I walk in the world's great highways,In the dusty glare and riot,But my heart is in the bywaysThat thread across the quiet;By the wild flowers in the coppice,There the track like a sleep goes past,And paven with peace and poppies,Comes down to the sea at last.E. G. Buckeridge.
I walk in the world's great highways,In the dusty glare and riot,But my heart is in the bywaysThat thread across the quiet;By the wild flowers in the coppice,There the track like a sleep goes past,And paven with peace and poppies,Comes down to the sea at last.E. G. Buckeridge.
I walk in the world's great highways,In the dusty glare and riot,But my heart is in the bywaysThat thread across the quiet;By the wild flowers in the coppice,There the track like a sleep goes past,And paven with peace and poppies,Comes down to the sea at last.E. G. Buckeridge.
I walk in the world's great highways,
In the dusty glare and riot,
But my heart is in the byways
That thread across the quiet;
By the wild flowers in the coppice,
There the track like a sleep goes past,
And paven with peace and poppies,
Comes down to the sea at last.
E. G. Buckeridge.
Modern Weymouth is made up of two distinct townships, Weymouth and Melcombe Regis, which were formerly separate boroughs, with their own parliamentary representatives. Of the two Weymouth is probably the older, but Melcombe can be traced well-nigh back to the Conquest; and now, although it is the name of Weymouth that has obtained the prominence, it is to Melcombe that it is commonly applied. Many visitors to Weymouth never really enter the real, ancient Weymouth, now chiefly concerned in the brewing of Dorset ale. The pier, town, railway station and residences are all in Melcombe Regis. The local conditions are something more than peculiar. The little River Wey has an estuary altogether out of proportionto its tiny stream, called the Blackwater. The true original Weymouth stands on the right bank of the estuary at its entrance into Weymouth Bay. Across the mouth of the estuary, leaving a narrow channel only open, stretches a narrow spit of land, on which stands Melcombe. The Blackwater has thus a lake-like character, and its continuation to the sea, the harbour, may be likened to a canal. The local annals of the kingdom can hardly furnish such another instance of jealous rivalry as the strife between the two boroughs. Barely a stone's-throw apart, they were the most quarrelsome of neighbours, and for centuries lived the most persistent "cat and dog" life. Whatever was advanced by one community was certain to be opposed by the other, and not even German and English hated each other with a more perfect hatred than did the burgesses of Weymouth and Melcombe Regis. As they would not live happy single, it was resolved to try what married life would do, and so in 1571 the two corporations were rolled into one, the only vestige of the old days retained being the power of electing four members to Parliament from the joint municipality—a right which was exercised until 1832. Not until the union was the old-fashioned ferry over the Wey supplemented by a bridge, the predecessor of that whichnow joins the two divisions of the dual town. The union proved to be a success, and in this way Weymouth saved both itself and its name from becoming merely a shadow and a memory.
It is to George III. that Weymouth must be eternally grateful, for just in the same way as George IV. turned Brighthelmstone into Brighton, it was George III. whomadeWeymouth. Of course there was a Weymouth long before his day, but whatever importance it once possessed had long disappeared when he took it up. For many years the King spent long summer holidays at Gloucester Lodge, a mansion facing the sea, and now the sedate Gloucester Hotel.
Considering its undoubted age, Weymouth is remarkably barren in traces of the past, and a few Elizabethan houses, for the most part modernised, well-nigh exhaust its antiquities.
Weymouth, which figures as "Budmouth" in Hardy's romances, is the subject of many references. Uncle Bengy, inThe Trumpet Major, found Budmouth a plaguy expensive place, for "If you only eat one egg, or even a poor windfall of an apple, you've got to pay; and a bunch of radishes is a halfpenny, and a quart o' cider tuppence three-farthings at lowest reckoning. Nothing without paying!"
When George III. and the sun of prosperityshone upon the tradesfolk of Weymouth the spirit of pecuniary gain soon became rampant. The inflated prices which so roused poor old Uncle Bengy even staggered Queen Charlotte, and "Peter Pindar" (Dr John Wolcot) criticised her household thriftiness in bringing stores and provisions from Windsor:
"Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar and mustard,Small beer and bacon, apple pie and custard;All, all from Windsor, greets his frugal Grace,For Weymouth is a d——d expensive place."
"Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar and mustard,Small beer and bacon, apple pie and custard;All, all from Windsor, greets his frugal Grace,For Weymouth is a d——d expensive place."
"Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar and mustard,Small beer and bacon, apple pie and custard;All, all from Windsor, greets his frugal Grace,For Weymouth is a d——d expensive place."
"Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar and mustard,
Small beer and bacon, apple pie and custard;
All, all from Windsor, greets his frugal Grace,
For Weymouth is a d——d expensive place."
Sandsfoot Castle, built by Henry VIII., on the southern shore of the spit of land called the Nothe, Weymouth Bay, is now a mere pile of corroded stone. It was built as a fort when England feared an invasion prompted by the Pope. The old pile plays a prominent part in Hardy'sThe Well-Beloved. The statue of King George, which is such an object of ridicule to the writers of guide-books, was the meeting-place of Fancy Day and Dick Dewy inUnder the Greenwood Tree.
The "Budmouth" localities mentioned inThe Trumpet Majorare: the Quay; Theatre Royal; Barracks; Gloucester Lodge; and the Old Rooms Inn in Love Row, once a highly fashionable resort which was used for dances and other entertainments by the ladies and gentlemen who formed the Court of George III. It was also the spotwhere the battle of Trafalgar was discussed inThe Dynasts. However, the old assembly rooms and the theatre have now vanished. Mention of Hardy's tremendous drama reminds me that it is rarely quoted in topographical works on Dorset, and yet it is full of the spirit and atmosphere of Wessex. Thus in a few words he tells us what "Boney" seemed like to the rustics of Dorset:
"Woman(in undertones). I can tell you a word or two on't. It is about His victuals. They say that He lives upon human flesh, and has rashers o' baby every morning for breakfast—for all the world like the Cernel Giant in old ancient times!
"Second Old Man.I only believe half. And I only own—such is my challengeful character—that perhaps He do eat pagan infants when He's in the desert. But not Christian ones at home. Oh no—'tis too much!
"Woman.Whether or no, I sometimes—God forgi'e me!—laugh wi' horror at the queerness o't, till I am that weak I can hardly go round house. He should have the washing of 'em a few times; I warrent 'a wouldn't want to eat babies any more!"
There are a hundred clean-cut, bright things inThe Dynasts, and some of the songs are so cunningly fashioned that we know the author must surely have overheard them so often thatthey have become part of his life. Does the reader remember this from the first volume?—
"In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land,And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand,And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands are,We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.(All)Had done,Had doneFor us at Trafalgar!"
"In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land,And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand,And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands are,We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.(All)Had done,Had doneFor us at Trafalgar!"
"In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land,And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand,And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands are,We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.(All)Had done,Had doneFor us at Trafalgar!"
"In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land,
And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand,
And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of thousands are,
We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgar.
(All)Had done,
Had done
For us at Trafalgar!"
Or the other ballad sung by a Peninsular sergeant—
"When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,Oh, the girls were fresh as peaches,With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown!And our hearts would ache with longingAs we passed from our sing-songing,With a smartClink! Clink!up the Esplanade and down."
"When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,Oh, the girls were fresh as peaches,With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown!And our hearts would ache with longingAs we passed from our sing-songing,With a smartClink! Clink!up the Esplanade and down."
"When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,Oh, the girls were fresh as peaches,With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown!And our hearts would ache with longingAs we passed from our sing-songing,With a smartClink! Clink!up the Esplanade and down."
"When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,
Oh, the girls were fresh as peaches,
With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown!
And our hearts would ache with longing
As we passed from our sing-songing,
With a smartClink! Clink!up the Esplanade and down."
The principal attraction of Weymouth is its magnificent bay, which has caused the town to be depicted on the railway posters as the "Naples of England"; but Mr Harper, in his charming book,The Hardy Country, cruelly remarks that no one has yet found Naples returning the compliment and calling itself the "Weymouth of Italy." But there is no need for Weymouth topowder and paint herself with fanciful attractions, for her old-world glamour is full of enchantment. The pure Georgian houses on the Esplanade, with their fine bow windows and red-tiled roofs, are very warm and homely, and remind one of the glories of the coaching days. They are guiltless of taste or elaboration, it is true, but they have an honest savour about them which is redolent of William Cobbett, pig-skin saddles, real ale and baked apples. And those are some of the realest things in the world. There is a distinct "atmosphere" about the shops near the harbour too. They shrink back from the footpath in a most timid way, and each year they seem to settle down an inch or so below the street-level, with the result that they are often entered by awkward steps.
Near the Church of St Mary is the Market, which on Fridays and Tuesdays presents a scene of colour and activity. In the Guildhall are several interesting relics, the old stocks and whipping-posts, a chest captured from the Spanish Armada and a chair from the old house of the Dominican friars which was long ago demolished.
Preston, three miles north-east of Weymouth, is a prettily situated village on the main road to Wareham, with interesting old thatched cottages and a fifteenth-century church containing anancient font, a Norman door, holy-water stoups and squint. At the foot of the hill a little one-arched bridge over the stream was once regarded as Roman masonry, but the experts now think it is Early Norman work. Adjoining Preston is the still prettier village of Sutton Poyntz, hemmed in by the Downs, on the side of which, in a conspicuous position, is the famous figure, cut in the turf, of King George III. on horseback. He looks very impressive, with his cocked hat and marshal's baton. Sutton Poyntz is the principal locale of Hardy's story ofThe Trumpet Major. The tale is of a sweet girl, Anne Garland, and two brothers Loveday, who loved her; the "gally-bagger" sailor, Robert, who won her, and John, the easy-going, gentle soldier, who lost her.The Trumpet Majoris a mellow, loamy novel, and the essence of a century of sunshine has found its way into the pages. Even the pensiveness of the story—the sadness of love unsatisfied—is mellow. The village to-day, with its tree-shaded stream, crooked old barns and stone cottages, recalls the spirit of the novel with Overcombe Mill as a central theme. How vividly the pilgrim can recall the Mill, with its pleasant rooms, old-world garden, and the stream where the cavalry soldiers came down to water their horses! It was a dearly loved corner of England for John Loveday, andif to keep those meadows safe and fair a life was required, he was perfectly willing to pay the price—nay, more, he was proud and glad to do so. In the end John was killed in one of the battles of the Peninsular War, and his spirit is echoed by a soldier poet who went to his death in 1914:
"Mayhap I shall not walk againDown Dorset way, down Devon way.Nor pick a posy in a laneDown Somerset and Sussex way.But though my bones, unshriven, rotIn some far-distant alien spot,What soul I have shall rest from careTo know that meadows still are fairDown Dorset way, down Devon way."
"Mayhap I shall not walk againDown Dorset way, down Devon way.Nor pick a posy in a laneDown Somerset and Sussex way.But though my bones, unshriven, rotIn some far-distant alien spot,What soul I have shall rest from careTo know that meadows still are fairDown Dorset way, down Devon way."
"Mayhap I shall not walk againDown Dorset way, down Devon way.Nor pick a posy in a laneDown Somerset and Sussex way.
"Mayhap I shall not walk again
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
Nor pick a posy in a lane
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
But though my bones, unshriven, rotIn some far-distant alien spot,What soul I have shall rest from careTo know that meadows still are fairDown Dorset way, down Devon way."
But though my bones, unshriven, rot
In some far-distant alien spot,
What soul I have shall rest from care
To know that meadows still are fair
Down Dorset way, down Devon way."
The mill is not the one sketched in the tale, but it still grinds corn, and one can still see "the smooth mill-pond, over-full, and intruding into the hedge and into the road." The real mill is actually at Upwey.
Bincombe, two miles north-east of Upwey, is one of the "outstep placen," where the remnants of dialect spoken in the days of Wessex kings is not quite dead, and as we go in and out among the old cottages we come upon many a word which has now been classed by annotators as "obsolete." "I'd as lief be wooed of a snail," says Rosalind inAs You Like Itof the tardy Orlando, and "I'd as lief" or "I'd liefer" is stillheard here in Bincombe. There is a large survival of pure Saxon in the Wessex speech, and Thomas Hardy has made a brave attempt to preserve the old local words in his novels. He has always deplored the fact that schools were driving out the racy Saxon words of the West Country, and once remarked to a friend:
"I have no sympathy with the criticism which would treat English as a dead language—a thing crystallised at an arbitrarily selected stage of its existence, and bidden to forget that it has a past and deny that it has a future. Purism, whether in grammar or vocabulary, almost always means ignorance. Language was made before grammar, not grammar before language. And as for the people who make it their business to insist on the utmost possible impoverishment of our English vocabulary, they seem to me to ignore the lessons of history, science, and common sense.
"It has often seemed to me a pity, from many points of view—and from the point of view of language among the rest—that Winchester did not remain, as it once was, the royal, political, and social capital of England, leaving London to be the commercial capital. The relation between them might have been something like that between Paris and Marseilles or Havre; and perhaps, in that case, neither of them would havebeen so monstrously overgrown as London is to-day. We should then have had a metropolis free from the fogs of the Thames Valley; situated, not on clammy clay, but on chalk hills, the best soil in the world for habitation; and we might have preserved in our literary language a larger proportion of the racy Saxon of the West Country. Don't you think there is something in this?"
Returning from Bincombe and passing through Sutton to Preston we come in a mile to Osmington. A short distance beyond the village a narrow road leads off seawards to Osmington Mills. Crossing the hills, this narrower road descends to the coast and the Picnic Inn—a small hostelry noted for "lobster lunches" and "prawn teas." If we strike inland from Osmington we come to Poxwell, the old manor-house of the Hennings, a curiously walled-in building with a very interesting gate-house. This is the Oxwell Manor ofThe Trumpet Majorand the house of Benjamin Derriman—"a wizened old gentleman, in a coat the colour of his farmyard, breeches of the same hue, unbuttoned at the knees, revealing a bit of leg above his stocking and a dazzlingly white shirt-frill to compensate for this untidiness below. The edge of his skull round his eye-sockets was visible through the skin, and he walked with great apparent difficulty."
Pressing onward from this village, we arrive, after a two-mile walk, at "Warm'ell Cross," three miles south-west of Moreton station. The left road leads to Dorchester, the right one to Wareham, and the centre one across the immemorially ancient and changeless "Egdon Heath." Here we turn to the right and Owermoigne, the "Nether Mynton" in which the events ofThe Distracted Preachertake place. Here indeed is a nook which seems to be a survival from another century; a patch of England of a hundred years ago set down in the England of to-day. The church where Lizzie Newberry and her smugglers stored "the stuff" is hidden from those who pass on the highroad and is reached by a little rutty, crooked lane. The body of the church has been rebuilt, but the tower where the smugglers looked down upon the coastguard officers searching for their casks of brandy remains the same.
The highway leads for two miles along the verge of Egdon Heath, and then we come to a right-hand turning taking us past Winfrith Newburgh and over the crest of the chalk downs steeply down to West Lulworth.
Lulworth Cove is justly considered one of the most delightful and picturesque retreats on the coast. It is a circular little basin enclosed bytowering cliffs of chalk and sand and entered by a narrow opening between two bluffs of Portland stone. It exhibits a section of all the beds between the chalk and oolite, and owes its peculiar form to the unequal resistance of these strata to the action of the sea. The perpetually moving water, having once pierced the cliff of stone, soon worked its way deeply into the softer sand and chalk.
Lulworth is the "Lullstead Cove" of the Hardy novels. Here Sergeant Troy was supposed to have been drowned; it is one of the landing-places chosen by the Distracted Preacher's parishioners during their smuggling exploits, and inDesperate Remediesit is the first meeting-place of Cynthera Graye and Edward Springrove.
The cove is most conveniently reached from Swanage by steamer. By rail the journey is made to Wool and thence by bus for five miles southward. By road the short way is by Church Knowle, Steeple, Tyneham and East Lulworth—but the hills are rather teasing; however, the views are wonderful. It is nine miles if one takes the Wareham road from Corfe as far as Stoborough, there turning to the left for East Holme, West Holme and East Lulworth.
The entrance to the cove from the Channel is a narrow opening in the cliff, which here risesstraight from the sea. Mounted on a summit on the eastern side of the breach is a coastguard's look-out, while in a hollow on the other side are the remains of Little Bindon Abbey. The cove is an almost perfect circle, and in summer the tide, as it flows in, fills the white cove with a shimmering sheet of light blue water. Each wave breaks the surface into a huge circle, and the effect from the heights is a succession of wonderful sparkling rings vanishing into the yellow sands. To the east rise the ridges of Bindon Hill and the grey heights of Portland stone that terminate seaward in theMupe Rocks, then the towering mass ofRing's Hill, crowned by the large oblong entrenchment known as Flower's Barrow, which has probably been both a British and a Roman camp.
In the summer steamers call daily at the cove. The landing is effected by means of boats or long gangways. After having climbed the hill roads into Lulworth, the pilgrim will not, I am certain, look with any delight upon a return to them, and will welcome an alternative trip to Swanage, Weymouth or Bournemouth by an excursion steamer.
CORFE CASTLE From a photograph taken in 1865
Portisham, under the bold, furzy hills that rise to the commanding height of Blackdown, appears inThe Trumpet Majoras the village to whichBob Loveday (who was spasmodically in love with Anne Garland) comes to attach himself to Admiral Hardy for service in the Royal Navy. Notwithstanding the fact that Robert Loveday is merely an imaginary character, the admiral was a renowned hero in real life, and no less a personage than Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy. He lived here, in a picturesque old house just outside the village, and the chimney-like tower on Black Down was erected to his memory. In a garden on the opposite side of the road to Hardy's house is a sundial, inscribed:
JOSEPH HARDY, ESQ.
KINGSTON RUSSELL, LAT. 50° 45'
1769
FUGIO FUGE
Admiral Hardy was born at Kingston Russell, and his old home at Portisham is still in the possession of a descendant on the female side.
From Portisham a walk of four miles leads to Abbotsbury, situated at the verge of the Vale of Wadden and the Chesil Beach. The railway station is about ten minutes' walk from the ancient village, which consists of a few houses picturesquely dotted around the church and scattered ruins of the Abbey of St Peter. The abbey was originally founded in King Knut'sreign by Arius, the "house-carl," or steward, to the king, about 1044, in the reign of Edward the Confessor. The building at the south-east corner of the church is part of the old abbey. It is now used as a carpenter's shop, but an old stoup can be seen in the corner. At the farther end of this building is a cell in which the last abbot is said to have been starved to death.
A gate-house porch and a buttressed granary of fourteenth-century architecture, still used as a barn, and a pond, with a tree-covered island, the ancient fish-pond of the monks, are all that remain to remind us of the historic past of this spot.
The wide expanse of Poole Harbour is a well-known haunt of sportsmen, for in the winter it is the home of innumerable wild-fowl, and for those who are fond of yachting and pottering about with boats it is large enough to test their skill and patience in controlling a craft in the wind and wave. Here we get a double tide, the second rising rather higher than the first, and when the tide is in the view is not unlike a Dutch landscape. But the ebb lays bare acres of mud-banks, which mar the prospect. However, the marine emanations from the mud-banks are said to be very salubrious. This harbour is the only haven between Southampton and Weymouth for yachting men.
Inland from Poole the country is pleasantly varied by hills and heaths, through which, on the west side of the harbour, the verge of Bournemouth is reached, and an hour's walk will take the pilgrim over the Hampshire boundary.
Poole Quay, where we smell the smell of tar, piled-up teak and reeking pine, is an interestingplace for lovers of the picturesque. Here we find an old postern gate of Richard III.'s day, and the Town Cellar or Wool House. The last recalls the days when Poole was part of the manor of Canford. The lords of Canford sometimes received toll in kind, and the goods handed over were stored in this "Town Cellar." It is particularly interesting for the way its walls are formed, of flint and large, squared pieces of stone.
The smuggling for which Poole was long notorious is handed down to posterity by the following doggerel:—
"If Poole was a fish-pool, and the men of Poole fish,There'd be a pool for the devil, and fish for his dish."
"If Poole was a fish-pool, and the men of Poole fish,There'd be a pool for the devil, and fish for his dish."
"If Poole was a fish-pool, and the men of Poole fish,There'd be a pool for the devil, and fish for his dish."
"If Poole was a fish-pool, and the men of Poole fish,
There'd be a pool for the devil, and fish for his dish."
One of the most daring and successful of English buccaneers wasHarry Pageof Poole, or, as he was more commonly called,Arripay. His enterprises were principally directed against the coasts of France and Spain, where he committed such havoc that a formidable expedition was fitted out in those countries to destroy him. It sailed along our southern shores, destroying as opportunity offered, until it reached Poole. Here it landed, and a battle ensued, in which the inhabitants were driven from the town and the brother of Arripay killed.
The island ofBrownseaorBranksea(it has a score of other variations) is the most prominent feature in Poole Harbour. It is ovoid in shape, about one and a half miles long by one mile broad, and lies just within the narrow harbour entrance, the main channel sweeping round its eastern side. This made the island of considerable importance in the defence of the port, and led to the erection ofBrownsea Castletowards the end of the reign of Henry VIII. Prior to this Brownsea had been part of the possessions of the Abbey of Cerne. The castle was almost wholly destroyed by fire in 1896, and in the following year rebuilt.
From Poole the pilgrim can cross by the toll-bridge to Hamworth and visit Lytchett Minster, which is two miles north-west of the lonely railway junction. Part of the action ofThe Hand of Ethelbertatakes place in this neighbourhood. The sign of one of the village inns, "St Peter's Finger," is one of the most interesting features of Lytchett Minster. The sign shows St Peter holding up a hand with two extended fingers, and is a curious instance of the way in which old terms and traditions are exposed to corruption. Sir B. Windle explains the matter tersely and clearly: "August the 1st, Lammas Day, known in the calendar of the Catholic Church as St Peter ad Vincula, was one of the days on which prædialservice had to be done for the lord of certain manors, as a condition of tenure by the occupants. Such lands were called St Peter-ad-Vincula lands, a term which easily got corrupted into St Peter's finger."
A brief description of Poole—under the Wessex name of "Havenpool"—is given in Hardy's "To please his Wife," one of the short stories ofLife's Little Ironies. It is the story of Captain Shadrack Jolliff, who gave up the sea and settled down in his native town as a grocer, marrying Joanna Phippard. They had two sons, but the captain did not make much progress in business and his wife persuaded him to go to sea again, as they were in need of money. He bought a small vessel and went into the Newfoundland trade, returning home with his makings, which were deemed insufficient by his wife. Accordingly he resolved to make another voyage, and take his sons with him so that his profits might be more considerable. From this voyage they never returned, and Joanna was left penniless. She spent the rest of her life expecting the return of her husband and sons.
It is evident that Hardy chose the name of Jolliff from his counterpart in real life, an honest, deep-hearted son of Poole, Peter Jolliff by name, master of theSea Adventurer. OffSwanage, in 1694, with only the aid of a small boy, he captured a French privateer and made its crew prisoners of war. He secured royal recognition for this bold act and received a gold chain and medal from the hands of the King.
To the pilgrim who seeks things of antique beauty and interest on foot, with staff and wallet, in the old way, I cannot recommend a more enjoyable route than along the coast from Poole to Lyme, which may be covered in a week. But to do the thing comfortably ten days would be more advisable. Here is the itinerary if a week is taken. First day, borders of Poole Harbour by Studland to Swanage; second day, Swanage to West Lulworth; the third, Lulworth by Osmington to Weymouth; the fourth, Weymouth and Portland; the fifth, Weymouth by Abbotsbury to Bridport; and the sixth, Bridport to Lyme. Should the walker allow himself a few extra days he might give an extra day to Purbeck, to visit Corfe Castle, pay a visit to Dorchester, and to give himself two days between Weymouth and Bridport, halting midway at Abbotsbury.
Swanage is a well-known seaside resort, rapidly growing in favour. It nestles in the farther corner of a lovely little bay, and though in the rapid extension of rows of newly arisen houses, consequent upon the development of its fame as a watering-place, much of its old-time, half-sleepy, half-commercial aspect has passed away, Kingsley's still remains the best description of this spot—"well worth seeing, and when once seen not easily to be forgotten. A little semicircular bay, its northern horn formed by high cliffs of white chalk (Ballard Head), ending in white, isolated stacks and peaks (The Pinnacles,Old Harry and his Wife, etc.), round whose feet the blue sea ripples for ever. In the centre of the bay the softer Wealden beds have been worn away, forming an amphitheatre of low sand and clay cliffs. The southern horn (Peveril Point) is formed by the dark limestone beds of the Purbeck marble. A quaint, old-world village slopes down to the water over green downs, quarried, like some giganticrabbit-burrow, with the stone workings of seven hundred years. Land-locked from every breeze, huge elms flourish on the dry sea beach, and the gayest and tenderest garden flowers bask under the hot stone walls."
Tilly Whim is one of the attractions here. A short walk by Peveril Point, Durlston Bay and Durlston Head leads to Tilly Whim, which is on the eastern side of oddly namedAnvil Cove, and is the first of a series of cliff quarries opened in the Portland-Purbeck beds along the coast. The cliff has been tunnelled into a series of gigantic chambers, supported by huge pillars of the living rock and opening on a platform in the face of the precipice, beneath which the waters roar and rage almost unceasingly. The boldness of the headland, the sombre greys of the rocks, the rude, massive columns which support the roof of the huge cavity, the restless sea—all are elements that heighten the scenic effect of a spot almost unique of its kind. Tilly Whim has been compared to a "huge rock temple"—like those of India.
Thomas Hardy has left us another interesting description of the Swanage of bygone days: "Knollsea was a seaside village, lying snugly within two headlands, as between a finger and thumb. Everybody in the parish who was not aboatman was a quarrier, unless he were the gentleman who owned half the property and had been a quarryman, or the other gentleman who owned the other half and had been to sea."
At the time this was written the steamers were moored to a "row of rotten piles," but these have long passed away and their place has been taken by a substantial pier. But, let there be what changes there may, there will always be quarries in the town; it is one of those primeval vocations which remain unchanged and unchangeable in the midst of our changing civilisation. The quarry folk were an exceptionally reserved and isolated people, and the way their occupation has worked in the creation of a peculiar race is, while not at all surprising, yet very remarkable. The quarries have afforded a singular and most interesting instance of the survival, in full working order, of a mediæval trades guild of a somewhat primitive type, and even in these days no stranger is permitted to share in their rights and privileges.
THE FAMOUS TILLYWHIM CAVES The mine-like entrance, from a photograph taken in 1860
The right to become a quarryman is inherited from one family to another, and the admission into the guild is an important ceremony: "The quarries and merchants have from time immemorial formed a sort of guild or company, whose rules are still enforced, affecting not only the prices of work, but determining the wholesocial position and character of the people. The Society calls itself 'The Company of the Marblers and Stone-Cutters of the Isle of Purbeck,' and its meetings are held annually on Shrove Tuesday in the Townhall of Corfe Castle. Here they choose wardens and stewards, settle bye-laws and other business, and determine any difference between members in relation to the trade, or punish any infractions of their regulations. At these meetings the apprentices, who can only be sons of quarrymen, are, when they have attained the age of twenty-one, made free members of this community, on presenting themselves in 'court' with a fee of six shillings and eightpence, a penny loaf in one hand and a pot of beer in the other. Another portion of the business consists in a visit to the old wharf at Owre, and there renewing their ancient custom of presenting a pound of pepper to the landlord of the little inn there, receiving a cake from him, and having a game of foot-ball, which, in connection with this commemoration of the ancient acknowledgment for rent or use of wharfage, is called the 'Pepper Ball.' Seven years after taking up their freedom freemen may take apprentices. The widow of a freeman may take up her freedom on payment of one shilling, and then employ apprentices and carry on business. At the annual meeting thesons of freemen are registered, and are not allowed to work at any department of the business unless duly registered."
The great majority of the old quarry-owners were members of a dozen families only, there being just a score of Bowers; Collinses, Harrises, Haysomes, Normans, Phippards and Tomeses averaging half-a-dozen each; with Coopers, Corbens, Landers, Stricklands and Bonfields not far behind.
New-comers were much disliked by the quarrymen, and the custom of "marrying the land" was observed in former days and, for aught I know, may be observed now. However, we do know that "foreigners" were not allowed to hold land in the Isle of Portland a hundred years ago, and the inhabitants, who claimed to be true descendants of the Phœnicians who traded with Cornwall and Devonshire for tin, kept themselves a distinct people. In "marrying the land" the contracting parties met at church, and joining hands the one who handed over the property simply said: "I, Uncle Tom" (the surname was never used by the quarry folk), "give to thee, Cousin Antony, such-and-such land." The clergyman then placed his hands over the others, and the contract was concluded.
As I have said, the old-world village of Swanage has altered much, and has become a town, andsince the opening of the branch railway from Wareham in the latter end of the eighties of the nineteenth century the ancient customs and characters of those unhurried, simpler, happier days have been swept away. The calming quietude of the quaint old stone houses is now disturbed by ugly, modern erections of red brick. But the quaint cottages, solid in great stone slabs and stone tiles, still breathe the true artlessness of the quarry folk. They are an instance of provident care and sound workmanship defying the neglect of a hundred successive tenants. The High Street of Old Swanage, which rises uphill from the Ship Hotel towards the church, traversing the centre of the town from east to west, seems saturated with human influence and has a flavour all its own. Half-way up the street on the right is the Town Hall, with an ornate façade which once formed part of the Mercers' Hall in London, designed by Sir Christopher Wren. A few yards down the side-turning by the hall can be seen, on the left, an even greater curiosity, the Old Lock-Up, of stone, "erected," as an inscription records, "for the prevention of wickedness and vice by friends of religion and good order,A.D.1803."
On the left is Purbeck House, a low, private residence, built by a "local Mæcenas," the late Mr Burt, the contractor, in 1876. The fish vane,of burnished copper, formerly adorned Billingsgate Market, and the wall fronting the street is faced with granite chips from the Albert Memorial, Hyde Park.
When we reach the highest point of the main street the hill pitches down to the right, and we look upon a prospect of the town with a character of its own, not unworthy of observation, in which the sturdy, square-towered church is a striking feature. To the left is a mill-pond, which begins to wear the airs of history and reflects in the unruffled lustre of its waters the inverted images of some very quaint houses built of grey stone and almost entirely overspread with fungi and moss. The lower walls of stone are black and polished with the leaning of innumerable shoulders, and the steps of the external stone stairways are worn into gullies by the tread of generations. The extraordinary "yards" and byways are also worthy of attention. A few downward steps will bring the pilgrim to St Mary's Church, which was rebuilt in 1859. The parish registers date back to 1567, and the tower is thought to be Saxon. At this church Ethelberta Petherwin, inThe Hand of Ethelberta, is secretly married to Lord Mountclere, and her father and brother arrive too late to interfere with the ceremony.
A walk along the Herston Road brings us to Newton Manor, one of the old Dorset manor-houses. The only relics of the ancient building are an Elizabethan stone fireplace in the kitchen and the barn of the old homestead, with an open timber roof, which has been converted into a dining-hall. In the latter is a fine carved stone chimneypiece brought from a Florentine palace.
A favourite excursion from Swanage is a trip to Studland. Any native will direct the pilgrim to the footpath way to the "Rest and be Thankful" seat at the top of Ballard Down, where one can take a well-beaten track to the entrance of the village. At the remains of an old cross bear to the right and follow a picturesque "water lane" to the shore. Studland is one of the most charming villages in England, and the church is one of the most notable in Dorset. It is an admirable example of intact Norman work, and its chief details are perfect—including a quaint corbel table in the nave, font, and moulded arches with carved capitals.
The celebrated Agglestone is about a mile away on Studland Common. It is a huge fragment of the iron-cemented sandstone of the locality, raised on a mound above the heath. It has been regarded as a Druidical memorial, but though that idea may now be considered exploded,associations still attach to it, since we are told "the name Agglestone (Saxon,halig-stan=holy stone) certainly seems to show that it was erected for some superstitious purpose." The country people call it theDevil's Nightcap, and there is a tradition that his Satanic Majesty threw it from the Isle of Wight, with an intent to demolish Corfe Castle, but that it dropped short here! How it comes to be poised here has puzzled the archæologist, but it has been explained as being simply a block that has been insulated by process of nature, the result of its protecting from the rigours of wind and rain the little eminence which it caps.
Corfe is six miles by road from Swanage by way of Langton Matravers, a village of sombre stone houses, which is occupied by workers in the neighbouring stone quarries. The place-name "Matravers" is identified with the family of Maltravers, one of whom was the unworthy instrument employed by Mortimer and Queen Isabella in the murder of Edward II. This member of the family having turned out to be such a particularly "bad Travers," his descendants sought to hide their evil reputation by dropping the "l" out of their name.
CORFE CASTLE From a photograph taken in 1860
The "Old Malt House," which is now a school, is a fine specimen of the old-time stone building,and one can still trace bricked-in windows, where the sacks were hoisted in to the malt floors. Passing Gallow's Gore Cottages we come to Kingston, which is two miles from Corfe Castle, and is pleasantly situated on an eminence which commands a good view of the surrounding country. Encombe, the seat of the Eldons, is about two miles to the south-west and is the Enckworth Court (Lychworth Court in early editions) ofThe Hand of Ethelberta. The house lies deep down in the beautiful valley of Encombe, which opens out to the sea, with fine views in almost every direction. This valley is known as the Golden Bowl, by reason of the fertility of the soil. A short distance from Kingston may be seen the remains of the old manor-house of Scowles.
* * * * * *
On the morrow, when I stepped out under the famous porch chamber of the Greyhound Hotel, Corfe wore her bright morning smile. The air was soft, warm and redolent with the scent of good blue wood smoke. Corfe is one of the pleasantest villages in Dorset and has a wonderfully soothing effect upon the visitor. I should recommend this old-world retreat for those who are weary of the traffic and frenzy of the city market-place. The prevailing colour of the old houses makes the place ever cool-looking and lends the villagean air of extreme restfulness. From the humblest cottage to the Town House opposite the village cross the buildings are of weather-beaten stone, and are a delicate symphony in the colour grey, the proportions also being exactly satisfying to the eye. Stone slabs of immense size form the roofs themselves. Look at the roof of the Greyhound Inn! When these roof stones were put down the builder did not put them there for his own day, selfishly, but for posterity. This, as Hilaire Belloc would say, is a benediction of a roof, a roof that physically shelters and spiritually sustains, a roof majestic, a roof eternal. A walk through the town will reveal Tudor windows, quaint doorways and several eighteenth-century porches, of which that at the Greyhound is the best example. The market-place, with the Bankes Arms Hotel at one end, the Greyhound backing on to the castle and the castle and hills peering over the roof tops of the town, gives one a mingled pleasure of reminiscence and discovery. Standing back a little from the Swanage road is the small Elizabethan manor-house of Dackhams or Dacombs, now called Morton House, and one of the best manor-houses in the country. The ground plan forms the letter E, and it has a perfect little paved courtyard full of flowers.
Corfe Church was rebuilt in 1860, but it preserves some historic continuity in its tower, which dates from the end of the fourteenth century. The churchwardens' chest in the porch was made in the year 1672, and Hy Paulett, who made it, was paid the magnificent sum of eight shillings. And did Hy Paulett go often to the Greyhound and allay his thirst in the making of it? A man would require good ale to make such a "brave good" chest as this. And can they make such chests in these days? Lord knows!... Anyhow, there is something in such a piece of work which appeals to me—something which seems to satisfy the memories in my blood. The clock dates from 1539. Curfew is tolled in Corfe daily, from October to March, at 6A.M.and 8P.M.Hutchins, writing at the end of the eighteenth century, tells us that the people of Corfe were of an indolent disposition, and goes on to say that "the appearance of misery in the town is only too striking." Perhaps they "mumped" around and watched Hy Paulett work laboriously on the church chest and became downcast when he only received eight shillings for it. However, the morality of Corfe should have been high, for the churchwardens appear to have been very exacting in the matter of Sabbath observance. In the quaint old church records, which date from 1563,are many interesting references to the offenders in this respect:
"1629. We do Present William Smith for suffering two small Boys to have drink upon the Sabbath day during Divine service.Item.We do Present John Rawles for being drunk on the Sabbath day during the time of Divine service.Item.We Present the Miller of West Mill for grinding on the Sabbath day.Item.We do Present John Pushman Anthony Vye and James Turner for playing in the Churchyard upon the Sabbath day.1630. We do Present William Rawles for sending his man to drive upon the Sabbath day.Item.We do Present James Turner and George Gover for being drinky on the Sabbath day during the time of Divine service."
"1629. We do Present William Smith for suffering two small Boys to have drink upon the Sabbath day during Divine service.
Item.We do Present John Rawles for being drunk on the Sabbath day during the time of Divine service.
Item.We Present the Miller of West Mill for grinding on the Sabbath day.
Item.We do Present John Pushman Anthony Vye and James Turner for playing in the Churchyard upon the Sabbath day.
1630. We do Present William Rawles for sending his man to drive upon the Sabbath day.
Item.We do Present James Turner and George Gover for being drinky on the Sabbath day during the time of Divine service."
The reader will note that the churchwardens at Corfe were blessed with a very keen sense of moral acumen and split hairs over the degrees of inebriation. They found it intolerable to write a man down as intoxicated who had "half-a-pint otherwhile," so they merely entered him in their records as "drinky"; while, on the other hand, the man who was vulgarly concerned in liquor was described as a plain "drunk."
According to an old rhyme the man who killed a fox was a great benefactor and was considered as rendering a service a hundred and sixty times more important than the man who killed a rook.
"A half-penny for a rook,A penny for a jay;A noble for a fox,And twelve pence for a grey."
"A half-penny for a rook,A penny for a jay;A noble for a fox,And twelve pence for a grey."
"A half-penny for a rook,A penny for a jay;A noble for a fox,And twelve pence for a grey."
"A half-penny for a rook,
A penny for a jay;
A noble for a fox,
And twelve pence for a grey."
But a noble has not always been the reward of the wily rustic who could entrap Reynard, and the churchwardens of Corfe were certainly a little niggardly in their disbursements: