Part 1

THE HEART OF WESSEX

Described by SIDNEY HEATH

Pictured by E. W. HASLEHUST

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Beautiful England

_Volumes Ready_:

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

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Page

Dorchester from the Meadows _Frontispiece_

Hangman's Cottage, Dorchester 8

Puddletown 14

Bere Regis 20

Portisham 26

Weymouth and Portland 32

Gateway, Poxwell Manor House 38

Lulworth Cove 42

Wool House 46

Wareham 50

Corfe Castle 54

Poole Harbour from Studland 58

DORCHESTER AND THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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