swanage and corfe castle

swanage is a well-known seaside resort, rapidly growing in favour. it nestles in the farther corner of a lovely little bay, and though in the rapid extension of rows of newly arisen houses, consequent upon the development of its fame as a watering-place, much of its old-time, half-sleepy, half-commercial aspect has passed away, kingsley's still remains the best description of this spot—"well worth seeing, and when once seen not easily to be forgotten. a little semicircular bay, its northern horn formed by high cliffs of white chalk (ballard head), ending in white, isolated stacks and peaks (the pinnacles, old harry and his wife, etc.), round whose feet the blue sea ripples for ever. in the centre of the bay the softer wealden beds have been worn away, forming an amphitheatre of low sand and clay cliffs. the southern horn (peveril point) is formed by the dark limestone beds of the purbeck marble. a quaint, old-world village slopes down to the water over green downs, quarried, like some gigantic [pg 169]rabbit-burrow, with the stone workings of seven hundred years. land-locked from every breeze, huge elms flourish on the dry sea beach, and the gayest and tenderest garden flowers bask under the hot stone walls."

tilly whim is one of the attractions here. a short walk by peveril point, durlston bay and durlston head leads to tilly whim, which is on the eastern side of oddly named anvil cove, and is the first of a series of cliff quarries opened in the portland-purbeck beds along the coast. the cliff has been tunnelled into a series of gigantic chambers, supported by huge pillars of the living rock and opening on a platform in the face of the precipice, beneath which the waters roar and rage almost unceasingly. the boldness of the headland, the sombre greys of the rocks, the rude, massive columns which support the roof of the huge cavity, the restless sea—all are elements that heighten the scenic effect of a spot almost unique of its kind. tilly whim has been compared to a "huge rock temple"—like those of india.

thomas hardy has left us another interesting description of the swanage of bygone days: "knollsea was a seaside village, lying snugly within two headlands, as between a finger and thumb. everybody in the parish who was not a boatman was a quarrier, unless he were the gentleman who owned half the property and had been a quarryman, or the other gentleman who owned the other half and had been to sea."

at the time this was written the steamers were moored to a "row of rotten piles," but these have long passed away and their place has been taken by a substantial pier. but, let there be what changes there may, there will always be quarries in the town; it is one of those primeval vocations which remain unchanged and unchangeable in the midst of our changing civilisation. the quarry folk were an exceptionally reserved and isolated people, and the way their occupation has worked in the creation of a peculiar race is, while not at all surprising, yet very remarkable. the quarries have afforded a singular and most interesting instance of the survival, in full working order, of a mediæval trades guild of a somewhat primitive type, and even in these days no stranger is permitted to share in their rights and privileges.

the right to become a quarryman is inherited from one family to another, and the admission into the guild is an important ceremony: "the quarries and merchants have from time immemorial formed a sort of guild or company, whose rules are still enforced, affecting not only the prices of work, but determining the whole social position and character of the people. the society calls itself 'the company of the marblers and stone-cutters of the isle of purbeck,' and its meetings are held annually on shrove tuesday in the townhall of corfe castle. here they choose wardens and stewards, settle bye-laws and other business, and determine any difference between members in relation to the trade, or punish any infractions of their regulations. at these meetings the apprentices, who can only be sons of quarrymen, are, when they have attained the age of twenty-one, made free members of this community, on presenting themselves in 'court' with a fee of six shillings and eightpence, a penny loaf in one hand and a pot of beer in the other. another portion of the business consists in a visit to the old wharf at owre, and there renewing their ancient custom of presenting a pound of pepper to the landlord of the little inn there, receiving a cake from him, and having a game of foot-ball, which, in connection with this commemoration of the ancient acknowledgment for rent or use of wharfage, is called the 'pepper ball.' seven years after taking up their freedom freemen may take apprentices. the widow of a freeman may take up her freedom on payment of one shilling, and then employ apprentices and carry on business. at the annual meeting the sons of freemen are registered, and are not allowed to work at any department of the business unless duly registered."

the great majority of the old quarry-owners were members of a dozen families only, there being just a score of bowers; collinses, harrises, haysomes, normans, phippards and tomeses averaging half-a-dozen each; with coopers, corbens, landers, stricklands and bonfields not far behind.

new-comers were much disliked by the quarrymen, and the custom of "marrying the land" was observed in former days and, for aught i know, may be observed now. however, we do know that "foreigners" were not allowed to hold land in the isle of portland a hundred years ago, and the inhabitants, who claimed to be true descendants of the phœnicians who traded with cornwall and devonshire for tin, kept themselves a distinct people. in "marrying the land" the contracting parties met at church, and joining hands the one who handed over the property simply said: "i, uncle tom" (the surname was never used by the quarry folk), "give to thee, cousin antony, such-and-such land." the clergyman then placed his hands over the others, and the contract was concluded.

as i have said, the old-world village of swanage has altered much, and has become a town, and since the opening of the branch railway from wareham in the latter end of the eighties of the nineteenth century the ancient customs and characters of those unhurried, simpler, happier days have been swept away. the calming quietude of the quaint old stone houses is now disturbed by ugly, modern erections of red brick. but the quaint cottages, solid in great stone slabs and stone tiles, still breathe the true artlessness of the quarry folk. they are an instance of provident care and sound workmanship defying the neglect of a hundred successive tenants. the high street of old swanage, which rises uphill from the ship hotel towards the church, traversing the centre of the town from east to west, seems saturated with human influence and has a flavour all its own. half-way up the street on the right is the town hall, with an ornate façade which once formed part of the mercers' hall in london, designed by sir christopher wren. a few yards down the side-turning by the hall can be seen, on the left, an even greater curiosity, the old lock-up, of stone, "erected," as an inscription records, "for the prevention of wickedness and vice by friends of religion and good order, a.d. 1803."

on the left is purbeck house, a low, private residence, built by a "local mæcenas," the late mr burt, the contractor, in 1876. the fish vane, of burnished copper, formerly adorned billingsgate market, and the wall fronting the street is faced with granite chips from the albert memorial, hyde park.

when we reach the highest point of the main street the hill pitches down to the right, and we look upon a prospect of the town with a character of its own, not unworthy of observation, in which the sturdy, square-towered church is a striking feature. to the left is a mill-pond, which begins to wear the airs of history and reflects in the unruffled lustre of its waters the inverted images of some very quaint houses built of grey stone and almost entirely overspread with fungi and moss. the lower walls of stone are black and polished with the leaning of innumerable shoulders, and the steps of the external stone stairways are worn into gullies by the tread of generations. the extraordinary "yards" and byways are also worthy of attention. a few downward steps will bring the pilgrim to st mary's church, which was rebuilt in 1859. the parish registers date back to 1567, and the tower is thought to be saxon. at this church ethelberta petherwin, in the hand of ethelberta, is secretly married to lord mountclere, and her father and brother arrive too late to interfere with the ceremony.

a walk along the herston road brings us to newton manor, one of the old dorset manor-houses. the only relics of the ancient building are an elizabethan stone fireplace in the kitchen and the barn of the old homestead, with an open timber roof, which has been converted into a dining-hall. in the latter is a fine carved stone chimneypiece brought from a florentine palace.

a favourite excursion from swanage is a trip to studland. any native will direct the pilgrim to the footpath way to the "rest and be thankful" seat at the top of ballard down, where one can take a well-beaten track to the entrance of the village. at the remains of an old cross bear to the right and follow a picturesque "water lane" to the shore. studland is one of the most charming villages in england, and the church is one of the most notable in dorset. it is an admirable example of intact norman work, and its chief details are perfect—including a quaint corbel table in the nave, font, and moulded arches with carved capitals.

the celebrated agglestone is about a mile away on studland common. it is a huge fragment of the iron-cemented sandstone of the locality, raised on a mound above the heath. it has been regarded as a druidical memorial, but though that idea may now be considered exploded, associations still attach to it, since we are told "the name agglestone (saxon, halig-stan=holy stone) certainly seems to show that it was erected for some superstitious purpose." the country people call it the devil's nightcap, and there is a tradition that his satanic majesty threw it from the isle of wight, with an intent to demolish corfe castle, but that it dropped short here! how it comes to be poised here has puzzled the archæologist, but it has been explained as being simply a block that has been insulated by process of nature, the result of its protecting from the rigours of wind and rain the little eminence which it caps.

corfe is six miles by road from swanage by way of langton matravers, a village of sombre stone houses, which is occupied by workers in the neighbouring stone quarries. the place-name "matravers" is identified with the family of maltravers, one of whom was the unworthy instrument employed by mortimer and queen isabella in the murder of edward ii. this member of the family having turned out to be such a particularly "bad travers," his descendants sought to hide their evil reputation by dropping the "l" out of their name.

the "old malt house," which is now a school, is a fine specimen of the old-time stone building, and one can still trace bricked-in windows, where the sacks were hoisted in to the malt floors. passing gallow's gore cottages we come to kingston, which is two miles from corfe castle, and is pleasantly situated on an eminence which commands a good view of the surrounding country. encombe, the seat of the eldons, is about two miles to the south-west and is the enckworth court (lychworth court in early editions) of the hand of ethelberta. the house lies deep down in the beautiful valley of encombe, which opens out to the sea, with fine views in almost every direction. this valley is known as the golden bowl, by reason of the fertility of the soil. a short distance from kingston may be seen the remains of the old manor-house of scowles.

on the morrow, when i stepped out under the famous porch chamber of the greyhound hotel, corfe wore her bright morning smile. the air was soft, warm and redolent with the scent of good blue wood smoke. corfe is one of the pleasantest villages in dorset and has a wonderfully soothing effect upon the visitor. i should recommend this old-world retreat for those who are weary of the traffic and frenzy of the city market-place. the prevailing colour of the old houses makes the place ever cool-looking and lends the village an air of extreme restfulness. from the humblest cottage to the town house opposite the village cross the buildings are of weather-beaten stone, and are a delicate symphony in the colour grey, the proportions also being exactly satisfying to the eye. stone slabs of immense size form the roofs themselves. look at the roof of the greyhound inn! when these roof stones were put down the builder did not put them there for his own day, selfishly, but for posterity. this, as hilaire belloc would say, is a benediction of a roof, a roof that physically shelters and spiritually sustains, a roof majestic, a roof eternal. a walk through the town will reveal tudor windows, quaint doorways and several eighteenth-century porches, of which that at the greyhound is the best example. the market-place, with the bankes arms hotel at one end, the greyhound backing on to the castle and the castle and hills peering over the roof tops of the town, gives one a mingled pleasure of reminiscence and discovery. standing back a little from the swanage road is the small elizabethan manor-house of dackhams or dacombs, now called morton house, and one of the best manor-houses in the country. the ground plan forms the letter e, and it has a perfect little paved courtyard full of flowers.

corfe church was rebuilt in 1860, but it preserves some historic continuity in its tower, which dates from the end of the fourteenth century. the churchwardens' chest in the porch was made in the year 1672, and hy paulett, who made it, was paid the magnificent sum of eight shillings. and did hy paulett go often to the greyhound and allay his thirst in the making of it? a man would require good ale to make such a "brave good" chest as this. and can they make such chests in these days? lord knows!... anyhow, there is something in such a piece of work which appeals to me—something which seems to satisfy the memories in my blood. the clock dates from 1539. curfew is tolled in corfe daily, from october to march, at 6 a.m. and 8 p.m. hutchins, writing at the end of the eighteenth century, tells us that the people of corfe were of an indolent disposition, and goes on to say that "the appearance of misery in the town is only too striking." perhaps they "mumped" around and watched hy paulett work laboriously on the church chest and became downcast when he only received eight shillings for it. however, the morality of corfe should have been high, for the churchwardens appear to have been very exacting in the matter of sabbath observance. in the quaint old church records, which date from 1563, are many interesting references to the offenders in this respect:

"1629. we do present william smith for suffering two small boys to have drink upon the sabbath day during divine service.

item. we do present john rawles for being drunk on the sabbath day during the time of divine service.

item. we present the miller of west mill for grinding on the sabbath day.

item. we do present john pushman anthony vye and james turner for playing in the churchyard upon the sabbath day.

1630. we do present william rawles for sending his man to drive upon the sabbath day.

item. we do present james turner and george gover for being drinky on the sabbath day during the time of divine service."

the reader will note that the churchwardens at corfe were blessed with a very keen sense of moral acumen and split hairs over the degrees of inebriation. they found it intolerable to write a man down as intoxicated who had "half-a-pint otherwhile," so they merely entered him in their records as "drinky"; while, on the other hand, the man who was vulgarly concerned in liquor was described as a plain "drunk."

according to an old rhyme the man who killed a fox was a great benefactor and was considered as rendering a service a hundred and sixty times more important than the man who killed a rook.

[pg 181]

"a half-penny for a rook,

a penny for a jay;

a noble for a fox,

and twelve pence for a grey."

but a noble has not always been the reward of the wily rustic who could entrap reynard, and the churchwardens of corfe were certainly a little niggardly in their disbursements:

s. d.

1672 paid richard turner for a pole-cat 0 4

paid for three fox heads, 1s. each 3 0

1691 margaret white, son, for a hedge-hog head 1 0

paid for one dozen sparrow heads 0 2

1698 june 22nd—

it was then agreed by the parishioners of corfe castle met in the parish church that no money be paid for the heads of any vermin by the church wardens unless the said heads be brought into the church yard within one week after they are killed and exposed to public view."

by the last entry it will be seen that the parishioners of corfe were determined to get their money's worth, and the old churchyard must at times have contained quite a large collection of fur and feather. speaking of rewards for the extermination of the fox, i am reminded of an entry in the holne churchwardens' accounts for 1782 which has a tinge of sly humour about it. four shillings and two pence is paid for "running a fox to okehampton." we can imagine the good churchwardens of holne rubbing their hands and congratulating themselves on having got rid of reynard, or speculating over future raids on domestic fowls in the okehampton district. but the churchwardens were not too hopeful; they were a little doubtful. as "dead men rise up never," so a dead fox would not come prowling home again. so they talked the matter over and decided that half the customary noble would be a fitting remuneration to the hunter away of the fox.

i cannot leave corfe without saying a few words in praise of the greyhound inn. here the beams of the roof are black oak and squared enormously, like the timbers of a mighty ship, and some of the odd, low doorways remind one of the hatchways in a vessel. visitors have so often knocked their heads against the low doors that it has been necessary to paint in large letters above several of them, "mind your head." in the little smoke-room at the back one might fancy himself on board a ship in strange seas—especially does one experience this sensation in the evening before the candles are carried in. if it is wintertime the impression is more intense—the wind howls and worries at the window and the sky is swept clean in one broad, even stretch; then one may call for a pint of romsey ale, fill the pipe and enjoy the lonely kingdom of the man at the helm of a great vessel. when morning comes this same little room is bright and cheerful. the window looks out on a narrow courtyard paved with mighty stones, and corfe castle, which thrusts itself into every view of the town, fills the background. in the winter the rustics sit about the board in this room, but they do not come there in summer, being shy of visitors. the labourers seldom wear the smocks, made of russian duck, which their fore-elders were so inclined to favour. these smocks were much more stout than people would imagine, and the texture was so closely woven and waterproof that no rain could run through it.

four miles of a good, comfortable road running through a breezy heathland brings the pilgrim from corfe to wareham. on these heaths large quantities of white clay are dug up and run in truckloads to fill vessels in poole harbour. this clay is used for making pipes and in the manufacture of china. the clay pits are a very ancient and uninterrupted industry, and they have been worked continuously since the romans discovered them. the spade of the dorsetshire labourer still occasionally turns up fragments of roman pottery made from this identical clay. when stoborough, now a mere village, once an antique borough, is reached we come within sight of wareham, which is entered across a long causeway over the frome marshes. more life can be seen in an hour here by the frome than in a whole long day upon the hills. i have noticed how the birds that fly inland, high above me, will follow the river as a blind man feels his way, by natural impulse. over the water-meadows the peewits are twisting in eccentric circles, and everywhere in the reeds the little grey-brown, bright-eyed sedge-warblers are flitting about. it seems almost incredible that such a small bird as the sedge-warbler can produce such a torrent of sound. for a right merry, swaggering song, which, without being very musical, is indeed exhilarating, commend me to the sedge-warbler. he sings all the day long, and often far into the night, and even if he wakes up for a few seconds when he has once settled down to sleep he always obliges with a few lively chirrups.

the ancient town of wareham has been alluded to somewhat contemptuously by several writers as "slumberous" and dull. perhaps it is, although it is brighter in appearance than some towns near london that i know. at all events its stormy youth—in the days when london itself was but a "blinking little town"—has entitled it to a peaceful old age. all the scourges against which we pray—plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder and sudden death—have been endured with great strength of mind and calmness by the people of the town. sir frederick treves tells us that its history is one long, lurid account of disaster, so that it would need a jeremiah to tell of all its lamentations. however, an indomitable temper and a readiness to believe that to-morrow will be brighter than to-day is the prevailing spirit of her people, and the town has an incredible hold upon life and the grassy ramparts which almost encircle it. the ramparts, or town walls, are ten centuries old, and form three sides of an irregular square, and enclose, together with the frome, an area of a hundred acres. before the silting up of poole harbour the sea came nearer to its walls than it does now and the river was much wider. we learn from ancient records that a great swamp stretched seawards from the foot of the ridge. that wareham was a port of a kind is probable enough, for it furnished edward iii. with three ships and fifty-nine men at the siege of calais. as far back as one can follow the ancient records of the town a good number of ships called here, and when one comes out on the ample quay it is clearly seen that this place has once been a lively and animated wharf, resounding to the clatter of sea-boots and the songs of the chanty men. the waterside taverns and huge storehouses on the boat-station speak of the brave days gone by, and i cannot imagine a more pleasant spot to linger in on a sunny day. the seats and tables outside the rising sun and new inn are very inviting, and when i passed this way it gave me peculiar pleasure to spend an hour here, looking broadly about me. as i looked across the quay to the grey bridge, meadows and beautiful fertile valley the odours and sounds of the country cropped up around me. the sun, laying a broad hand on the river, had smoothed all the eddies out and was sending it between the banks, not bubbling loud, but murmuring softly. yes, the river was very sleepy that day. however, the frome has its share of living interests. here one can see the heron as he stands upon the shallows waiting till an eel shall move in the mud. a melancholy-looking fellow he looks, too, as he stands, gaunt and still, brooding some new spell. anon a small bubble rising in the shallows, followed by a slight turbidness of the water around it, attracts the watcher. a swift step or so, a lightning flash of his sharp beak and he has secured his eel. one watches him rising with labouring wings in a direct upward flight, the eel writhing in fruitless efforts to escape.

the summit of the town wall is used as a promenade, and one part of the west rampart, looking across the heath to the purbeck hills, is called the "bloody bank." here were executed, by order of judge jeffreys, some of monmouth's unfortunate adherents. their bodies were cut up and placed on the bridge, and their heads were nailed to a wooden tower in the town on the completion of the execution. here, too, peter of pomfret was hanged. he was a queer, cranky fellow and it appears that he was given to drawing horoscopes and meddling with secret and hidden things. he would have been quite free from any trouble had he not ventured to read in the scheme of the twelve houses of the zodiac the fortune of king john. he read, "under a position of heaven," that the king's reign would end on ascension day, 23rd may 1213, and this prophecy reached the ears of the king, who had little faith in the sayings of peter. however, the king made up his mind that peter's reign should end on this date, and he passed the unfortunate prophet on to corfe castle, where, we may be certain, he was carefully looked after. the 23rd of may passed the same way as other long-lost may-days and pay-days have passed, but king john was still very lively and active, and to convince peter of pomfret that he was a poor soothsayer he ordered the fellow to be whipped at the back of a dung-cart from corfe to wareham, where a gallows had been erected to welcome him. at wareham peter was driven through the streets, followed by a crowd of yelling, bloodthirsty people, and then hanged from the bloody bank, with the heather-covered moor before his eyes and the sky full of birds twittering and flying above his head.

the name wareham is saxon. wareham=wearth-ham—"the dwelling on the 'land between two waters'" (one of the meanings of wearth or worth), a name descriptive in the fullest sense of the position of the town betwixt the frome and piddle. certainly the history and importance of wareham dates back to saxon days. however, on the strength of a stone built into the north aisle of st mary's church, which bears the inscription: "catug c ... (fi) lius gideo," this foundation has been presumed to be of the british period, a bishop bearing the name of cating having been sent from brittany in or about 430. it is concluded that this stone is the record of a consecration performed by him.

beohrtric, king of wessex, is said to have been buried at wareham, and here for a time lay the body of edward the martyr. wareham was a favourite landing-place of the danes, and despite its vicissitudes was important enough to sustain two sieges in the wars of stephen and maud, to be twice taken and once burnt. wareham was once the chief port of poole harbour; but while poole flourished wareham decayed. unlike other dorset towns it stood by the cavaliers, but as the inhabitants were lacking in martial skill and a sufficient body of troops, the town was made a kind of shuttlecock by the contending parties. the last misfortune of the town was its almost total destruction by fire in 1762. all things considered, it is little wonder, therefore, that in spite of its age wareham has so few antiquities. the castle has left but a name, the priory little more; but reconstruction has spared the most interesting feature of st mary's church—the chapel of st edward—which is said to indicate the temporary burial-place of edward the martyr, whose marble coffin is now to be seen near the font.

if we follow the road from where the town is entered across the picturesque old bridge we pass the black bear, a spacious old inn, with an excellent effigy of bruin himself sitting grimly on the roof. the red lion is the inn mentioned by hardy in the hand of ethelberta. the queer[pg 190] ivy-covered little chapel of st martin, on the left side of the main street, at the top of the rise from the puddle, is visited by antiquaries from all the counties of england. it is one hundred and seventy years since regular services were held here. the roof beams are very ancient and still hold their own without any other aid. the interior is vault-like and eerie, and about the old place there hangs an atmosphere which has no affinity with the everyday world, but which reeks up from long-neglected tombs—a mystic vapour, sluggish and faintly discernible. an inscription on the north wall is to the memory of a surgeon, his wife and four children. the surgeon died in 1791, at the age of eighty-one, from an "apoplectic fit." it is rather a puzzle why the doctor was buried in this church, for in 1791 no parson had officiated here for fifty years or more. the pilgrim will be interested in the devil's door, by the altar, a memory of early christian superstition. it was the custom to open this door when the church bells were rung, to allow the devil to flee.