass, with this inscription in Old English characters:\n\n\n     \"Pray for the soule of Sr. John Tone whos body lyth berid under\n     this tombe on whos soule Jhu have mercy a patr nostr & ave.\"\n\n\nSir John was a priest, and probably a Knight of Malta, who died in\nBeaminster while he was on a pilgrimage through Dorset.\n\nThe church is the scene of a \"well-authenticated\" apparition. Down to\nthe year 1748 the free school (of which the Rev. Samuel Hood, father of\nAdmirals Viscount Hood and Lord Bridport, was at one time master) was\nheld in one of the galleries, and there, on \"Saturday, June 22, 1728,\"\ndid one John Daniel appear at full noonday to five of his\nschool-fellows, \"between three weeks and a month after his burial.\" The\nreason was plain when his body was dug up and duly examined, for it was\nfound that he had been strangled.\n\nLetherbury, about a mile south of Beaminster, is a pleasant walk down\nthe Brit valley, by the river-side. On the road is _Parnham_, a noble\nmansion of the Tudor period standing in a well wooded and watered\ndemesne. From the Parnhams this estate came to the Strodes, passing\nthence in 1764 to the Oglanders. Other old houses in the neighbourhood\nof Beaminster are _Strode_, _Melplash_ and _Mapperton_, and the whole\ndistrict bears the marks of long and prosperous agricultural occupation\nin the old-fashioned days when \"squire\" and tenant lived and died in\nsemi-feudal relationship on the estate which the one owned and the other\nrented.\n\nMapperton House belongs to the time of Henry VIII. In the reign of that\nsovereign the lord of the manor was Robert Morgan, who had the following\npatent granted to him:--\"Forasmoche as we bee credibly informed that our\nwelbiloved Robert Morgan Esquier, for diverse infirmities which he hathe\nin his hedde, cannot convenyently, without his grete danngier, be\ndiscovered of the same. Whereupon wee in tendre consideration thereof\nhave by these presents licensed him to use and wear his bonnet on his\nhed at all tymys, as wel in our presence as elsewher at his libertie.\"\n\nPoor old Robert! Perhaps his Dorset stubbornness had as much to do with\nhis wearing a \"bonnet at all tymys\" as the \"infirmities in his hedde.\"\nBut he was well able to take care of himself, for he built this\nbeautiful manor-house and recorded the fact in the great hall:\n\n\"Robt. Morgan and Mary his wife built this house in their own lifetime,\nat their own charge and cost.\n\n\n     What they spent, that they lent:\n     What they gave, that they have:\n     What they left, that they lost.\"\n\n\n\n\nA GLOSSARY OF WEST COUNTRY PROVINCIALISMS\n\n\n     _Abide._ Cannot abide a thing is, not able to suffer or put up with\n     it.\n\n     _Addle._ Attle is a term used in mining, and signifies the rejected\n     and useless rubbish. Hence an addled egg is an egg unfit for use.\n\n     _Aft_, now only used as a sea term, but anciently with degrees of\n     comparison, as \"after, aftest.\"\n\n     _Agate_, open-mouthed attention; hearkening with eagerness. \"He was\n     all _agate_,\" eager to hear what was said.\n\n     _Alare_, a short time ago: in common use.\n\n     _Anan._ A Shakespearean expression formerly used by the Dorset\n     rustics when they wished to have a repetition of what had been\n     said; but no one now uses it.\n\n\n     _Backalong_, homeward.\n\n     _Ballyrag_, to scold.\n\n     _Banging-gert_, very large.\n\n     _Barken_, an enclosed place, as a rick-barken, a rick-yard. In\n     Sussex a yard or enclosure near a house is called a \"barton,\" from\n     barley; and tun, an enclosure.\n\n     _Barm_, yeast.\n\n     _Bayte_, to beat, or thrash.\n\n\n     \"A wumman,\n     A spenyel,\n     And a walnut-tree,\n     The oftener yu bayte 'em\n     Better they'll be.\"\n\n\n     _Blare_, to shout loudly.\n\n\n     \"Chillern pick up words as pigeons pease,\n     And blare them again as God shall please.\"\n\n\n     _Brath_, the ancient Cornish name for a mastiff dog. Perhaps this\n     accounts for the common expression, \"a broth of a boy,\" meaning \"a\n     stout dog of a boy\"--a sturdy fellow.\n\n     _Buck_, that peculiar infection which in summer sometimes gets into\n     a dairy and spoils the cream and butter; a sign of gross negligence\n     and want of skill, and not easily to be eradicated.\n\n     _Bumpkin_, a common term for a clumsy, uncouth man. But whence the\n     word?--for it is also applied to a part of a ship where the\n     foretack is fastened down. The word _bump_ means a protuberance, a\n     prominence: to _bump_ against a thing is a local term for striking\n     oneself clumsily against it.\n\n     _Butt_, a straw beehive.\n\n\n     \"A butt of bees in May\n     Is worth a guinea any day;\n     A butt of bees in June\n     Is worth a silver spoon;\n     A butt of bees in July\n     Isn't worth a fly.\"\n\n\n     _Chitter_, thin, folded up. It is applied to a thin and furrowed\n     face, by way of ridicule. Such a one is said to be \"chitter-faced.\"\n     The long and folded milts or testes of some fishes are called\n     \"chitterlins,\" as were the frills at the bosom of shirts when they\n     were so worn. The entrails of a pig cleaned and boiled are common\n     food in Wiltshire, and the dish is called \"chitterlings.\"\n\n     _Churer_, an occasional workman. Char, to do household work in the\n     absence of a domestic servant as a charwoman. In Dorset they say\n     \"one good choor deserves another,\" instead of one good turn, etc.\n\n     _Click-handed_, left-handed.\n\n     _Cloam_, common earthenware.\n\n     _Clush_, to lie down close to the ground, to stoop low down.\n\n     _Clusty_, close and heavy; particularly applied to bread not well\n     fermented, and therefore closely set. Also applied to a potato that\n     is not mealy.\n\n     _Coccabelles_, icicles.\n\n     _Condididdle_, to filch away, to convey anything away by trickery.\n\n     _Craking_, complaining.\n\n\n     \"I, Anthony James Pye Molley,\n     Can burn, take, sink, and destroy;\n     There's only one thing I can't do, on my life!\n     And that is, to stop the craking tongue of my wife.\"\n\n\n     _Crummy_, fat, corpulent. \"A fine crummy old fellow.\"\n\n\n     _Daddick_, rotten wood.\n\n     _Dew-bit_, breakfast.\n\n     _Dout_, to extinguish.\n\n     _Downargle_, to argue in an overbearing manner.\n\n     _Drattle you!_ A corruption of the irreverent oath, \"God throttle\n     you.\"\n\n     _Dubbin o' drenk_, a pot of ale.\n\n     _Durns_, door-posts.\n\n\n     _Ebbet_, the common lizard, commonly called the \"eft,\" which may be\n     a corruption of this word. The word _eft_ signifies speedy or\n     quick.\n\n     _Escaped._ A person is said to be just escaped when his\n     understanding is only just enough to warrant his being free from\n     constraint of the tutelage of his friends.\n\n     _Ether_ or _Edder_, a hedge; also the twisted wands with which a\n     \"stake hedge\" is made. They have a rhyme in Dorset on the\n     durability of a \"stake ether\":\n\n\n     \"An elder stake and black-thorn ether\n     Will make a hedge to last for ever.\"\n\n\n     _Fags!_ or, _Aw Fegs!_ An interjection. Indeed! Truly!\n\n     _Fenigy_, to run away secretly, or so slip off as to deceive\n     expectation; deceitfully to fail in a promise. It is most\n     frequently applied to cases where a man has shown appearances of\n     courtship to a woman, and then has left her without any apparent\n     reason, and without any open quarrel.\n\n     _Fess_, proud, vain. \"Lukee her agot a new bonnet. Why, her's as\n     fess as a paycock.\" Mrs Durbeyfield uses this word in Hardy's\n     _Tess_.\n\n     _Flaymerry_, a merry-making, or what is now vulgarly called \"a\n     spree,\" but with an innocent meaning, an excursion for amusement.\n\n\n     _Gabbern._ Gloomy, comfortless rooms and houses are \"gabbern.\"\n\n     _Galley-bagger_, a person fond of gadding about.\n\n     _Gallied_, scared. Jonathan Kail the farm-hand at Talbothay's uses\n     this word (see Hardy's _Tess_).\n\n     _Gallyvanting_, going from home.\n\n\n     \"Then for these flagons of silver fine,\n     Even they shall have no praise of mine;\n     For when my lord or lady be going to dine,\n     He sends them out to be filled with wine,\n     But his man goes gallyvanting away,\n     Because they are precious, and fine, and gay;\n     But if the wine had been order'd in a leather bottel,\n     The man would have come back, and all been well.\"\n\n\n     _Gigglet_, a merry young girl, one who shows her folly by a\n     disposition to grin and laugh for no cause. It is used as a term of\n     slight and contempt, and commonly to a young girl. Gigglet-market,\n     a hiring-place for servants. From time immemorial, to within the\n     last sixty years, on Lady Day young girls in Dorset and Devon were\n     accustomed to stand in the market-place awaiting a chance of being\n     hired as servants.\n\n     _Gu-ku_, cuckoo.\n\n\n     \"The gu-ku is a merry bird,\n       She sings as she flies;\n     She brings us good tidings,\n       She tells us no lies.\n     She sucks little birds' eggs\n       To make her voice clear;\n     And when she sings 'gu-ku'\n       The summer is near.\"\n\n\n     _Hadge_, hedge.\n\n\n     \"Love thy neighbour--but dawnt pull down thy hadge.\"\n\n\n     _Holt_, hold.\n\n\n     \"When you are an anvil, holt you still,\n     When you are a hammer, strike your fill.\"\n\n\n     _Hozeburd_, a person of bad character. \"Jack Dollop, a 'hore's bird\n     of a fellow,\" is the hero of a story related by Dairyman Crick in\n     Hardy's _Tess_.\n\n\n     _Klip_, a sudden smart blow, but not a heavy one. It is most\n     usually applied to a \"_klip_ under the ear.\" Of late the word\n     _klipper_ is grown into use to describe a smart-sailing vessel, one\n     that sails very swiftly, with some distant reference to the same\n     idea.\n\n     _Knap_, prominent. It is sometimes applied to the prominent part of\n     a hill; but it is more frequently used as significant of the form\n     of a person's knees when they are distorted towards each other, and\n     which some people have chosen to term knock-kneed.\n\n\n     _Lasher_, a large thing, of any sort. The meaning sought to be\n     conveyed appears to be that this thing beats or excels every other.\n     The opinion that any object which excels another is able to beat,\n     _lash_ or inflict violence on that other is a strange but not\n     uncommon vulgar one.\n\n     _Lof_, unwilling.\n\n\n     \"Dawntee be like old Solomon Wise--\n         'Lof tu go tu beyd\n         And lof to rise.'\n     Cuz then you'll soon be\n         'Out tu elbaws,\n         Out tu toes,\n         Out ov money,\n         An out ov cloase.'\"\n\n\n     _Main_, very. I remember once hearing a Dorset thatcher say:\n\n     \"I be main fammled. I be so hungry I could welly eat the barn\n     tiles.\"\n\n     _Mommet_, a scarecrow. See _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_: \"Had it\n     anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself in\n     thik carriage?\"\n\n\n     _Nitch_, a bundle of reed, straw or wood. \"He's got a nitch\"--he is\n     drunk.\n\n\n     _Peg_, pig. \"Tez time tu watch out when you're getting all you\n     want. Fattening pegs ain't 'ardly in luck!\"\n\n     At a tithe dinner a farmer in giving the Royal toast said:\n\n     \"The King, God bless him! May he be plaized to send us more pegs\n     and less parsons.\"\n\n\n     _Stubberds_, delicious apples.\n\n     \"Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?\"\n\n     \"Yes.\"\n\n     \"All like ours?\"\n\n     \"I don't know; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the\n     apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound--a few\n     blighted.\"\n\n     \"Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?\"\n\n     \"A blighted one.\" (See Thomas Hardy's _Tess_.)\n\n     _Stugged_, stuck in the mud.\n\n\n     \"He that will not merry be\n     With a pretty girl by the fire,\n     I wish he was a-top o' Dartmoor\n     A-stugged in the mire.\"\n\n\n     _Squab pie_, a pie in favour in Devon and Dorset:\n\n\n     \"Mutton, onions, apples and dough\n     Make a good pie as any I know.\"\n\n\n     _Ingredients._--3 lb. mutton or pork cutlets, 6 large apples\n     sliced, 2 large onions, \u00bc lb. salt fat bacon cut small, 2 oz.\n     castor sugar, \u00bd pint of mutton broth, pepper and salt to taste.\n     Place these in layers in a deep pie-dish, cover with rich paste and\n     bake for an hour and a half, or place the whole in a crock and stew\n     an hour and a half. Serve piping hot. I have seen clotted cream\n     served and eaten with this \"delicacy.\"\n\n     _Squab_, the youngest or weakest pig of the litter. The London\n     costermonger speaks of the youngest member of his family as the\n     \"squab.\"\n\n\n     _Withwind_, the wild convolvulus.\n\n     _Withy_, the willow-tree. They say in Wiltshire, in reference to\n     the very rapid growth of the willow, that \"a withy tree will buy a\n     horse before an oak will buy a bridle and saddle.\" The willow will\n     often grow twelve feet in a season.\n\n     _Wizzened_, shrivelled, withered: as \"a wizzened apple,\" \"a\n     wizzened-faced woman.\"\n\n     _Wosbird._ A term of reproach, the meaning of which appears to be\n     unknown to those who use it. It is evidently a corruption of\n     whore's-bird.","title":"Thomas Hardy's Dorset","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":51922}