of this building to transmit to future times the record of an awful
event which occurred in this market place in the year 1753, hoping
that such record may serve as a salutary warning against the danger of
impiously invoking Divine vengeance or calling on the holy name of God
to conceal the devices of falsehood and fraud. On Thursday, the 17th
of January 1753, Ruth Pierce of Pottern in this county agreed with
three other women to buy a sack of wheat in the market, each paying
her due proportion towards the same. One of these women collecting the
several quotas of money, discovered a deficiency and demanded of Ruth
Pierce what was wanting to make good the amount. Ruth Pierce protested
that she had paid her share and said she wished she might drop down
dead if she had not. She rashly repeated this awful wish, when, to the
consternation and terror of the surrounding multitude, she instantly
fell down and expired, having the money concealed in her hand."
Surely the citizens of Devizes, with such a warning staring them
in the face every day, must be exemplary disciples of George
Washington--and what a discouraging place the town would be for the
headquarters of an American trust!
The town gets its name from having been a division camp back in Roman
days. It figured much in the civil war, its castle, of which no traces
now remain, holding out for the king until taken by Cromwell in person.
There are in the town two of the finest churches in Wiltshire, second
only to Salisbury Cathedral. Nor is it to be forgotten that the parents
of Sir Thomas Lawrence were at one time keepers of the Bear Inn at
Devizes, and the son acquired his first fame by sketching the guests
and reciting poetry to them. He lived here until eighteen years of age,
when he entered the Royal Academy at London.
It was a surprise to find at Avebury, a lonely village a few miles
farther on, relics of a pre-historic stone circle that completely dwarf
the giants of Stonehenge. This great circle was about three-quarters
of a mile in circumference and three hundred years ago was nearly
perfect. The mighty relics were destroyed by the unsentimental vandals
of the neighborhood, and it is said that most of the cottages in the
village were built from these stones. Some of them were buried to
clear the land of them! Barely a dozen remain of more than six hundred
monoliths that stood in the circle as late as the reign of Elizabeth;
and the destruction ceased only fifty years ago. The stones are ruder
and less symmetrical than those of Stonehenge, but their individual
bulk averages greater--mighty fragments of rock weighing from fifty to
sixty tons each. The Avebury circle is supposed to have been a temple
of prehistoric sun worshipers, but its crudity indicates that it is far
older than Stonehenge.
A short run across the downs soon brought us to Marlborough, a name
more familiar as that of a dukedom than of a town. But the Duke of
Marlborough lives at Blenheim, forty miles away, and has no connection
with the Wiltshire town. Its vicissitudes were those of almost any of
the older English towns, though it had the rare distinction of having
its castle destroyed before the time of Cromwell. It has little of
great antiquity, since a fire two hundred and fifty years ago totally
wiped out the town that then existed. In the coaching days, it was an
important point on the London and Bath road; and perhaps the motor car
may bring back something of its old-time prosperity. The Ailesbury
Arms, where we stopped for our belated lunch, appeared to be a most
excellent hotel and is the only one I recollect which had a colored man
in uniform at the door.
Immediately adjoining Marlborough is Savernake Forest, on the estate
of the Marquis of Ailesbury, which is said to be the only forest of
any extent possessed by a subject. This park is sixteen miles in
circumference, and its chief glory is a straight four-mile drive
between rows of enormous beeches. This splendid avenue is not "closed
to motors" (the inscription that greeted us at the entrance of so many
private parks), and our car carried us soberly enough through the
sylvan scene, which is diversified with many grassy glades. There are
several famous trees, one of which, the King's Oak, is twenty-four
feet in circumference. Savernake is pleasant and impressive in summer
time, but its real beauty must be most apparent in autumn, when, as an
English writer describes it, "it is a blaze of crimson and yellow--the
long shadows and golden sunlight giving the scene a painted, almost too
brilliant effect."
It is growing late and we must not loiter longer by the way if we are
to reach Bournemouth for the night. We sweep across the great open
Salisbury Plain past Stonehenge and down the sweet vale of the Avon
until the majestic spire of Salisbury pierces the sky. Then southward
through Ringwood to Christchurch, where we catch a glimpse of the scant
fragments of the castle and the abbey church, with its melancholy
memorial to Shelley. A few minutes more on the fine ocean road brings
us into Bournemouth.
XVI
DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT
Of the hundreds of hotels whose hospitality we enjoyed--or endured--in
Britain, no other was so barbarously gorgeous as the Royal Bath at
Bournemouth. The furnishings were rich, though verging to some extent
on the gaudy, and the whole place had an air of oriental splendor about
it made the more realistic by "fairy grottoes" and gilded pagodas on
the grounds. It is a rather low building of great extent, with wide,
thickly carpeted halls in which bronze and plaster statuettes and
suits of old plate armor are displayed. At the head of the stairs a
tablet enumerates a few of the patrons of quality--an imposing list
indeed--which we may partly transcribe here. The large gilt letters
solemnly assure us that "This Hotel has been patronised by H. R. H.
the PRINCE OF WALES, H. R. H. the DUCHESS OF ALBANY, and other Members
of the ROYAL FAMILY: H. I. H. the EMPRESS EUGENIE, H. M. the KING OF
THE BELGIANS, H. R. H. CROWN PRINCE OF SWEDEN and NORWAY, H. R. H.
the CROWN PRINCESS OF DENMARK, H. R. H. PRINCE ALBRECHT OF PRUSSIA,
Regent of Brunswick; the Leading Statesmen, and the most Eminent and
Distinguished Personages visiting Bournemouth." Verily a list of
notables that might well overawe a common American citizen.
But after all, the pretensions of the Royal Bath are not altogether
unwarranted, for its foundation, in 1838, marked the beginning
of Bournemouth itself. It is since then that this handsome
watering-place--it has no superior in the Kingdom--has come into
existence. In few other modern resort towns has the original idea been
so well carried out. The pine trees planted by the early promoters
now form a grove through which runs the magnificent promenade along
the sea. The citizens are mainly of the wealthier class and there are
many fine private residences. There are, of course, the usual adjuncts
of the watering-place, such as the amusement pier, promenades, public
gardens and palatial hotels. The climate, which is as salubrious
as that of Torquay, brings to the town many people seeking health.
Bournemouth, of course, has little of history or tradition. In the
churchyard surrounding its imposing modern church is buried Mary
Wollstonecraft Shelley and her parents, William and Mary Godwin.
I have not intended to intimate that the Royal Bath, with all its
splendor, is anything but comfortable and first-class. Our tall
casement windows opened directly on the sea, and the high ceilings of
our room were decorated with plaster bosses and stencilled festoons
of roses. The view at sunset over the terrace, down the sandy beach
and sweeping over the sail-flecked waters, was at once restful and
inspiring. The crowd thronging the promenades was in a gay, careless
mood; children played in the sand in unrestrained joy, while the many
colored lights on the pier and the lanterns of the boats gave a touch
of brilliancy to the scene. It all seemed to strangely contrast with
the spirit of the England we were most familiar with, for Bournemouth
belongs to another day and generation than the England of our
pilgrimage.
The Isle of Purbeck is no island at all--even as the "Isles," Athelney
and Avilion, in no wise fulfill the geographical requirements of
islands. It is a small peninsula of Southern Dorset, and at its very
center stands one of the most remarkable of the English castles.
Thither we go, following the coast from Bournemouth through the somber
little town of Wareham; from thence southward over heather-mottled
hills, and ere long we catch sight of the gigantic mound upon which are
the straggling fragments of Corfe Castle. Before the castle gate stands
Corfe village, a group of plain cottages, seemingly as ancient as the
ruin overlooking them. All are mellowed by the touch of time; there is
naught to mar the harmony of the dull silver grays and moss greens of
the cottages, the solid old church or of the ruins which tower in sharp
outline against a pale, blue sky.
The entrance to the castle court is well above the roofs of the
cottages and is severed from the village by a deep fosse crossed by a
high-arched stone bridge. The gate is flanked by two huge round towers,
but from the inside one sees the castle proper, perched on the summit
of the mound, its very foundation stones high above the gate towers.
Standing among the stupendous ruins we realize the amazing strength the
castle possessed, both in construction and position. Huge fragments of
walls and towers rise above us like thunder-riven cliffs, their bald
outlines softened in places by the clinging ivy. Here and there masses
of fallen masonry are lying about like boulders, so solidly does the
mass cling together. So ruinous are the walls that it is difficult
to identify the different apartments, and even the antiquarians have
trouble in restoring the original plan of the castle. The keep itself,
generally intact, is shattered, one fragment, almost the entire height
of the structure, standing curiously like a huge chimney. Clearly
enough, an explosive was the agent of destruction here--Corfe Castle
was razed with gunpowder by express order of Cromwell's Parliament.
[Illustration: CORFE VILLAGE AND CASTLE.]
From the wall on the highest point of the mound, one has a wide
prospect. It was a clear lucent day and when we climbed a broken tower
the whole peninsula of Purbeck spread beneath us like a map. It is now
bleak and sterile, spotted with gorse and heather and broken in places
with chalk cliffs. Yet when the castle was built the region was covered
with a stately forest, of which no trace now remains. Far to the north
we see the Wareham road winding away like a serpent, while a stony
trail cuts squarely across the moor to the west. When we prepare to
take our leave, we ask the custodian concerning the road to Lulworth,
and he points out the uninviting byway through the fields. We had
planned to return to Wareham, but this route, he assures us, is shorter
and "very good,"--strange ideas of good roads had the old man if he
could so describe the ten miles through the moors to Lulworth, quite as
bad as any of equal distance we found in ten thousand miles.
But before we go shall we ask the story of Corfe? The tales of the
abbeys and castles are much alike and their end nearly always the
same--dismantled by Henry, destroyed by Cromwell. Still, Corfe is very
old; its records go back to Saxon times. How weird it is to think that
in front of the towers that grimly guard the entrance King Edward
the Martyr was stabbed by order of his stepmother, Elfrida, as he
paused to quaff a goblet of wine. It happened more than a thousand
years ago, and from that time until Cromwell's gunpowder sent walls
and towers tottering to destruction, the sequestered castle was the
scene of intermittent turmoil and bloodshed. Sir Christopher Hatton
built the more modern portions during the reign of Elizabeth, but Corfe
brought him only trouble. In 1633 it passed from the possession of his
descendant to Sir John Bankes, a loyal supporter of King Charles, and
while he was active in court and field, his energetic wife held the
castle against all comers. One siege she repulsed and the surrender in
1646 was brought about only by treachery. Brave Lady Bankes! The story
of her gallant defense will not be forgotten while a single fragment of
the old fortress remains on its bleak, wind-swept hill.
But they have told us that Lulworth and its cove are worth seeing and
we are soon away over the moorland road. A strenuous ten miles it is,
rough, stony, steep, with numerous gates to open and close between
the fields, and in places the road is so overgrown with grass and
heather as to be hardly discernible. But from the uplands which it
traverses one may see the ocean on the left and to the right a long
array of rolling hills and winding valleys, all in the purple glow of
full-blown heather, with here and there a lonely cottage or group of
trees. We begin a long descent, following the edge of the hill toward
the sea, and a sharp turn leads down a short steep grade into Lulworth.
The village some years ago had merely a few thatched cottages nestling
beneath the high hills to the landward, but of late Lulworth has
assumed airs as a trippers' resort in the summertime, and the red-tiled
villas rather spoil its old-world effect. Lulworth would be of no more
note than other villages scattered along the south coast were it not
for its peculiar cove, an almost circular, basinlike depression a few
hundred yards in diameter; the sea enters it through a narrow opening
in the cliffs. We were able to take the car down to the very margin
of the water. An angular, red-whiskered fisherman approached us and
in broad South Country speech offered to row us across the cove. We
acquiesced in deference to his story of slack times and hard luck. The
water of the cove has a depth of sixty feet near the center and in old
days offered shelter to smugglers' smacks. From the high cliffs on the
opposite side we had a magnificent view of the rough coast line, a
medley of gray, green and white, stretching along the foam-flecked sea.
We soon regain the main road and pass Lulworth Castle but a little way
from the village--a massive, rectangular structure with circular,
crenelated towers at each corner. It is not of great antiquity, having
been built during the reign of Elizabeth, who is reputed to have
visited it, and King James came here to escape the plague in London.
Our route carries us back to Wareham, a sleepy, shrunken town with
little to suggest its strenuous history. Indeed, one writer declares
that no town in England has undergone more calamities in the shape
of sieges and conflagrations from the early wars with the Danes down
to the capture of the place by Cromwell's forces. It is pleasantly
situated on a strip of meadowland between two small rivers, and today
has about two thousand people. Its wall, built more than a thousand
years ago, may still be traced throughout its entire course and proves
Wareham once of much greater extent than at present.
Wimborne Minster takes its name from the church whose square towers
with odd minaretlike pinnacles loom over the town as we approach it
from the south. And rightly should the name of the minster predominate,
for it is the redeeming feature of the commonplace Dorset town. But
it is quite enough--few English churches have a greater store of
curious relics. The chained library of about two hundred and fifty huge
volumes, each held to its shelf by a heavy, rusty chain, is unique;
but as one reads the ponderous titles of the books he wonders that such
precaution should have been deemed necessary. Still, there were no "six
best sellers" in the day when this library was established, and even
heavy theological treatises in Latin and Greek may have been in demand.
Not less curious is the orrery clock, five hundred years old, which
illustrates the astronomical ideas of its time in compelling the sun
to make a circuit of the dial every day, while the moon occupies a
month. The sense of humor that mixes itself with the solemnity of
so many English churches finds expression here in an odd, gnomelike
automaton on the western tower that goes through strange contortions
every quarter hour. One cannot but wonder just what is in the huge
chest--unopened for centuries--hewn from a single log and fastened
with great bunglesome locks; but most likely it contains records
and documents pertaining to the church. But all these marvels are
nothing to those which Wimborne Minster once possessed but which have
disappeared; a piece of the true cross and one of the manger in which
the Lord was born; some of the earth from the Bethlehem stable and a
few hairs from Christ's head; a thigh bone of St. Agatha; a few of St.
Philip's teeth; a joint of St. Cecelia; the hair shirt of St. Thomas
a' Becket and a small phial of his blood. Verily Wimborne Minster was
well supplied with the stock in trade of the early church.
But the minster has associations of a less mythical nature. In the
chancel is the grave of Aethelred, King of the West Saxons, brother
of Alfred the Great, who was slain in 871. A fine brass is set in the
slab over the grave, but this is doubtless of more recent date. There
are tombs of several crusaders, though the effigies have been sadly
mutilated. But the most curious tomb is a gilded coffin set in a niche
in the wall, a little below the level of the floor. On the coffin is
the date 1693, which the occupant at one time fixed as the date for his
demise, but this did not occur until ten years later. He expressed a
wish to be buried "neither under the ground nor above it; neither in
the church nor out of it" and left an annuity of five pounds to keep
his coffin touched up yearly--all of which was faithfully carried out,
for thus did the church once lend itself to clownish eccentricity.
Wimborne Minster delights in its relics, its traditions, and its
medieval customs. The verger told us of one of the latter that is
perhaps founded on more of common sense than many of the old-time
practices, and which, with that continuity of custom that confronts one
everywhere in England, still prevails. The vestrymen pass through the
church at times during the services and prod the sleeping brethren
with long black rods--not a bad idea, after all, though one that could
hardly be inaugurated without precedent.
So much of our glimpse of Wimborne Minster; it is late and we are bound
for Southampton, forty or more miles away as we propose to go. The
road to Ringwood and from thence to Lymington leads through an open,
heathlike country--stretches of rank-growing ferns interspersed with
the vivid purple of the heather. A little beyond Ringwood we enter New
Forest, though in this section little of the forest--as one thinks of
the word now--is to be seen. There are occasional groups of trees,
but the prevailing feature of the landscape is the fern-clad heath. A
cheerless road it is, but open, finely surfaced and nearly level, with
nothing to hinder the mad rush of our motor.
At Lymington we hail a citizen and inquire in our best French accent
for the road to Beaulieu. He studies awhile and shakes his head. Then
we seek a never-failing source of information--a garage man--but to our
astonishment he is puzzled.
"Boloo, Boloo; never heard of it."
"What, the old abbey? It can't be far from here."
"O, you mean Bewley, to be sure--eight miles straight away; you can't
miss it."
We hasten on over the moors and through a stretch of woodland into a
wooded valley, where we come to a village more pleasing than any we
have yet seen in Dorset--a village of thatched cottages and flower
gardens fitting well into the charming surroundings. The river, held in
leash by a weir, lies in broad, silvery reaches, fringed with willows,
and groups of pond lilies dot its surface. Beaulieu, aside from its
abbey, might be a shrine for the motorist, for here is the estate of
Lord Montague, an enthusiast for the wind-shod steed, who has exchanged
his ancestral stables for motors, and, to cap it all, is owner and
editor of "The Car."
There is not much left of the abbey. Henry VIII., with characteristic
thrift, floated the stone down the river to build Hurst Castle. The
refectory, now restored and used as a parish church, is the most
perfect remnant of the once magnificent establishment, whose church
almost equalled the huge dimensions of Winchester Cathedral. The late
lord did much to restore the ruins, which are now surrounded by lawns
and shrubbery. The monks of Beaulieu had wide fame for good cheer--they
kept great vineyards and their wines were counted the best in England.
The vineyards throve long after the Dissolution, but the last vine,
several hundred years old, disappeared about two centuries ago. Just
across the river there is a substantial, comfortable hotel belonging
to Lord Montague, which is much frequented by fishermen.
[Illustration: AN ISLE OF WIGHT ROAD.]
An hour's run over level but winding roads brought us to the Great
Western Hotel in Southampton. It was a needless trip, after all, for
the Isle of Wight is best reached from Lymington, whither we returned
in the morning.
At Lymington the motor was loaded into a tiny boat, nearly filling it
from stem to stern, and towed by the little channel steamer across
the Solent to Yarmouth. The captain, who commands a crew of four
men, invited us into the pilot house and gave us his field glasses,
entertaining us with a tale of hard luck, long hours, small pay and
still smaller appreciation of his service on part of the railway
company, which owns the steamers. He was a typical English salt, bluff
and bronzed, with a dialect that was refreshing to hear. We did not
forget him, either, and found him anxiously looking for us next day
when we were ready to return to the mainland.
Here we are on the sunniest, calmest of summer days in the isle whose
greatest charm for us is, perhaps, in the fact that Tennyson spent
most of his active life here and did much of his best work in his
island home. But this is far from the only attraction of the romantic
island, so small that a circuit of sixty-five miles takes one over the
coast roads. The eastern and half the northern coast is dotted with
increasingly popular resort towns, of which Cowes, of yachting fame,
is the best known, and thither we direct our course.
It is open day at Osborne House and the short excursion by steamer from
Southampton appeals to English people as few other holiday trips. And
it is not strange when one reflects that no other place was in such a
strict sense the home of Queen Victoria as Osborne House, or has so
many memories of her life. The rather ineffective Italian villa was
designed and built by herself and the Prince Consort and here were
passed the happy years of the early married life of the royal couple.
It was the queen's private property and descended to King Edward, who
presented it to the nation. As it stands now, it may be said to be a
memorial to the queen. Here are the family portraits and the marvelous
presents given to Victoria on the occasions of her golden and diamond
jubilees; some were from other rulers, but the most wonderful came from
Indian potentates and the colonies. These defy all description. The
queen died here in 1901, and altogether Osborne House is full of the
deepest significance to the average British subject. The crowds that
thronged the palace grounds on the day of our visit, we were told, were
quite representative of the open days of the summer season.
Newport, the capital and metropolis of the island, is a modern-looking
town, whose greatest interest is Carisbrooke Castle, the stronghold of
the ancient governors. It stands on an eminence overlooking the town
and charming indeed was the prospect that greeted us from the walls
on that shimmering summer afternoon. The town, with its red-brick,
slate-roofed buildings, lay just below us; about it were the tiny
fields, with the green meadowlands, the ripening grain, great trees
and snug cottages. One may walk on the battlements--in part modern
replacements--entirely around the castle walls, and thus view the ruin
from every angle.