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56. To light at my shoulder,
And then led her in at the doorway,
Miles wide from Woak Hill.
And that's why folk thought, for a season,
My mind were a-wand'ring
With sorrow, when I were so sorely
A-tried at Woak Hill.
But no; that my Mary mid never
Behold herself slighted
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide from Woak Hill.
Barnes saw the pathos in the joy of utter physical weariness of a
labourer, and one of his finest poems depicts a cottage under a
swaying poplar:
An' hands a-tired by day, were still,
Wi' moonlight on the door.
He always has that deep, quiet craving for the hearth, the fire, the
protecting thatch of a cottage, which gives his work a pathetic
touch. I think sometimes that Barnes must have been nearer to
being cold, homeless and tired at times than is generally understood.
57. CHAPTER VII
BERE REGIS AND THE ANCIENT FAMILY OF
TURBERVILLE
We who have passed into the Upper Air
Thence behold Earth, and know how she is fair.
More than her sister Stars sweet Earth doth love us:
She holds our hearts: the Stars are high above us.
O Mother Earth! Stars are too far and rare!
Bere Regis, that blinking little place with a history extending back
to Saxon times (identified by Doctor Stukeley with the Roman
Ibernium), is a typical little Dorset town about seven miles to the
north-west of Wareham. It makes a capital walk or ride from
Dorchester, and it was this way I travelled. I left Dorchester by High
Street East, ascending Yellowham Hill, the Yalbury Hill of Troy's
affecting meeting with Fanny Robin, leaving Troy Town to pass
through Puddletown and Tolpuddle. Evening had fallen when I
arrived at Bere Regis, and the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds
above seemed to presage a wild night. I was just wondering
whether, although it looked so threatening, I dared ride on to
Wareham, when my eyes rested on the Royal Oak Inn, with its
Elizabethan barns, mossed and mouldering red tiles and axe-hewn
timbers.
It is at such houses, I thought, that men may stretch out weary
legs and taste home-cured bacon (I heard the squeak of a pig in the
outhouse), and such places are the homes of adventure. I will go in
and call for ale and a bed.
58. So I walked straight into the courtyard, which backs upon the
church, and found there a large man with considerable girth, a
square, honest face and kindly eyes. He was wearing a cap, and
wearing it in a fine rakish way too. His appearance gave me the
impression that his wife had tossed the cap at him and failed to drop
it on his head squarely, but had landed it in a lopsided manner, and
then our friend had walked off without thinking anything more about
it. He was singing a song to himself and staring at a pile of bundles
of straw. He looked up and nodded good-humouredly.
Looks like rain! said I.
Aw 'es, tu be sure, now you come to mention it. I dawnt think rain's
far off.
Can you tell me, said I, if I can get a meal and a bed at this inn?
What you like, returned the man, with a quick tilt of his head,
which drew my eyes with a kind of fascination to his ill-balanced cap,
but as I've nothing to do with the place I should ask the landlord
avore me.
Ah, to be sure, said I. Sorry to trouble you. I thought you might
be the landlord.
The man stopped singing his song to stare at me wide-eyed.
Well, I beant; but it's a fine thing to be a landlord, with barrels o'
beer down 'ouze and money in the bank.
Then may I ask what trade you follow, said I, and why you study
that straw so intently?
Young fellow, said he, staring, I follow a main-zorry trade in these
days. I be a thatcher, and thatching to-the-truth-of-music is about
done for. If you look at these thatched cottages about Dorset they
will tell their own story. Why, the reed is just thrown on the roof
hugger-mugger. They can't thatch no more down this part, I can
tellee; they lay it on all of a heap.
59. And is this the straw for thatching? I inquired.
Yes, said he, smiling; they call them bundles of reed in Dorset—
but in my country, which is Devon, they call 'em 'nitches o' reed.'
Then you are not contented with your trade?
Not quite, answered the thatcher, his face falling. It has always
been my wish to have a little inn—and barrels o' beer down 'ouze
and money....
Far better be a thatcher, said I.
I'll be dalled ef I can see why.
It's an out-of-doors life in the first place, said I.
The thatcher nodded, and his cap looked about as perilous as the
Leaning Tower of Pisa.
It is a happier life, too, I should say.
Aw! I an't ayerd nort about that, he returned.
And who ever heard of a starving thatcher?
Young fellow, he sighed, there soon will be no thatchers to starve.
Tez a lost art is thatching. I am the last of my family to follow the
trade, and we can go back three hundred years.
Then thatch is dying out?
Yes, chiefly on the score of it being hard to 'dout' in case of fire.
'Dout' is a strange old word. It means extinguish, I take it, said I.
To be sure—extinguished. Maybe you've heard the story about the
Devon gal who went to London as a maid and when she told the
mistress she had 'douted' the kitchen fire she was told to say
'extinguished' in future, and not use such ill-sounding words. 'Ess,
60. mum,' she said, 'and shall I sting-guish the old cat before I go to
bed?'
The thatcher laughed in his deep chest.
But thatch suits us Devon folk middlin' well, he continued. It's
warm in winter and cool in summer, and will stand more buffeting by
the wind and rain than all your cheap tiles and slates.
And thatch is cheap too, perhaps? I ventured.
On the contrary, he answered. Lukee, those nitches of reed cost
four shillings each, and you want three hundred bundles for a good-
sized roof. Then there is the best tar twine (which comes from
Ireland), the spars and the labour to be counted in. It takes three
weeks on the average house, but if the thatch is well laid it will last
for thirty years, and if I set my heart on a job and finish it off with a
layer of heath atop, well, then, it will last for ever. Ess, fay!
And what is the way you proceed to thatch a roof? I asked.
Well, he answered, it's not easy to explain. 'Lanes' of reed—wheat
straw, you would say—are first tied on the eave beams and gable
beams; these are called eave locks and gable locks. A 'lane of reed'
is about as long as a walking-stick and a bit thicker than a man's
61. wrist, and a thatched roof is composed of these 'lanes' tied on the
roof beams, in ridge fashion. Then when the reeds are all tied on,
overlapping each other, they are trimmed with a 'paring hook.' The
reed has to be wet when put up; that is why thatchers wear leather
knee-knaps. The best thatching reed comes from clay soil out Exeter
and Crediton way.
And where do you think, I asked, can be seen the most perfect
examples of thatching in England?
I lay you won't see any better than the cottages around Lyme Regis
and Axminster. But soon Merry England will be done with thatch, for
the boys of the village are too proud to learn how to cut a spar or
use a thatcher's hook. Bless my soul! They all want to be clerks or
school teachers.
My friend the thatcher had a profound contempt for school larning
and he waxed triumphantly eloquent when he touched upon Council
School teachers.
What poor, mimpsy-pimsy craychers they be, them teachers, he
remarked. Fancy them trying to larn others, and ha'n't got the
brains to larn themselves!
* * * * * *
Bere Regis church is the most beautiful little building of its size in
Dorset. It is the captain and chief of all the village churches, and has
just managed to touch perfection in all the things that a wayside
shrine should achieve. There is an atmosphere about the old place
that is soothing and above the pleasure of physical experience. The
qualities of Bere Regis can only be fully appreciated with that sixth
sense that transcends gross sight and touch. Upon entering the
building one is captivated by the remarkable roof and the number of
effigies, half life-size, in the dress of the period, which are carved on
the hammer-beams. This magnificent carved and painted timber roof
is said to have been the gift of Cardinal Morton, born at Milborne
Stileman, in this parish. The roof effigies are supposed to represent
62. the Twelve Apostles, but they are not easily identified. The canopied
Skerne tomb possesses a special interest for its brasses and verse:
I Skerne doe show that all our earthlie trust
All earthlie favours and goods and sweets are dust
Look on the worlds inside and look on me
Her outside is but painted vanity.
In the south porch will be found an interesting relic in the shape of
some old iron grappling-hooks used for pulling the thatch off a
cottage in the event of fire. An ancient altar-slab on which,
perchance, sacrifices have been offered has been preserved, and
there is also a fine old priest's chair, the upper arms of which have
supported the leaning bodies of a great company of Dorset vicars,
for it must be remembered that the priest was not allowed to sit on
the chair—but leaning was permitted. The Norman pillars in the
south arcade are striking to the eye, and the humorous carvings on
their capitals are objects of great interest. One of them gives a very
good picture of a victim in the throes of toothache; apparently the
sufferer has just arrived at that stage in which the pain is mounting
to a crescendo of agony, for he has inserted his eight fingers in his
mouth in an attempt to battle with his tormentors. The other figure
displays some poor fellow who is a martyr to headache—perhaps a
gentle reproof and warning to those who were inclined to tarry
overlong in the taverns. But the main object of interest is the
Turberville window in the south aisle, beneath which is the ledger-
stone covering the last resting-place of this wild, land-snatching
family, which is lettered as follows:—
Ostium sepulchri antiquae Famillae Turberville
24 Junij 1710.
(The door of the sepulchre of the ancient family of the
Turbervilles.)
It was at this vault stone that Tess bent down and said:
63. Why am I on the wrong side of this door! Perhaps it is as well to
recite the outline of Hardy's story of Tess at this stage of our
pilgrimage. Tess Durbeyfield, the daughter of poor and feeble-
minded parents and descendant of a noble but somewhat wild old
family, was forcibly seduced by a wealthy young loafer whose father
had taken, with no right to it, Tess's proper name of D'Urberville. A
child was born, but died. Some years after Tess became betrothed to
a clergyman's son, Angel Clare. On their wedding night Tess
confessed to him her past relations with Alec D'Urberville, and
thereupon Clare, a man who was not without sin himself, left her. In
the end Fate conspired to force Tess back into the protection of Alec.
Clare, who cannot be looked upon as anything but half-baked and
insincere, returns repentant from Canada and finds her living with
D'Urberville. In order to be free to return to Clare, Tess stabbed Alec
to the heart, for which she was arrested, tried and hanged.
In this romance Bere Regis figures as Kingsbere, and the church is
the subject of many references. It was on one of the canopied,
altar-shaped Turberville tombs that poor Tess noticed, with a
sudden qualm of blank fear, that the effigy moved. As soon as she
drew close to it she discovered all in a moment that the figure was a
living person; and the shock to her sense of not having been alone
was so violent that she almost fainted, not, however, till she had
recognised Alec D'Urberville in the form.
Here Alec D'Urberville stamped with his heel heavily above the
stones of the ancient family vault, whereupon there arose a hollow
echo from below, and remarked airily to Tess: A family gathering is
it not, with these old fellows under us here?
In the south wall a doorway which has been long filled in can still be
traced. There is nothing of special note in this alteration, but a
legend has been handed down which is worth recording here. It is
said that one of the Turberville family quarrelled with the vicar of
Bere Regis and ended a stormy meeting by declaring that he would
never again pass through the old door of the church. As time went
on the lure of the Turberville dead in the ancient shrine obsessed
64. him and he grew to regret the haste in which he had cut himself off
from the ancient possessors of his land. After some years Fate
arranged a chance meeting between the vicar and Turberville at a
village feast, and under the influence of the general good-fellowship
and merry-making they buried the hatchet and fell to discussing old
times and friends. When time came for the breaking up of the
entertainment it was only Turberville's dogged determination to keep
his vow which prevented a return to the old happy conditions before
the breach of friendship.
There is one thing I would ask you to do, Vicar, said Turberville as
he parted. When you attend vespers to-morrow just tell the old
Turberville squires to sleep soundly in their vault. Although I have
vowed never to pass through the church door while I am alive, I
cannot stop 'em carrying me through when I am dead—so I shall
sleep with them in the end.
However, the worthy vicar went to the town stone-mason next
morning and arranged to cut a new doorway in the south wall, and
thus it came to pass that the independent and stubborn Turberville
once again was able to worship with the shades of his fathers and
yet keep to his promise never to pass through the old door again.
The first of the family of Turberville was Sir Payne de Turberville (de
Turba Villa), who came over with William the Norman. From Sir
Payne down to the last descendants of the family who form the
theme of Thomas Hardy's romance, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, the
Turbervilles were a strange, wild company. It is excusable, too, in a
way, for it appears that the first of the line, after the battle of
Hastings, was one of the twelve knights who helped Robert
FitzHamon, Lord of Estremaville, in his evil work and returned to
England when his commander was created Earl of Gloucester. In an
ancient document of the time of Henry III. we come across a
striking illustration of the unscrupulous ways of this family, for it is
recorded that John de Turberville was then paying an annual fine on
some land near Bere Regis, which his people before him had filched
from the estate of the Earl of Hereford. The Turbervilles were
65. established in the neighbourhood in 1297. Bryants Puddle, a very
rude little hamlet situated on the River Piddle a little to the south-
west of Bere, receives its title from Brian de Turberville, who was
lord of the manor in the reign of Edward III. The village was
anciently called Piddle Turberville, but this name has been replaced
by Bryants Puddle.
At a later period the Turbervilles came into the possession of the
manor of Bere Regis at the breaking up of Tarent Abbey, and at this
time the good fortune of the family was at its zenith. But with the
spoils of the church came a gradual and general downfall of the old
family, and with the increased riches, we may conjecture, the
Turbervilles went roaring on their way more riotously than ever.
There is an entry in the parish registers of Bere, under the year
1710, of the interment of Thomas Turberville, the last of the ancient
race. An intermediate stage of the house is represented by D'Albigny
Turberville, the oculist mentioned by Pepys, who died in 1696 and
was buried in Salisbury Cathedral. After the year 1710 the old
manor-house of the Turbervilles, standing near the church, was
strangely silent. Their time was over and gone, the wine had been
drunk, the singers had departed. But the stories of their carousals
and great deeds were still a matter for dispute and discussion at the
village inn, and the eerie old house was especially regarded with
feelings of awe and few cared to go near it after dark. It was not
what they had seen, but what they might see, that caused them to
shun the old place. I can picture the Dorset rustic of that time (and
the distance between Hodge the Goodman of 1710 and Hodge the
driver of the motor tractor is almost nothing at all) shaking his head
on being asked his reasons for avoiding the house, and saying, with
a grin, as how he shouldn't like to go poking about such a divered
[dead] old hole.
The ancient manor-house was allowed to lapse into ruin, and now
nothing at all remains but a few crumbling stones:
66. Through broken walls and grey
The winds blow bleak and shrill;
They are all gone away.
Nor is there one to-day
To speak them good or ill;
There is nothing more to say.
There is reason to believe that the rustics in Wilts and Dorset who
bear different forms of the name Turberville, altered into Tellafield
and Troublefield, are in truth the descendants of illegitimate
branches of the family. One ancient Dorset rustic with the name of
Tollafield, who aroused my interest, said to me in all seriousness that
he would not care to go rummaging into the history of the old
Turberville people. You depend upon it, they were a bad lot—the
parson told me so. There is no telling what them folks' speerits
might not be up to, if so be the old devil had got ahold on 'em. This
rustic, though an old man, had an eye as keen as a hawk's, was a
man of immensely powerful frame, and would sleep under a hedge
any night and feel little the worse for it. When I looked at his clear,
hard blue eyes and straight, haughty nose he gave me the feeling
that the Turberville blood had really survived in him. Then I learned
that he was a flagrant poacher and, like the old earth-stopper in
Masefield's poem,
His snares made many a rabbit die.
On moony nights he found it pleasant
To stare the woods for roosting pheasants
Up near the tree-trunk on the bough.
He never trod behind a plough.
He and his two sons got their food
From wild things in the field and wood.
67. It was my fortune to run into the old fellow coming out of the Royal
Oak one night with his friends. He was very exuberant and arrogant.
I heard him offering to fight three men, knock one down, t'other
come on style. Then it came over me with a sudden sense of
largeness and quietude that the game old ruffian had his place in
the order of things. This tyrant of the low Tudor tap-room was
perhaps a Turberville, one of the rightful, immemorial owners of the
land. If he has not the right to a pheasant for his Sunday dinner,
then tell me who has. Perhaps when we, with our picture palaces
and styles and jazzy-dances, have passed away our hoary friend the
poacher will abide, his feet among his clods, rooted deep in his
native soil. And if all this thin veneer of civilisation was suddenly
ripped away from us, how should we emerge? Hodge would still go
on poaching, sleeping under hedges, outwitting the wild things in
the woods and drinking home-brewed ale. He would not even feel
any temporary inconvenience. How old-fashioned and out-of-date we
with all our new things would feel if we were suddenly brought into
line with the eternally efficient Hodge!
68. From Bere Regis to Wool is a pleasant ride of five or six miles. Close
to Wool station is the manor-house, now a farm, which was once the
residence of a younger branch of the Turberville family, and readers
will remember it is the place where Tess and Angel Clare came to
spend their gloomy and tragic honeymoon. In Hardy's Tess the
house is called Wellbridge Manor House, in remembrance of the days
69. when Wool was called Welle, on account of the springs which are so
plentiful in this district. Of course the house is named from the five-
arched Elizabethan bridge which spans the reed-fringed River Frome
at this point. Each arch of the bridge is divided by triangular
buttresses, which at the road-level form recesses where foot-
passengers may take refuge from passing motors or carts. The
manor-house is of about the time of Henry VIII., and has been much
renovated. Over the doorway a date stone proclaims that the
building was raised in 1635 (or 1655), but it has been suggested
that this is the date of a restoration or addition to the building. The
two pictures of Tess's ancestors mentioned in the novel actually
exist, and are to be seen on the wall of the staircase: two life-sized
portraits on panels built into the wall. As all visitors are aware, these
paintings represent women of middle age, of a date some two
hundred years ago, whose lineaments once seen can never be
forgotten. The long pointed features, narrow eye, and smirk of the
one, so suggestive of merciless treachery; the bill-hook nose, large
teeth, and bold eye of the other, suggesting arrogance to the point
of ferocity, haunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams.
Old records show that in ancient times a curious custom was
observed on Annual Court Day at Wool. It was known as collecting
smoke-pence. It appears that the head of every house was called
upon to pay a penny for each of his chimneys as a token that the
property belonged to the manor. The money was collected by the
constable, who was obliged to bring twenty pence into court, or
make up the money himself.
The most characteristic and altogether unique feature of this nook of
earth around Bere Regis is that superstition has not ceased to exist
among the old people of the land. It is difficult to believe that there
is a little district in England where superstition is still a part—a very
obscure part, it is true—of the life of the people. But here I have
noticed the shadow of witchcraft and magic thrown across the
commonplace things of rustic life again and again while talking with
old cronies over their beer, or along the winding hill roads. But it
70. must be understood that the Dorset man does not talk to any
chance wayfarer on such matters: the subject of the Borderland
and spiritual creatures is strictly set apart for the log fire and
chimney corner on winter evenings. It is when the wooden shutters
are up to the windows, and the tranquillising clay pipes are sending
up their incense to the oak cross-beams, that we may cautiously
turn the conversation on to such matters. On one such occasion as I
watched the keen, wrinkled faces, on which common sense,
shrewdness and long experience had set their marks, I wondered if
two local farmers had made such sinners of their memories as to
credit their own fancy. But no, I would not believe they were in
earnest. It was only their quaint humour asserting itself. They were
surely piling it on in order to deceive me! However, that was not
the solution, for when the time came, somewhere about midnight,
for one of the farmers to return home he stolidly refused to face the
dark trackway back to his farm, and preferred to spend the night in
the arm-chair before the fire. But let one of the dwellers on Bere
Heath tell of his own superstitions. Here is old Gover coming over
the great Elizabethan bridge which spans the rushy River Frome at
Wool. One glance at his cheerful, weather-beaten face will tell you
better than a whole chapter of a book that he is no lablolly (fool),
but a man of sound judgment, easy notions and general good
character, like Hardy's Gabriel Oak. Leaning on the ancient
stonework of the bridge, and smacking his vamplets (rough gaiters
used by thatchers to defend the legs from wet) with a hazel stick, he
stops to talk. A motor lorry filled with churns of milk passes on its
way to drop its consignment at Wool railway siding.
Tellee what 'tis, said Gover to me, pointing to the lorry: 'twill be a
poor-come-a-long-o'-'t now them motors are taking the place o'
horses everywhere. Can't get no manure from them things, and the
land is no good without manure. Mr Davis the farmer at Five Mile
Bottom hev got five Ford cars now where ten horses used to feed.
He sez to me that he don't want any horse manure—chemical
manures is good enough for him. But he dunnow nort 't-all-'bout-et!
He'll eat the heart out of his soil with his chemicals, and his farm will
71. be barren in a year or so. Ess, by Gor! You bant agwain to do justice
to the soil without real manure, and them as thinks they can dawnt
know A from a 'oss's 'ead.
Then I asked Gover about the Turberville ghost which we are told
haunts this lane, and which is the subject of an allusion in Hardy's
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. His keen old face became serious at once.
No ghosts or goblins had troubled him, he said, but John Rawles and
another chap saw as plain as could be a funeral going along from
Woolbridge House to Bere Regis, and they heard the priest singing in
front of the coffin, but they could not understand what he did say.
There was a cattle gate across the road in those days and Rawles
ran to open it, but before he could get there the coffin had passed
through the gate and it had all vanished! He had often heard tell of
people who had seen ghosts, and he would not be put about if he
did see one himself.
So you have not seen the blood-stained family coach of the
Turbervilles? I inquired.
No, I never see that, said Gover, shaking his head, nor never
heard of it.
Then, as it is a tale that every child should know, I said, I will tell
you now, and you shall believe it or no, precisely as you choose.
Once upon a time there was a Turberville who deserves to be
remembered and to be called, so to speak, the limb of the 'old 'un'
himself, for he spent all his days in wickedness, and went roaring to
the devil as fast as all his vices could send him. I have heard it said
that he snapped his fingers in the face of a good parson who came
to see him on his death-bed, saying he did not wish to talk
balderdash, or to hear it, and bade him clear out and send up his
servant with fighting-cocks and a bottle of brandy. Gradually all the
drinking and vice, which had besieged his soul for so long, swept
him into a state of temporary madness and he murdered a friend
while they were riding to Woolbridge House in the family coach. The
friend he struck down had Turberville blood in his veins too, so you
72. may be certain the blame was not all on one side. Ever since the evil
night the coach with the demon horses dragging it sways and rocks
along the road between Wool and Bere, and the murderer rushes
after it, moaning and wringing his hands, but never having the
fortune to catch it up. The spectacle of the haunted coach cannot be
seen by the ordinary wayfarer; it is only to be seen by persons in
which the blood of the Turbervilles is mixed.
Ah! nodded old Gover, I don't hold with that story. If so be as that
'ere Turberville who murdered t'other hev a-gone up above, 'tain't
likely as how he'll be wishful to go rowstering after that ripping great
coach on a dalled bad road like this. And then he shook his bony
finger in my face and added: And if the dowl have a-got hold on 'im
he won't be able to go gallyvanting about—he'll be kept there!
Wool has another attraction in the ruins of Bindon Abbey, lying in the
thick wood seen from the station, a few minutes to the south of the
line towards Wareham. The ruins are very scanty. A few slabs and
coffins are still preserved, and one stone bears the inscription in
Lombardic characters:
ABBAS RICARDUS DE MANERS HIC TUMULATUR
APPOENAS TARDUS DEUS HUNC SALVANS
TUEATUR
The Abbey is in a wood by the river—a gloomy, fearsome, dark
place. This is the Wellbridge Abbey of Hardy's Tess, and we read
that against the north wall of the ruined choir was the empty stone
coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim
humour was accustomed to stretch himself. This is, of course, the
lidless coffin in which Angel Clare, walking in his sleep, laid Tess.
Woolbridge House is not so near to this spot as Thomas Hardy gives
one to understand in the novel. Near the ruin is the old mill of
Bindon Abbey, situated on the Frome, where Angel Clare proposed
to learn milling. It is called Wellbridge Mill in Tess.
73. The old Abbey wood is full of shadows and is the kind of place that
one would write down as immemorially old, barren and sinister. The
singular impressiveness of its ivy-grown walls, shadowed by heavy
masses of foliage, depresses one dreadfully. The straight footpaths
beneath the trees have been worn into deep tracks by the attrition
of feet for many centuries. Under the trees are the fish-ponds which
played such an important part in provisioning the monks' larder.
They are so concealed from the daylight that they take on a shining
jet-black surface. A book might be written about the place—a book
of terrible and fateful ghost tales.
74. CHAPTER VIII
ROUND AND ABOUT WEYMOUTH
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
proportion to 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
75. 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 which now
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. who made Weymouth. 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, in The 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!
76. When George III. and the sun of prosperity shone 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.
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's The 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 in Under the Greenwood
Tree.
The Budmouth localities mentioned in The Trumpet Major are: 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 spot
where the battle of Trafalgar was discussed in The 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
77. 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 in The Dynasts, and
some of the songs are so cunningly fashioned that we know the
author must surely have overheard them so often that they 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 done
For us at Trafalgar!
Or the other ballad sung by a Peninsular sergeant—
78. 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 smart Clink! 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 to powder 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 an ancient font, a
79. 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
of The 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 Major is 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, and if 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:
80. 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, 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 in As You Like It of the tardy Orlando, and I'd as lief or
I'd liefer is still heard 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
81. 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 have been 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 of The Trumpet
Major and 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
82. Mynton in which the events of The Distracted Preacher take 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
by towering 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 in Desperate Remedies it 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.
83. The entrance to the cove from the Channel is a narrow opening in
the cliff, which here rises straight 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
the Mupe Rocks, then the towering mass of Ring'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.
84. Portisham, under the bold, furzy hills that rise to the commanding
height of Blackdown, appears in The Trumpet Major as the village to
which Bob 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,
85. 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's reign 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.
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