Part 2

The Celts were not slain or driven out of their land, but lived on together with the Romans, gradually advancing in civilisation under Roman influence. They had already adopted the Christian religion: they belonged to the old British Church, which lived on in the south-west of England even through that period when the Teutonic invaders—Jutes, Angles, Saxons—devastated the south-east, east, north, and central parts of the island, and utterly drove westward before them the Celtic Christians into Wales and the south-west of Scotland. Dorset remained for some time untouched, for though the Romans had cleared some of the forests before them, and had cut roads through others, establishing at intervals along them military stations, and strengthening and occupying many of the Celtic camps, yet the vast forest—“Selwood,” as the English called it—defended Dorset from any attack of the West Saxons, who had settled further to the east. Once, and once only, if we venture, with Professor Freeman, to identify Badbury Rings, near Wimborne, on the Roman Road, with the Mons Badonicus of Gildas, the Saxons, under Cerdic, in 516, invaded the land of the Durotriges, coming along the Roman Road which leads from Salisbury to Dorchester, through the gap in the forest at Woodyates, but found that mighty triple ramparted stronghold held by Celtic Arthur and his knights, round whom so much that is legendary has gathered, but who probably were not altogether mythical. In the fight that followed, the Christian Celt was victorious, and the Saxon invader was driven in flight back to his own territory beyond Selwood. Some place Mons Badonicus in the very north of England, or even in Scotland, and say that the battle was fought between the Northumbrians and the North Welsh: if this view is correct, we may say that no serious attack was made on the Celts of Dorset from the east. According to Mr. Wildman’s theory, as stated in his _Life of St. Ealdhelm_—which theory has a great air of probability about it—the Wessex folk, under Cenwealh, son of Cynegils, the first Christian King of the West Saxons, won two victories: one at Bradford-on-Avon in 652, and one at the “Hills” in 658. Thus North Dorset was overcome, and gradually the West Saxons passed on westward through Somerset, until in 682 Centwine, according to the English Chronicle, drove the Welsh into the sea. William of Malmesbury calls them “Norht Walæs,” or North Welsh, but this is absurd: Mr. Wildman thinks “Norht” may be a mistake for “Dorn,” or “Thorn,” and that the Celts of Dorset are meant, and that the sea mentioned is the English Channel. From this time the fate of the Durotriges was sealed: their land became part of the great West Saxon kingdom. Well indeed was it for them that they had remained independent until after the time when their conquerors had ceased to worship Woden and Thunder and had given in their allegiance to the White Christ; for had these men still been worshippers of the old fierce gods, the Celts would have fared much worse. Now, instead of being exterminated, they were allowed to dwell among the West Saxon settlers, in an inferior position, but yet protected by the West Saxon laws, as we see from those of Ine who reigned over the West Saxons from 688 to 728. The Wessex settlers in Dorset were called by themselves “Dornsæte,” or “Dorsæte,” whence comes the name of Dorset. It will be seen then, that Dorset is what Professor Freeman calls a “ga”—the land in which a certain tribe settled—and differs entirely from those divisions made after the Mercian land had been won back from the Danes, when shires were formed by shearing up the newly recovered land, not into its former divisions which the Danish conquest had obliterated, but into convenient portions, each called after the name of the chief town within its borders, such as Oxfordshire from Oxford, Leicestershire from Leicester. The Danes did for a time get possession of the larger part of Wessex, but it was only for a time: the boundaries of Dorset were not wiped out, and there was no need to make any fresh division. So when we use the name Dorset for the county we use the very name that it was known by in the seventh century. It is also interesting to observe that Dorset has been Christian from the days of the conversion of the Roman Empire, that no altars smoked on Dorset soil to Woden, no temples were built in honour of Thunder, no prayers were offered to Freya; but it is also worth notice that the Celtic Christian Church was not ready to amalgamate with the Wessex Church, which had derived its Christianity from Papal Rome. However, the Church of the Conquerors prevailed, and Dorset became not only part of the West Saxon kingdom, but also of the West Saxon diocese, under the supervision of a bishop, who at first had his bishop-stool at Dorchester, not the Dorset town, but one of the same name on the Thames, not far from Abingdon. In 705, when Ine was King, it received a bishop of its own in the person of St. Ealdhelm, Abbot of Malmesbury, who on his appointment placed his bishop-stool at Sherborne: he did not live to hold this office long, for he died in 709. But a line of twenty-five bishops ruled at Sherborne, the last of whom—Herman, a Fleming brought over by Eadward the Confessor—transferred his see in 1075 to Old Sarum, as it is now called; whereupon the church of Sherborne lost its cathedral rank.

The southern part of Dorset, especially in the neighbourhood of Poole Harbour, suffered much during the time that the Danes were harrying the coast of England. There were fights at sea in Swanage Bay, there were fights on land round the walls of Wareham, there were burnings of religious houses at Wimborne and Wareham. Then followed the victories of Ælfred, and for a time Dorset had rest. But after Eadward was murdered at “Corfes-geat” by his stepmother Ælfthryth’s order, and the weak King Æthelred was crowned, the Danes gave trouble again. The King first bribed them to land alone; and afterwards, when, trusting to a treaty he had made with them, many Danes had settled peacefully in the country, he gave orders for a general massacre—men, women and children—on St. Brice’s Day (November 13th), 1002. Among those who perished was a sister of Swegen, the Danish King, Christian though she was. This treacherous and cruel deed brought the old Dane across the seas in hot haste to take terrible vengeance on the perpetrator of the dastardly outrage. All southern England, including Dorset, was soon ablaze with burning towns. The walls of Dorchester were demolished, the Abbey of Cerne was pillaged and destroyed, Wareham was reduced to ashes. Swegen became King, but reigned only a short time, and his greater son, Cnut, succeeded him. When he had been recognised as King by the English, and had got rid of all probable rivals, he governed well and justly, and the land had rest. Dorset had peace until Harold had fallen on the hill of Battle, and the south-eastern and southern parts of England had acknowledged William as King. The men of the west still remained independent, Exeter being the chief city to assert its independence. In 1088 William resolved to set about to subdue these western rebels, as he called them. He demanded that they should accept him as King, take oaths of allegiance to him, and receive him within their walls. To this the men of Exeter made answer that they would pay tribute to him as overlord of England as they had paid to the previous King, but that they would not take oaths of allegiance, nor would they allow him to enter the city. William’s answer was an immediate march westward. Professor Freeman says that there is no record of the details of his march; but naturally it would lie through Dorset, the towns of which were in sympathy with Exeter. Knowing what harsh and cruel things William could do when it suited his purpose, we cannot for a moment doubt that he fearfully harried all the Dorset towns on the line of his march, seeking by severity to them to overawe the city of Exeter.

In the wars between Stephen and Maud, Dorset was often the battle-ground of the rival claimants for the throne. Wareham, unfortunate then, as usual, was taken and re-taken more than once, first by one party, then by the other; but lack of space prevents the telling of this piece of local history.

King John evidently had a liking for Dorset. He often visited it, having houses of his own at Bere Regis, Canford, Corfe, Cranborne, Gillingham, and Dorchester. In the sixteenth year of his reign he put strong garrisons into Corfe Castle and Wareham as a defence against his discontented barons.

In the wars between his son, Henry III., and the Barons there was fighting again in Dorset, especially at Corfe. Dorset, among other sea-side counties, supplied ships and sailors to Edward III. and Henry V. for their expeditions against France.

The Wars of the Roses seem hardly to have touched the county; but one incident must be mentioned: On April 14th, 1471, Margaret, wife of Henry VI., landed at Weymouth with her son Edward and a small band of Frenchmen; but she soon heard that on the very day of her landing her great supporter, though once he had been her bitterest enemy, Warwick the King-maker, had been defeated and slain at Barnet. This led her to seek sanctuary in the Abbey at Cerne, about sixteen miles to the north of Weymouth; but her restless spirit would not allow her long to stay in this secluded spot, and she started with young Edward, gathering supporters as she went, till on May 4th her army was defeated at Tewkesbury, and there her last hopes were extinguished when King Edward IV. smote her son, who had been taken prisoner, with gauntleted hand upon the mouth, and the daggers of Clarence and Gloucester ended the poor boy’s life.

We hear nothing of resistance on the part of Dorset to the Earl of Richmond when he came to overthrow Richard III. Probably, as the Lancastrian family of the Beauforts were large landowners in Dorset, Dorset sympathy was enlisted on the side of the son of the Lady Margaret, great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt.

Like all the rest of England, Dorset had to see its religious houses suppressed and despoiled; its abbots and abbesses, with all their subordinate officers, as well as their monks and nuns, turned out of their old homes, though let it in fairness be stated, not unprovided for, for all those who surrendered their ecclesiastical property to the King received pensions sufficient to keep them in moderate comfort, if not in affluence. Dorset accepted the dissolution of the monasteries and the new services without any manifest dissatisfaction. There was no rioting or fighting as in the neighbouring county of Devon.

Dorset did not escape so easily in the days of the Civil War. Lyme, holden for the Parliament by Governor Creely and some 500 men, held out from April 20th to June 16th, 1644, against Prince Maurice with 4,000 men, when the Earl of Essex came to its relief. Corfe Castle and Sherborne Castle were each besieged twice. Abbotsbury was taken by Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper in September, 1644. Wareham, also, was more than once the scene of fighting. In the north of Dorset a band of about 5,000 rustics, known as “Clubmen,” assembled. These men knew little and cared less for the rival causes of King and Parliament which divided the rest of England; but one thing they did know and greatly cared for: they found that ever and again bands of armed horsemen came riding through the villages, some singing rollicking songs and with oaths on their lips, others chanting psalms and quoting the Bible, but all alike treading down their crops, demanding food, and sometimes their horses, often forgetting to pay for them; so they resolved to arm themselves and keep off Cavaliers and Roundheads alike. At one time they encamped at Shaftesbury, but could not keep the Roundheads from occupying the Hill Town; so they, to the number of 4,000, betook themselves to the old Celtic camp of Hambledon, some seven or eight miles to the south. Cromwell himself, in a letter to Fairfax, dated August 4th, 1645, tells what befell them there:

We marched on to Shaftesbury, when we heard a great body of them was drawn up together about Hambledon Hill. I sent up a forlorn hope of about 50 horse, who coming very civilly to them, they fired upon them; and ours desiring some of them to come to me were refused with disdain. They were drawn into one of the old camps upon a very high hill. They refused to submit, and fired at us. I sent a second time to let them know that if they would lay down their arms no wrong should be done them. They still—through the animation of their leaders, and especially two vile ministers[1]—refused. When we came near they let fly at us, killed about two of our men, and at least four horses. The passage not being for above three abreast kept us out, whereupon Major Desborow wheeled about, got in the rear of them, beat them from the work, and did some small execution upon them, I believe killed not twelve of them, but cut very many, and put them all to flight. We have taken about 300, many of whom are poor silly creatures, whom, if you please to let me send home, they promise to be very dutiful for time to come, and will be hanged before they come out again.

From which we see that “Grim old Oliver,” who could be severe enough when policy demanded it, yet could show mercy at times, for throughout this episode his dealings with the Clubmen were marked with much forbearance.

Charles II., after his defeat at Worcester, September 3rd, 1651, during his romantic wanderings and hidings before he could get safe to sea, spent nearly three weeks in what is now Dorset, though most of the time he was in concealment at the Manor House at Trent, which was then within the boundaries of Somerset, having only recently been transferred to Dorset. This manor house belonged to Colonel Francis Wyndham. Hither on Wednesday, September 17th, came Jane Lane, sister of Colonel Lane, from whose house at Bentley, Worcestershire, she had ridden on a pillion behind one who passed as her groom, really Charles in disguise, with one attendant, Cornet Lassels. Jane and the Cornet left Trent the next day on their return journey, and Charles was stowed away in Lady Wyndham’s room, from which there was access to a hiding-place between two floors. His object was to effect his escape from one of the small Dorset ports. Colonel Wyndham rode next day to Melbury Sampford, where lived Sir John Strangways, to see if either of his sons could manage to hire a boat at Lyme, Weymouth, or Poole, which would take Charles to France. He failed in this, but brought back one hundred pounds, the gift of Sir John Strangways. Colonel Wyndham then went to Lyme to see one Captain Ellesdon, to whom he said that Lord Wilmot wanted to be taken across to France. Arrangements were then made with Stephen Limbrey, the skipper of a coasting vessel, to take a party of three or four royalist gentlemen to France from Charmouth. Lord Wilmot was described as a Mr. Payne, a bankrupt merchant running away from his creditors, and taking his servant (Charles) with him. It was agreed that Limbrey should have a rowing-boat ready on Charmouth beach on the night of September 22nd, when the tide was high, to convey the party to his ship and carry them safe to France, for which service he was to receive £60. September 22nd was “fair day” at Lyme, and as many people would probably be about, it was necessary that the party should find some safe lodging where they could wait quietly till the tide was in, about midnight. Rooms were secured, as for a runaway couple, at a small inn at Charmouth. At this inn on Monday morning arrived Colonel Wyndham, who acted as guide, and his wife and niece, a Mrs. Juliana Coningsby (the supposed eloping damsel), riding behind her groom (Charles). Lord Wilmot, the supposed bridegroom, with Colonel Wyndham’s confidential servant, Peters, followed. Towards midnight Wyndham and Peters went down to the beach, Wilmot and Charles waiting at the inn ready to be called as soon as the boat should come. But no signs of the boat appeared throughout the whole night. It seems that Mrs. Limbrey had seen posted up at Lyme a notice about the heavy penalty that anyone would incur who helped Charles Stuart to escape, and suspecting that the mysterious enterprise on which her husband was engaged might have something to do with helping in such an escape, she, when he came back in the evening to get some things he had need of for the voyage, locked him in his room and would not let him out; and he dared not break out lest the noise and his wife’s violent words might attract attention and the matter get noised abroad. Charles, by Wyndham’s advice, rode off to Bridport the next morning with Mistress Coningsby, as before, the Colonel going with them; Wilmot stayed behind. His horse cast a shoe, and Peters took it to the smith to have another put on; and the smith, examining the horse’s feet, said: “These three remaining shoes were put on in three different counties, and one looks like a Worcester shoe.” When the shoe was fixed, the smith went to a Puritan minister, one Bartholomew Wesley, and told him what he suspected. Wesley went to the landlady of the inn: “Why, Margaret,” said he, “you are now a maid of honour.” “What do you mean by that, Mr. Parson?” said she. “Why, Charles Stuart lay at your house last night, and kissed you at his departure, so that you cannot now but be a maid of honour.” Whereupon the hostess waxed wroth, and told Wesley that he was an ill-conditioned man to try and bring her and her house into trouble; but, with a touch of female vanity, she added: “If I thought it was the King, as you say it was, I should think the better of my lips all the days of my life. So, Mr. Parson, get you out of my house, or I’ll get those who shall kick you out.”

However, the matter soon got abroad, and a pursuit began. Meanwhile, Charles and his party had pressed on into Bridport, which happened to be full of soldiers mustering there before joining a projected expedition to capture the Channel Islands for the Parliament. Charles’s presence of mind saved him. He pushed through the crowd into the inn yard, groomed the horse, chatted with the soldiers, who had no suspicion that he was other than he seemed, and then said that he must go and serve his mistress at table. By this time Wilmot and Peters had arrived, and they told him of the incident at the shoeing forge; so, losing no time, the party started on the Dorchester road, but, turning off into a by-lane, got safe to Broadwinsor, and thence once more to Trent, which they reached on September 24th. On October 5th Wilmot and Charles left Trent and made their way to Shoreham in Sussex. But they had not quite done with Dorset yet; for it was a Dorset skipper, one Tattersal, whose business it was to sail a collier brig, _The Surprise_, between Poole and Shoreham, who carried Charles Stuart and Lord Wilmot from Shoreham to Fécamp, and received the £60 that poor Limbrey might have had save for his wife’s interference.

Dorset was the stage on which were acted the first and one of the concluding scenes of the Duke of Monmouth’s rebellion in 1685. On June 11th the inhabitants of Lyme Regis were sorely perplexed when they saw three foreign-looking ships, which bore no colours, at anchor in the bay; and their anxiety was not lessened when they saw the custom house officers, who had rowed out, as their habit was, to overhaul the cargo of any vessel arriving at the port, reach the vessels but return not again. Then from seven boats landed some eighty armed men, whose leader knelt down on the shore to offer up thanksgiving for his safe voyage, and to pray for God’s blessing on his enterprise. When it was known that this leader was the Duke of Monmouth the people welcomed him, his blue flag was set up in the market place, and Monmouth’s undignified Declaration—the composition of Ferguson—was read. That same evening the Mayor, who approved of none of these things, set off to rouse the West in the King’s favour, and from Honiton sent a letter giving information of the landing. On June 14th, the first blood was shed in a skirmish near Bridport (it was not a decisive engagement). Monmouth’s men, however, came back to Lyme, the infantry in good order, the cavalry helter-skelter; and little wonder, seeing that the horses, most of them taken from the plough, had never before heard the sound of firearms.

Then Monmouth and his men pass off our stage. It is not for the local Dorset historian to trace his marches up and down Somerset, or to describe the battle that was fought in the early hours of the morning of July 6th under the light of the full moon, amid the sheet of thick mist, which clung like a pall over the swampy surface of the level stretch of Sedgemoor. Once again Dorset received Monmouth, no longer at the head of an enthusiastic and brave, though a badly armed and undisciplined multitude, but a lonely, hungry, haggard, heartbroken fugitive. On the morning of July 8th he was found in a field near Horton, which still bears the name of Monmouth’s Close, hiding in a ditch. He was brought before Anthony Etricke of Holt, the Recorder of Poole, and by him sent under escort to London, there to meet his ghastly end on Tower Hill, and to be laid to rest in what Macaulay calls the saddest spot on earth, St. Peter’s in the Tower, the last resting-place of the unsuccessfully ambitious, of those guilty of treason, and also of some whose only fault it was that they were too near akin to a fallen dynasty, and so roused the fears and jealousy of the reigning monarch.

Everyone has heard of the Bloody Assize which followed, but the names and the number of those who perished were not accurately known till a manuscript of forty-seven pages, of folio size, was offered for sale among a mass of waste paper in an auction room at Dorchester, December, 1875.[2] It was bought by Mr. W. B. Barrett, and he found that it was a copy of the presentment of rebels at the Autumn Assizes of 1685, probably made for the use of some official of the Assize Court, as no doubt the list that Jeffreys had would have been written on parchment, and this was on paper. It gives the names of 2,611 persons presented at Dorchester, Exeter, and Taunton, as having been implicated in the rebellion, the parishes where they lived, and the nature of their callings. Of these, 312 were charged at Dorchester, and only about one-sixth escaped punishment. Seventy-four were executed, 175 were transported, nine were whipped or fined, and 54 were acquitted or were not captured. It is worth notice that the percentage of those punished at Exeter and Taunton was far less than at Dorchester. Out of 488 charged at Exeter, 455 escaped; and at Taunton, out of 1,811, 1,378 did not suffer. It is possible that the Devon and Somerset rebels, having heard of Jeffreys’ severity at Dorchester, found means of escape. No doubt many of the country folk who had not sympathized with the rebellion would yet help to conceal those who were suspected, when they knew (from what had happened at Dorchester) that if they were taken they would in all probability be condemned to death or slavery—for those “transported” were really handed over to Court favourites as slaves for work on their West Indian plantations. It is gratifying to know that it has been discovered, since Macaulay’s time, that such of the transported as were living when William and Mary came to the throne were pardoned and set at liberty on the application of Sir William Young.