(_From a Correspondent._)
This is Corfe Castle! the celebrated structure, the date of which, and the
founder of which, are lost in antiquity:
"It stands to tell
A melancholy tale, to give
An awful warning; soon
Oblivion will steal silently
The remnant of its fame."
The castle is situate on the summit of a vast pyramidical mound, situated
abruptly in an opening of the chalk range extending from Ballard Down to
Worthbarrow in the Isle of Purbeck, county of Dorset. The walls are
extremely thick, (12 feet in some places,) and are about half a mile in
circuit. On the northern side the steepness of the ascent renders it
inaccessible, and on the south is a deep ditch, over which is a bridge of
three arches commanded by a gateway, flanked by two circular massive
towers. The first ward has several towers. Passing onwards in a
considerable ascent, we reached a second bridge guarded by a gate and
towers, and entered the second ward, in which are the ruins of five
towers. Winding round to the right, the explorer enters on the third and
principal ward, which stands on the summit of the hill; here were the
state apartments, store rooms, chapel, &c. built on vaults. The view from
this portion of the ruin is magnificent. A wide expanse of flat country
extending to Lytchett Bay and Poole, lies immediately at your feet. The
gloomy fir trees wave in solemnity, and form in their darkness, a striking
contrast with the dwellings that are scattered over the scene, and appear
like specks of dazzling white; the estuary of Poole Harbour stretches
along the distance like a mirror, and its molten silver-like appearance is
broken here and there by small islands, among which Brownsea is
conspicuous. Here we stood leaning over the northern battlement
contemplating the face of a delightful country, smiling in peace,--from
the stern and rugged fastness of war.
It was a bright summer's day; strong masses of light and shade lay
sleeping on the walls of the ruins, the dungeons were partially lighted by
the rays which broke into their gloom, and it chanced to be a village
holiday:
"Within the massy prison's mouldering courts,
Fearless and free the ruddy children played,
Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows
With the green ivy and the red wall-flower,
That mocks the dungeon's unavailing gloom;
The ponderous chains and gratings of strong iron,
There rusted amid heaps of broken stone
That mingled slowly with their native earth.
There the broad beam of day, which feebly once
Lighted the cheek of lean captivity
With a pale and sickly glare, then freely shone
On the pure smiles of infant playfulness.
No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair
Pealed through the echoing vaults, but soothing notes
Of joy fingered winds and gladsome birds
And merriment were resonant around."
Such were our feelings as we wandered musing and admiring amid the
stupendous ruins of this once magnificent fabric.
"Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene,
Closes in stedfast darkness."
The pomp of its splendour has passed away, and the stern wardour disputing
entrance to the belted knight is now succeeded by a lank cobbler, who
watches for lounging strangers, and acts as "_Cicerone_," blending the
most absurd and ridiculous stories in order to eke another sixpence from
the purse of his auditor, and to add greater importance to himself; but he
had a most amusing method of answering any startling questions as to date,
by significantly observing in the purest Dorset dialect, "Why Lord love
ye, zur, it wur avore the memory of ony maun in the parish!"
Apropos to dates, the earliest mention of Corfe is A.D. 978, when the
Saxon annals narrate the murder of Edward, King of the West Saxons,
committed here by his mother-in-law, Elfrida.
It was in the gloomy dungeons of this castle that King John starved to
death twenty-two prisoners of war, many of whom were among the first
nobility of Poictu, victims to the cruelty of a barbarous sceptered
tyrant! Then again, we thought of the fate of Peter of Pontefract, the
imprudent prophet, who, if he had turned over a page in the book of fate,
should have folded down the leaf instead of incurring the monarch's
vengeance by meddling with state affairs.
It was in this fortress that the unfortunate Edward II. was murdered in
1372, by his cruel keepers, Sir John Maltravers, and Sir Thomas Gurney,
who having removed the dethroned monarch from castle to castle, subjecting
him to every hardship and indignity, hoping that ill-treatment might
shorten his days. At last they determined amidst the profound security
afforded by this impregnable castle, to effect his death in the most
horrible manner, in order to prevent marks of violence being seen on his
corpse, namely, by inserting a horn tube into his body, through which was
conveyed a red-hot iron! Well may the traveller shudder at these ruins as
they beetle over him in frowning ruggedness, for they have been the
murderers' den; and doubtless many a deed of slaughter has been committed
in them, which has never come to light, under tyrannical power, which has
never come to the knowledge of men or blotted the page of history.
The vast masses of the castle ruins which lie scattered about and in the
vale below, form a scene of havoc and devastation, at once magnificent and
impressive. The towers were blasted with gunpowder, and many
"Which do slope
Their heads to their foundations,"
appear as if they were yet staggering from the blast of the mine which
sprung them from their beds; they lean as if ready to tumble down the
steep sides of the hill, and appear as if a child's finger would roll them
headlong. The ruins are in the possession of the family of Bankes.
In a meadow in the vale on the west side, which leads, by the by, to
Orchard Farm, is to be seen a curious earthwork, apparently ancient
British, which, from its structure, might have been a place of druidical
judicature, or for pastimes. This relic has, we believe, escaped the
notice of the intelligent Rev. John Clavell of Kimmeridge; and if the
public are ever to be favoured with the result of his studies and patient
investigations, it will be one of the most extraordinary productions of
its kind.
There is a small work on Corfe Castle, published by a very intelligent
resident of Wareham; and we are in hopes that the grey and hoary ruins may
call forth the muse of J.F. Pennie, who resides on this wild romantic
district, and whom we met with pleasure in our rambles.