POOLE, WIMBORNE AND THE ISLE OF PURBECK
The South of England generally is wanting in that particular scenic
charm that consists of broad stretches of inland water backed by high
country. The first sight of Poole harbour with the long range of the
Purbeck Hills in the distance will come as a delightful revelation to
those who are new to this district. The harbour is almost land-locked
and the sea is not in visual evidence away from the extremely narrow
entrance between Bournemouth and Studland. A fine excursion for good
pedestrians can be made by following the sandy shore until the ferry
across the opening is reached and then continuing to Studland and over
Ballard Down to Swanage.
Poole town is a busy place of small extent but containing for its size
a large population. The enormous development of industry in the
surrounding districts during the Great War must have brought the
number of folks in and around Poole to nearly 100,000, thus making it
the most populous corner of Dorset. This figure may not be maintained,
but a good proportion of the work concerned with the waste of
armaments has been transformed into the commerce of peace. One cause
for the modern prosperity of this old town is its position as regards
the converging railways from the west and north as well as from London
and Weymouth.
[Illustration: POOLE.]
Poole, like a good many other places with as much or as little cause,
has been claimed as a Roman station. There seems to be no direct
evidence for this. The first actual records of the town are dated
1248, when William de Longespée gave it its first charter. This Norman
held the manor of Canford, and Poole church was originally a chapel of
ease for that parish. The present building only dates from 1820 and
for the period is a presentable enough copy of the Perpendicular
style. Poole was a republican town in the Civil War and sent its
levies to help to reduce Corfe Castle. The revenge of the other side
came when, at the Restoration, all the town defences were destroyed,
though the king was not too unforgetful to refuse the hospitality of
the citizens during the Great Plague.
The only remarkable relics in Poole are the Wool House or "Town
Cellar" and an old postern dating from about 1460. The Town Hall, with
its double flight of winding steps and quaint high porch was built in
1761. Within, as a commemoration of the visit recorded above, is a
presentment of the monarch who must have had "a way with him," since
his subjects' memories apparently became as short as his own.
But Poole's most stirring times were in the days when Harry Page,
licensed buccaneer and pirate, made individual war on Spain to such
good purpose that the natives of Poole were astounded one morning to
see upwards of one hundred foreign vessels dotted about the waters of
the harbour, prizes taken by the redoubtable "Arripay," as his
captives termed him. Nothing flying the Spanish flag in the Channel
seemed to escape him, until matters at last became so humiliating that
the might of both countries was brought to bear on Poole, and the town
underwent a severe chastisement, in which Page's brother was killed.
This spirit of warlike enterprise descended to the great grandchildren
of these Elizabethans, for in Poole church is a monument to one
Joliffe, captain of the hoy _Sea Adventurer_, who, in the days of
Dutch William, drove ashore and captured a French privateer. In the
following year another bold seaman, William Thompson, with but one man
and a cabin-boy to help him, took a Cherbourg privateer and its crew
of sixteen. Both these heroes received a gold chain and medal from the
King. Another generation, and the town was fighting its own masters
over the question of "free imports." In spite of the usually accepted
fact that smuggling can only prosper in secret, Poole became a sort of
headquarters for all that considerable trade that found in the nooks
and crannies of the Dorset coast safe warehouses and a natural
cellarage. So bold did the fraternity become that in 1747, when a
large cargo of tea had been seized by the crown authorities and placed
for safe keeping in the Customs House, the free traders overpowered
all resistance and triumphantly retrieved their booty, or shall we
say, their property? and took it surrounded by a well-armed escort to
various receivers in the remoter parts of the wild country north-west
of Wimborne. The leaders of this attack were afterwards found to be
members of a famous Sussex band and the incident led to tragedy. An
informer named Chater, of Fordingbridge, and an excise officer--William
Calley--were on their way to lay an information, when they were seized
by a number of smugglers and cruelly done to death. For this six men
suffered the full penalty and three others were hanged for the work
done at Poole.
The waters of Poole Harbour are salt as the sea outside though fed by
the rivers Frome and Puddle, and so of course its best aspect is when
the tide is full. The erratic ebb and flow is more pronounced here
than at Southampton and there are longer periods of high than low
water. Brownsea Island, that occupies the centre of this inland sea,
with its wooded banks of dark greenery makes an effective foil to the
sparkling waters and long mauve line of the Purbeck Hills. There is
always deep water at the eastern extremity of the island, to which
boats can be taken. Here are Branksea (or Brownsea) Castle, an
enlarged and improved edition of one of Henry's coast forts, and a few
cottages. Other small islands, populated by waterfowl, lie between
Brownsea and the Purbeck shore, where on a small peninsula is the
pretty little hamlet of Arne, remote, forgotten and very seldom
visited by tourist or stranger, but commanding the most exquisite
views of the harbour and surrounding country. It is possible that in
the near future the amenities of Poole Harbour may disappear or at
least change their quiet aspect of to-day, for at the time of writing
a scheme is afoot to deepen the channels and render the harbour
capable of taking the largest ships within its sheltered anchorage.
Six miles north of Poole, in the valley of the Stour where that river
is joined by the Allen or Wim, stands Wimborne Minster surrounded by
the pleasant old town that bears the full name of its only title to
renown. This is another claimant for a Roman send-off to its history,
and with better grounds than Poole, though here again authorities
differ, some maintaining that Badbury Rings, the scene of the great
defeat of the West Saxons by the British, was the original
Vindogladia. A Roman pavement has been discovered within the area
covered by the Minster Church; whether this is a remnant of a
considerable station or only of a solitary villa is unknown.
[Illustration: WIMBORNE MINSTER.]
The beautiful Minster, one of the "sights" of Bournemouth, and,
although farther afield, almost as popular as Christchurch, was
founded at an early date in the history of Wessex, but the actual year
is unknown. It must have been very early in the eighth century that
the two sisters of King Ine, Cuthberga and Cwenburh, joined in forming
a sisterhood here. Both were buried in the original building and
eventually became enrolled in that long list of Saxon Saints whose
names have such a quaintly archaic sound and whose lives must have
been a matter of high romance, considering the experiences through
which they lived. St. Boniface asked for the help of the Wimborne
sisterhood to carry on his missionary labours among the benighted
tribes of Germany, and several establishments in the marshes and
woodlands along the shore of the Baltic Sea were the daughter houses
of this mid-Wessex abbey. The Saxon church was probably destroyed
during the Danish terror, but rebuilding commenced again before the
Conquest and the church became a college of secular canons.
As will be seen by a first glance at the central tower, Norman
workmanship is in evidence in the exterior. The pinnacles and
battlements that give the upper part such a curious and incongruous
appearance were added in 1608. Previous to this it had a spire that
was erected in the late thirteenth century, but in 1600, while a
service was being conducted, "a sudden mist ariseing, all the spire
steeple, being of very great height was strangely cast down; the
stones battered all the lead and brake much timber of the roofe of the
church, yet without anie hurt to the people." The other tower at the
western end was a 1450 addition, about which time several alterations
were made, including a new clerestory. The soft and beautiful tints in
the old stone are not the least charming feature of the exterior.
Before entering the church the "Jack," a figure in eighteenth-century
dress that strikes the hours on a bell, should be noticed. The medley
of architecture will be seen directly one enters by the north porch.
The arches of the nave are of three distinct types; those at the west
end being Decorated, the three in the middle late Transitional, and
that nearest the tower an earlier example of this style. The choir is
a mixture of late Norman and Early English. The altar is placed
unusually high and this adds much to the dignity of the church. The
east window is of great interest to archaeologists. Conjectured to
have been constructed about 1210-20 when the apsidal east end was
pulled down, it forms one of the earliest instances of "plate"
tracery. Some old Italian glass has been inserted in it. On the south
side of the chancel will be seen the fine tomb of John Beaufort, Duke
of Somerset, grandfather of Henry VII and grandson of John of Gaunt.
Above the tomb is suspended an old helmet weighing over 14 lbs. This
was found during some restorations, buried in the nave. It is supposed
to have belonged to the Duke. Beyond this are the canopied sedilia and
piscina. On the north side is a slab of Purbeck marble which may have
replaced the original memorial of King Ethelred, who was buried in the
older church. The tomb on this side of the chancel is that of
Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter, and wife of the Marquis beheaded by
Henry VIII. The oak benches that extend across the front of the
sanctuary were placed here when the church was in Presbyterian
keeping. They are usually covered with white wrappings, which, to the
casual visitor, have the appearance of decorators' dust-cloths, but
are really "houseling linen." The relics that once made the Minster
famous and a place of pilgrimage for the credulous were many and
various. Reputed fragments of our Lord's manger, robe and cross; some
of the hairs of His beard, and a thorn from His crown; a bottle
containing the blood of St. Thomas à Becket, and St. Agatha's
thighbone.
The fine old chest with its six different locks, one for each trustee,
in the St. George's or north choir aisle, will be remarked. This is
the receptacle for the deeds of Collett's Charity at Corfe Castle.
Beside another very ancient chest (possibly used for "relics"), is an
effigy of an unknown knight, conjectured to be a Fitz Piers, also a
monument to Sir Edmund Uvedale. In the south, or Trinity, aisle is the
Etricke tomb; here lies a recorder of Poole, the same who committed to
prison, after his capture on one of the wild heaths near Ringwood,
that one-time hope of protestant England, the unfortunate Duke of
Monmouth. This Anthony Etricke was buried half in and half out of the
church in pursuance of a curious whim that he should lie neither in
the open nor under the church roof. He caused the date of his death to
be carved upon the side of the sarcophagus but, as may be seen, the
date had to be advanced twelve years when he did demise. There is a
finely vaulted crypt under the altar and over the fourteenth century
vestry is an interesting library where the books were once chained to
the shelves. It was instituted in the seventeenth century for the use
of the laity of Wimborne as well as for the minster clergy and may
thus claim to be one of the very earliest libraries in existence. It
contains, among other curiosities, a copy of Raleigh's _History of the
World_ with a hole burnt through its leaves, through the carelessness
of Matthew Prior, who was a resident of Wimborne. On the wall of the
western tower is a brass to this worthy.
The town has the usual pleasant and comfortable air of an English
agricultural centre, with few really old buildings, however, and a sad
amount of mean and jerry-built streets in the newer part near the
station that does not give the stranger a favourable first impression
if he comes by rail. There are some picturesque alleys and "backs"
around the Minster and the walks in the rural environs of Wimborne and
up the valley of the Stour are most charming. On the north-west of the
town is St. Margaret's Hospital, with a restored chapel that still
retains some ancient portions. This was originally a leper's hospital
and the foundation dates from about 1210.
[Illustration: JULIAN'S BRIDGE, WIMBORNE.]
A long mile east of Wimborne station is Canford Magna, the mother
parish of a large district. The small church still retains a goodly
portion of the original Norman structure. The fine modern stained
glass is worthy of notice, but the recent additions are in poor taste
and too florid a style. Near by is Canford Manor, an imposing pile
belonging to Lord Wimborne and once the home of the Earls of
Salisbury. The greater part of the present house was designed by Sir
Charles Barry, the architect of the Houses of Parliament. The
remainder dates from the early part of the nineteenth century, except
"John O'Gaunt's Kitchen"--the only portion left of the ancient
manor-house. Canford village is of the model variety, each house
bearing the "seal" of the lord of the manor.
From quite near Wimborne station delightful walks may be taken across
the park, which, under certain reasonable restrictions, is open to the
public. To the south stretches the wide expanse of Canford Heath,
which once upon a time extended to the sea at Canford Cliffs, now a
fashionable part of Bournemouth. Eastwards, crossed by the Ringwood
road, is another series of heaths, sparsely inhabited and known by the
various names of Hampreston, Parley Common, St. Leonard's Common and
Holt Heath. There are few parts of Southern England where is so much
idle land, apart from the New Forest, as in eastern Dorset. These
moors are beautiful for rambling and camping, but heartbreaking to any
one with the mind of a Cobbett!
The direct Salisbury road climbs for ten miles gradually upwards, and
passing Hinton Parva church on the right, and, about a mile farther,
the site of a British village close to the road on the left, takes a
lonely and rather dull course until it reaches the small hamlet of
Knowlton, where there are the remains of a church built inside a round
earthwork which has its walls _outside_ the ditch, thus indicating, in
all probability, a use religious rather than military and an unbroken
tradition into Christian times. The way continues in a north-easterly
direction until it winds past the conspicuous tumulus, said to be a
temple or place of justice, on the summit of Castle Hill, just short
of the one-time important, but now much decayed market town of
Cranborne. The church here is an imposing and beautiful Early English
erection, with some remains of an earlier Norman building. A priory of
Benedictines was founded at Cranborne in Saxon times by Aylward, but
nothing of this still earlier building can now be traced. The fine
embattled tower dates from that era of fine towers--the Perpendicular.
The west window is a memorial to the celebrated Dean of St.
Paul's--Stillingfleet, a member of a family who once lived in one of
the old cottages here. The ancient pulpit will be noticed; this bears
the initials of an abbot of Tewkesbury, who died in 1421. Some wall
paintings were discovered under a coat of distemper about twenty years
ago, and there is a fine monument with recumbent figures to Sir Edward
Hooper.
[Illustration: CRANBORNE MANOR.]
The little "Crane bourne" that comes down from the lonely chalk
uplands between Cranborne Chase and Pentridge Hill gives its name to
the town, which in turn gives a title to the Cecils. The manor is said
to have as long a history as that of the church, but the present
building dates mainly from about 1520. The Jacobean west wing was
built by the first Cecil to take possession. The early Stuart kings
were frequent visitors, and Charles I stayed in the house just before
the fight at Newbury in 1644. At Rushay Farm, near the lonely hamlet
of Pentridge, William Barnes, the Dorset poet, was born, and a
forefather of Robert Browning was once footman and butler to the Banks
family who lived at Woodyates. A tablet in Pentridge church
commemorates his death in 1746, but, needless to say, it has only been
erected since his great descendant became famous. A memorial to the
poet has also been placed in the church inscribed with a line from
_Pippa Passes_: "All service ranks the same with God."
Cranborne Chase, a lonely district of wooded hills that we shall
approach again in our travels, is partly in Dorset and partly in
Wilts. It is a remnant of the great deer forest that, originally in
the possession of various feudal lords, became Crown property in the
reign of the fourth Edward and remained in royal hands until the time
of James I. During that long period, and for many years afterwards, it
was a region where the scanty population, innocent as well as
lawbreaker, lived in constant fear of the barbarous laws governing the
chase. Mutilation, the dungeon or heavy fine, according to the rank of
the offender, was the punishment for taking the deer. Ferocity often
breeds ferocity, and the inhabitants of the forest were for long a
dour and difficult race. The locality seemed destined to raise
gentlemen of the road, and in the seventeenth century and during the
next, the dim recesses of the woods were utilized for storing the vast
quantities of goods landed free of duty at Poole and elsewhere.
Wiltshire people say that the original "Moonrakers" were Wiltshire
folk of Cranborne Chase, and the story goes that a party of horsemen
crossing a stream saw some yokels drawing their rakes through the
water which reflected the harvest moon. On being questioned they
confessed that they were trying to rake "that cheese out of the
river:" with a shout of laughter at the simplicity of the rustics the
travellers proceeded on their way. The humour of the joke lies in the
fact that the "moonrakers" were smugglers retrieving kegs of rum and
brandy and that the horsemen were excise officials. But the folk-lore
origin of "Moonraker" is said by the Rev. J.E. Field to belong to a
very early period, probably before the day of the Saxon and to be
contemporaneous with the "Cuckoo Penners" of Somerset, who captured a
young cuckoo and built a high hedge round it; there they fed it until
its wings had grown, when it quietly flew away, much to the astonished
chagrin of the yokels. This is a widespread legend and belongs to
other parts of England besides Somerset.
The road from Wimborne to Blandford, four miles from the former town,
passes on the right an imposing hill crowned with fir trees. This is
the famous Badbury Rings. Here the conquering West Saxon met his most
serious set-back and almost his only real defeat. The camp is
undoubtedly prehistoric and was not a permanent settlement, but rather
a military post of great strength for use in time of war. The ramparts
consist of three rings of "wall" with a ditch to each, the outer being
a mile round. The hill is noteworthy for its extensive views, reaching
in clear weather to the Isle of Wight. The Purbeck Hills appear far
away over the beautiful park of Kingston Lacy, the seat of the Bankes,
an old county family. The house contains a fine collection of pictures
not usually shown to the public.
The road it is proposed to follow leaves this demesne to the left and
in two miles reaches Sturminster Marshall on the banks of the Stour.
The old church with its pinnacled tower was restored so carefully that
its ancient character has to a large extent been retained. The church
was originally Norman, but several additions of varying dates have
been made to it. As the church is entered, two fifteenth-century
coffin lids will be noticed in the porch. Within is a brass to a
former vicar (1581) and a slab to Lady Arundel of Nevice. The memorial
to King Alfred was presented to the church a few years ago by R.C.
Jackson, the antiquary, to commemorate the supposed connexion of this
Stour Minster with the great king.
Passing Bailey Gate, which is the station for Sturminster, the Poole
road is reached in a few minutes; turning left and following this for
a mile, the pedestrian may take a rough track uphill to the right that
leads to Lytchett Matravers, an out-of-the-way village with a
Perpendicular church and an unpretending inn. Two miles to the
south-east on the Poole-Wareham road is Lytchett Minster, remarkable
for the extraordinary sign of its inn, the "St. Peter's Finger." This
has been explained by Sir Bertram Windle as a corruption of St. Peter
ad Vincula. The inn unconsciously perpetuates the name of an old
system of land tenure, Lammas-day (in the Roman calendar St. Peter ad
Vincula) being one of the days on which service was done as a
condition of holding the land. The pictured sign itself, however, is
very literal in its rendering of the name. One of the finest views
obtainable of Poole and its surroundings is from Lytchett Beacon, and
in the opposite direction, the tower in Charborough Park is a
conspicuous landmark.
The direct road from Lytchett Matravers goes by Sleeping Green (we are
approaching the land of queer names) and reaches Wareham in five miles
after passing over the lonely Holton Heath, an outlier of the Great
Heath of Dorset, that wide stretch of moorland that Mr. Hardy has made
world-famous under the general appellation of "Egdon Heath."
Wareham, pleasant and ancient, is, after the capital, the most
interesting inland town in Dorset. Its position between the rivers
Frome and Puddle, that unite just before reaching Poole Harbour, was
of value as a strategical point and from very early times, possibly
prehistoric, the town was strongly fortified by its famous "walls" or
earth embankments that enclose to-day a much greater area than the
town itself.
Roman antiquities have been found of such a character as to prove its
importance at that period. It was one of the towns where Athelstan's
coins were made. It was accounted a first-class port by Canute and
proved a place of contention between Alfred and the Danes. At one time
eight churches stood within the walls and a castle erected by the
Conqueror overawed the inhabitants until the tussle between John and
the Barons led to its destruction. The churches that remain are three
in number, and two are of much interest. St. Martin's, on a high bank
at the northern entrance to the town, is a restored Saxon building,
the traditional resting place, until his body was removed to
Tewkesbury, of Beohtric, King of Wessex, in 800. The characteristic
work of this period may be seen in the chancel arch and windows and in
the "long and short" work at the north-east angle of the church.
Our Lady St. Mary's is the large and handsome church on the banks of
the Frome, here crossed by an old stone bridge that carries the Corfe
road across the river. The first church on this site is supposed to
have occupied the space now covered by St. Edward's Chapel. Here
Edward the Martyr was brought after his murder at Corfe Castle, the
body being afterwards transferred to Shaftesbury with great pomp and
splendour. The temporary coffin of the king may be seen near the font.
It is of massive stone with a place carved out for the head. The nave
and chancel have been much altered and partially rebuilt. Over St.
Edward's chapel, which dates from the thirteenth century, and is
supposed to be built on the site of the Saxon chapel, are the remains
of another chapel with a window looking into the church. The most
interesting part of the building is the Chapel of St. Thomas à Becket
on the south side of the east end. This forms a receptacle for various
curiosities, including several brasses, a stone cresset, a Roman lamp
and a stone bearing a Scandinavian inscription, besides the piscina
and sedilia that belong to the structure itself. The chapel would
appear to have been made in the buttressed wall of the church. On the
north side of the chancel is an effigy of Sir Henry d'Estoke and on
the south a figure of Sir William of that ilk. The embossed alms dish
and old earthenware plate for the communion should be noticed. An
historian of Dorset--John Hutchings, once rector here--has a monument
to his memory. The figures in relief upon the leaden font represent
the Apostles. Antiquaries are also interested in some ancient stones
built into the old Norman doorway near the pulpit. The ancient
sculpture of the Crucifixion was once outside over the north porch.
The inscription is said to be: "Catug consecravit Deo," but it is
almost impossible to make anything of it at a cursory examination.
[Illustration: ST. MARTIN'S, WAREHAM.]
Holy Trinity Church was for a long time in a state of ruin, but it has
now been repaired and is used as a mission room. All the other old
churches of Wareham have been swept away by fire or decay and with one
or two exceptions their very sites are lost.
Wareham is built on the usual regular plan of a Roman town, though it
is not certain that the thoroughfares follow the actual lines of the
original Roman streets. Evidences of this period are too vague and
uncertain to make any pronouncement. The streets to-day have the
mellow cleanly look of the country town unspoilt by any taint of
modern industrialism, but of actual antiquity there is none. This is
due to the great fire that raged in 1762 and to all intents and
purposes wiped the town out. During the Great War the narrow pavements
were thronged with khaki. A great military encampment extended
westwards along the north side of the Dorchester road for a
considerable distance, and, judging from present appearances, part of
this wooden suburb of Wareham appears of a permanent character.
The road over the old and picturesque Frome bridge passes at once into
the so-called Isle of Purbeck and gradually rises toward the hills
that cut across the "island." The views ahead, which include the
striking conical peak called "Creech Barrow," are of increasing
beauty, and when we approach the break between the long range of
Knowle Hill and Branscombe Hill, the strikingly fine picture of Corfe
Castle filling the gap makes an unforgettable scene. Just before
reaching the hillock upon which the castle stands, and three and a
half miles from Wareham, a road turns left, crossing the railway, and
winds by the northern face of Nine Barrows Down to Studland.
[Illustration: THE FROME AT WAREHAM.]
The original name for Corfe was Corvesgate, or the cutting in the
hills. This is its usual alias in the Wessex novels. The position was
so obviously suited for a sentry post that it was probably entrenched
in prehistoric times. Two small streams, the Byle brook and the
Steeple brook, run northwards on each side of the mount, uniting just
below it to form the Corve River. At first sight the mound appears to
be artificial, so velvety smooth and regular are its green sides in
contrast with the pile of ruin on its crown.
King Edgar is credited with the first fortified building; this was
used as a hunting lodge by his second wife Elfrida, who perpetrated
the cruel murder of her stepson Edward while he was drinking a cup of
wine at her door. The horse he was riding, no doubt spurred
involuntarily by the dying king, galloped away, dragging the body
along the ground, until it stopped from exhaustion. The dead monarch
was, as already related, buried at Wareham, but the real ruler of
England, Archbishop Dunstan, had it exhumed and reburied with much
solemn pomp at Shaftesbury Abbey.
During the Conqueror's reign, that great era of castle building, the
keep was first erected; by the reign of Stephen it was so strong that
he failed to take it from Baldwin de Redvers, who held it for Matilda.
John kept the crown jewels here, good evidence of its solidity, also a
few Frenchmen of high rank, of whom twenty-two were starved to death,
or so tradition says. The Princess Eleanor, captive for forty years,
was imprisoned here for a great part of that time by the same "Good
King John" who, as a punishment for prophesying the king's downfall,
had bold Peter, the hermit of Pontefract, incarcerated in the deepest
dungeon and subsequently hanged.
During the de Montfort rebellion the castle was held against the king.
Edward was kept here for a time by Isabella before his murder at
Berkley. The castle then passed through several hands until the time
of Elizabeth, when it was sold to Sir Christopher Hatton. During this
long period, the fabric was added to and improved until little of the
Norman structure remained. All the new buildings seem to have been
constructed with but one purpose, that of making an impregnable
fortress. The widow of Sir Christopher sold the castle to
Attorney-General Sir John Banks, ancestor of the Bankes of Kingston
Lacy, in whose occupation, or rather in that of his wife, it was to
have its invincibility put to the test. Sir John was with the king's
forces at York in 1643 when the army of the Parliament gathered upon
the Knowle and East hills. During six weeks repeated attacks were made
by the forces of Sir Walter Earle, but without success, and eventually
the siege was raised. In 1646 treachery succeeded where honest warfare
failed. Colonel Pitman, an officer of the royal garrison, admitted a
number of Roundheads, who obtained possession of the King's and
Queen's towers. The remainder of the building became untenable by the
poorly armed defenders, who had parted with their ordnance long before
as a matter of policy.
[Illustration: PLAN OF CORFE CASTLE.]
Months were spent by the victorious Parliamentary forces in mining the
foundations and in the systematic destruction of the magnificent
defences. As we see it to-day, the actual masonry is practically in
the condition left by the explosions, so massive is the material and
so indestructible the mortar.
The sketch which accompanies these brief notes will make the plan of
the castle clear, but no description can give any adequate notion of
the strange havoc wrought by the gunpowder. It speaks well for the
good workmanship of the builders when one remembers that these leaning
towers, that appear to be in immediate danger of collapse, have been
in the same condition for nearly three centuries. The western tower
has been carried down the hill nine feet from its original position,
but is still erect and unshattered. Part of the curtain wall was
completely reversed by the force of the explosive and now shows its
inner face. Whoever superintended the work of demolition must have
been one of the chagrined and disappointed attackers who was human
enough to vent his feelings, at much expense and great risk of life
and limb, on the stubborn old walls.
[Illustration: CORFE VILLAGE.]
Corfe, small town or large village, is picturesque and pleasant enough
in itself without the added interest of the castle and the beauty of
the surrounding country. The church is dedicated to the martyred
Edward. It was rebuilt in 1860, excepting the fourteenth century
tower, with its quaint gargoyles, and the Norman south porch. From the
tower, shot made from the organ pipes of the church was hurled at the
castle during the siege. The clock was constructed while Elizabeth was
queen and curfew is still rung daily from October to March at 8 p.m.
Within the church may be seen the old altar frontal used prior to the
Reformation, and the fifteenth-century font. Of much interest are the
quotations from the churchwardens' accounts that are preserved in the
church room.
The old market cross is gone. On its stump there was erected in 1897 a
new Latin cross to commemorate the jubilee of Queen Victoria.
"Dackhams," the Elizabethan manor standing back from the Swanage road,
and now called Morton House, is a fine specimen of Tudor building. The
architecture of Corfe, as in most of the inland villages of the
"island," is most pleasing; a distinctive note being the pillared
porch with a room above.
Corfe Castle retained a mayor and eight "barons" until 1883. The last
to hold office (a Bankes) was also Lord High Admiral of Purbeck, a
picturesque title over three hundred years old. It will come as a
surprise to most readers to hear that Corfe was admitted to rank as a
Cinque Port. The town returned the usual two members in pre-reform
days.
A pleasant route out of Corfe is to take a path between cottages on
the left of the lane leading to West Orchard, and, crossing several
meadows, to pass over the breezy Corfe common to the Kingston road.
This gives the traveller a series of beautiful views and an especially
fine retrospect of Corfe Castle. In a short two miles Kingston,
climbing up its steep hill, is reached. The church, a landmark for
many miles, was built by Lord Eldon in 1880. It was designed by Street
in Early English. With its severe and lofty tower the exterior has a
coldly conventional aspect not altogether pleasing. Inside, the large
amount of Purbeck marble employed gives a touch of colour which, to a
certain extent, relieves the austerity. Not far away is the older
church built in Perpendicular style by Lord Chancellor Eldon. The seat
of the Eldon family is at Encombe, a lovely cup-shaped hollow opening
to the sea about a mile and a half away, and not far from the lonely
Chapman's (or perhaps Shipman's) Pool, a deep and sheltered cove on
the west of St. Aldhelm's Head. A path can be taken that crosses the
fields until the open common, which extends to the edge of the great
headland, is reached. On the summit, 450 feet above the waves, is a
little Norman chapel dedicated to the first Bishop of Sherborne, whose
name the headland bears and _not_ that of St. Alban, as erroneously
given in so many school geographies and in some tourist maps. This
chantry served a double purpose, prayers being said by the priest
within and a beacon lit upon the roof without, for the succour and
guidance of sailors. A cross now takes the place of the ancient beacon
bucket. It is said that the chapel was instituted by a sorrowing
father who saw his daughter and her husband drowned in the terrible
race off the headland in or about the year 1140. It was restored by
the same Earl of Eldon who built the Kingston church, and is looked
after by the neighbouring coast-guard. The interior is lit by one
solitary window in the thick wall and in the centre is a single
massive column. Some authorities have questioned its original use as a
place of prayer, but tradition, and a good deal of direct evidence,
point to the ecclesiastical nature of the building.
[Illustration: ST. ALDHELM'S.]
The tale of wreck and disaster off this wild coast reached such a
dreadful total that in 1881 after much agitation a light was erected
on Anvil Point and declared open by Joseph Chamberlain, then President
of the Board of Trade. Between the two heads, which are about four
miles apart, is the famous "Dancing Ledge," a sloping beach of solid
rock upon which the surf plays at high tide with a curious effect,
possibly suggesting the quaint name. This section of cliff, like the
whole of the Dorset coast, is of great interest to the geologist and
the veriest amateur must feel some curiosity on the subject when it is
apparent to him that the beautiful scenery of this shore is caused
mainly by its being the meeting place of so many differing strata. The
Kimmeridge clay will be noticed at once by its sombre colour, almost
quite black when wet, and in times of scarcity actually used as fuel.
This clay rings Chapman's Pool and extends westwards to Kimmeridge
Bay. St. Aldhelm's Head is built up of differing kinds of limestone,
the fine bastions of the top being composed of the famous Portland
stone itself, the finest of all the limestones from a commercial point
of view.
To walk from St. Aldhelm's along the cliff to Anvil Point and so into
Swanage is possible but fatiguing, and perhaps not worth the labour
involved. Winspit Quarry and Seacombe Cliff would be passed on the
way; between the two are some old guns marking the spot where the East
Indiaman _Halsewell_ went down in a fearful storm in January, 1786.
This tragedy was immortalized by Charles Dickens in "The Long Voyage."
Out of 250 souls only eighty-two were saved by men employed at Winspit
Quarry. Some of the passengers are buried in the level plot between
the two cliffs.
Worth Matravers, a mile and a half from the Head and four from
Swanage, is a village at the end of a by-way that leaves the Kingston
road near Gallows Gore(!) cottages, a mile west of Langton Matravers.
The name of both these villages connects them with an old Norman
family once of much importance in south-east Dorset. It is said that
one of them was the tool of Queen Isabella and the actual murderer of
Edward.
Worth is famous for its fine early Norman church, also restored by the
Earl of Eldon. The tower, of three stories, the nave, south door and
chancel arch, all belong to this period. The chancel itself is Early
English. The carved grotesques under the eaves of the roof are worthy
of notice. Not the least remarkable thing about Worth is the tombstone
of Benjamin Jesty, who is claimed thereon to be the first person to
inoculate for smallpox (1774). Langton Matravers need not keep the
stranger; its church was rebuilt nearly fifty years ago and the
village is unpicturesque.
We now approach Swanage, a delightful little town, well known and much
appreciated by those of the minority who prefer a restful and modest
resort to the glitter and crowds of Bournemouth. That it will never
attain the dimensions of its great neighbour to the north is fairly
certain. Swanage is in a comparatively inaccessible position. Barely
eight miles from Bournemouth as the crow flies, it is twenty-four
miles by rail and about the same by road. So that during the five
years of war, when the steamer service was suspended, Swanage had no
day trippers and the quietness of the town was accentuated, and the
camp on the southern slopes of Ballard Down did not interfere to any
great extent with this somnolence. But now the steamers pant across to
Swanage pier again and unload the curious crowd who make straight for
the Great Globe and Tilly Whim and pause to "rest and admire" as they
breast the steep slopes of Durlston.
[Illustration: OLD SWANAGE.]
The tutelary genius of Swanage is of stone and the two high priests of
the idol were Mowlein and Burt. Some undeserved fun has been poked at
the shade of the junior partner, who conceived the enormous open-air
kindergarten that has been formed out of the wild cliff at Durlston.
For the writer's part, while venturing to deplore certain
incongruities such as the startling inscription that faces the visitor
as he turns to survey the Tilly Whim cavern from the platform of rock
outside, a feeling of respect for the wholehearted enthusiasm and
industry of the remarkable man who was responsible for these marvels
is predominant. Every guide to Swanage enumerates in exhaustive detail
the objects which make the town a sort of "marine store" of stony odds
and ends. The best of these cast-offs is the entrance to the Town
Hall, once in Cheapside as the Wren frontage to Mercer's Hall. The
"gothic" tower at Peveril Point at one time graced the southern
approach to London Bridge as a Wellington memorial. The clock at the
Town Hall is said to be from a "scrapped" city church and the gilt
vane on the turret of Purbeck House on the other side of the way is
from Billingsgate. Not the least surprising of these relics are the
lamp-and-corner-posts bearing the names of familiar London parishes.
When Swanage was Danish Swanic (it was called Swanwick in the early
nineteenth century) it witnessed the defeat of its colonizers in a sea
fight with Alfred. The irresponsible partners commemorated this by
erecting a stone column surmounted by four _cannon balls_. A queer way
of perpetuating a pre-conquest naval victory, but possibly the
projectiles were less in the way here than at Millbank. Not far away,
attached to the wall of the Moslem Institute, is a coloured geological
map of the district, another effort at the higher education of "the
man on the beach." It is certainly a good idea, and may lead many to a
further study of a fascinating science, for nowhere may the practical
study of scenery be made to greater advantage than near Swanage.
Perhaps the most graceful curve of coast line in Dorset is Swanage
Bay, and to see it at its best one should stroll across the rising
ground of Peveril Point. To the right are the dark cliffs of Purbeck
marble that encircle Durlston Bay; to the left across the half-moon
stretch of water is the white chalk of Ballard Point guarded by "Old
Harry's daughter," the column of detached chalk in front. At one time
this was one of a family, but "Old Harry" and his "wife" have sunk
beneath the waves and the sole remaining member of the family may
disappear during the next great storm. Beyond, indistinct and remote
during fine weather but startlingly near when the glass is falling,
are the cliffs of Alum Bay in the Isle of Wight, and the guardian
"Needles."
The picturesque High Street should be followed past the Town Hall with
its alien Carolean front, and the long wall of Purbeck House that is
said to be made up from the "sweepings" of the Albert Memorial at
Kensington. Down a lane at the side of the civic building is the old
"Lock Up," with an inscription as quaint as it is direct, for it tells
us that it was erected "for the prevention of Wickedness and Vice by
the Friends of Religion and Good Order." Farther up High Street is a
cottage, creeper-clad and picturesque, where Wesley stayed while
preaching to the quarrymen. The best part of this stroll is towards
the end, where a space opens out on the right to St. Mary's Church and
the mill pond which is surrounded by as extraordinary a jumble of
queer old roofs and gables as may be seen in Dorset. The church has
been rebuilt and much altered and enlarged, but the tower is as old as
it looks and has seen several churches come and go beneath it. There
is no door lower than the second story and it must have been reached
by a ladder. It was undoubtedly built for, and used as, a fortress in
case of need.
Although there is little of beauty in the quarries that honeycomb the
hills to the west of Swanage, the industry that is carried on is of
much interest as a surviving guild or medieval trades union. One of
the laws of the "company," unbroken from immemorial time, is that no
work may be given to any but a freeman or his son who, after seven
years' apprenticeship, becomes a senior worker upon presenting to the
warden a fee of 6_s_. 8_d_., a loaf of bread and a bottle of beer. The
guild meet every Shrove Tuesday at Corfe to transact the formal
business of the year. Each quarryman and his partner, or partners,
hold the little independent working allotted to them apart from the
remainder of the quarry. This obviously prevents blasting and each
block of stone is cut out by manual labour.
[Illustration: TILLY WHIM.]
Purbeck marble is famous all over southern England, and many historic
buildings, from the Temple church in London to Salisbury and Exeter
Cathedrals, are enriched by the beautifully polished columns of this
dark-coloured limestone. The caves at Durlston, with their intriguing
name, are simply abandoned quarries, although all sorts of fanciful
legends have grown up about them. To any one familiar with the plan of
the working of a quarry, the sloping tunnel that gives access to the
cave will prove the origin to be artificial. Nevertheless, Tilly Whim
is romantic enough to please the most fastidious of the steamer
contingent and the scene from the platform of rock in front of the old
workings is as wild and natural as could well be imagined. As for the
open-air schoolroom above on Durlston Head a description is hardly
necessary. That the pedagogic master mason was not without the saving
grace of a sense of humour is proved by the once plain block of stone
provided for those who would perpetuate their own greatness, now
literally covered with names and initials. The staring red and white
"castle" that crowns the cliff is a restaurant built to accommodate
the day visitor, but if the evidence of discarded pastry bags and
ginger-beer bottles that at times litter and disfigure the cliff and
caves is to be regarded, the castle is not as well patronized as it
should be. This unseemliness is kept under by what appears to be a
daily clean up, though the writer has never met the public benefactor
who makes all tidy in the early morning hours before the steamers have
discharged their crowds. Possibly this is the same individual who
keeps the tangle of blackberry and tamarisk pruned down so that while
resting with "Sir Walter Scott" or "Shakespeare" we may duly admire
the view across Swanage Bay.
No one should omit the glorious walk northwards across the fine
expanse of Ballard Down to Studland. The coast road round the bay is
taken to a path bearing to the right in the pleasant suburb of New
Swanage. At the time of writing this leads through the before-mentioned,
partly derelict, military camp and, after passing on the right the old
Tudor farmhouse called Whitecliff, emerges on the open Down. The
rearward views gain in beauty with every step, and when the summit is
reached at the fence gate and the stone seat that seems to have
strayed from Durlston, a magnificent and unforgettable view is
obtained of Poole Harbour and the great heathland that stretches away
to the New Forest. Every intricacy of the harbour can be seen as on a
map, and its almost landlocked character is strikingly apparent as the
eye follows the bright yellow arc of sand to the cliffs of Bournemouth.
That town has most of its more glaring modernities decently hidden,
and the pier and a few spires and chimneys seem to blend into the
all-pervading golden brown of the Hampshire coast. In the near
foreground Studland looks very alluring in its bowery foliage, but
before descending the hillside the long and almost level Down should
be followed to the right past the shooting range, provided the absence
of a warning red flag gives permission. By a slight detour to the
right as the ground slopes toward that extension of Ballard Down
called Handfast Point, fearsome peeps may be had of the waves raging
round Old Harry's daughter and the submerged ruins of her parents.
Care must be taken here in misty weather, the cliffs are sheer, and
unexpected gaps occur where nothing could save the unwary explorer in
the event of an unlucky slip. Little is gained by following the cliff
top all the way to the extreme edge of the Point, and a return may be
made from hereabouts or a short cut made to the path leading to
Studland.
[Illustration: THE BALLARD CLIFFS.]
Studland was until quite lately one of the most unspoilt of English
villages. An unfortunate outbreak of red brick has slightly detracted
from its former quiet beauty, but it is still a charming little place
and claims as heretofore to be the "prettiest village in England," a
claim as impossible of acceptance as some other of the challenges made
by seaside towns. But it is unfair to class Studland with the usual
run of such resorts; perhaps its best claims upon us are negative
ones. It has no railway station, no pier, no bandstand, no parade, in
fact the old village turns its back upon the sea in an unmistakable
manner.
The foundations and lower parts of the walls of the church are
probably Saxon. The building as we see it is primitive Norman without
later additions or any very apparent attempts at restoration, though a
good deal of legitimate repairing has been carried out during the last
few years. The solemn and venerable churchyard yews lend an added air
of great age to the building. Close to the church door is the
tombstone of one Sergeant Lawrence, whose epitaph is a stirring record
of military service combined with a dash of real romance, though
probably the sergeant's whole life did not have as much of the essence
of dreadful war as one twelve months in the career of a present-day
city clerk.
A long mile west, on the northern slopes of Studland Heath, is the
famous Agglestone "that the Devil while sulking in the Isle of Wight
threw at the builders of Corfe Castle" or, according to another
account, from Portland. Probably the confusion arose through the
original reporter using the term "the Island." Natives would know that
the definite article could only refer to their own locality! The stone
is an effect of denudation and is similar to other isolated sandstone
rocks scattered about the south of England, e.g., the "Toad" Rock at
Tunbridge Wells and "Great upon Little" near West Heathly in Sussex. A
short distance away is a smaller mass called the "Puckstone." The
derivation of the larger rock is probably Haligstane--Holy Stone. So
difficult is it to contemplate the ages through which gradual
weathering would bring these stones to their present shape that
scientists, as recently as the middle of the last century, were at
variance as to their natural or artificial origin.
A by-road, a little over five miles long, runs under the face of Nine
Barrows Down and Brenscombe Hill to Corfe. It is a picturesque route
and has some good views, but a much finer way, and but little longer,
is along the top of the Downs themselves culminating at Challow Hill
in a sudden sight of Corfe, backed by the imposing Knowle Hill. This
walk is even surpassed by that along the hills westwards from Corfe.
In this direction a similar by-road also runs under the long line of
the Purbeck Hills, here so called, but on the south side of the range
through Church Knowle which has an old cruciform church pulled about
by "restorers" as far back as the early eighteenth century and several
times since. The village is pleasant in itself and beautifully
situated. A short distance farther is an ancient manor house dating
from the fourteenth century. Its name--Barneston--is said to
perpetuate a Saxon landholder, Berne, so that the foundations of the
house are far older than this period. Over three miles from Corfe is
the small church hamlet of Steeple; here a road bears upward to the
right, and if the hill top has not been followed all the way from
Corfe it should certainly be gained at this point. Not far away and
nearer Church Knowle is Creech Barrow, a cone-shaped hill commanding a
most extensive and beautiful view, especially north-westwards over the
heathy flats of the Frome valley to the distant Dorset-Somerset
borderlands. The narrow Purbeck range now makes obliquely for the
coast, where it ends more than six miles from Corfe in the magnificent
bluff of Flowers' Barrow, or Ring's Hill, above Worbarrow Bay. This is
without doubt the finest portion of the Dorset coast, not only for the
striking outline of the cliffs and hills themselves but for the
beautiful colouring of the strata and the contrasting emerald of the
dells that break down to the purple-blue of the water. Neither drawing
nor photograph can give any idea of this exquisite blend of the stern
and the beautiful.
[Illustration: ARISH MEL.]
Eastwards, Gad Cliff guards the remote little village of Tyneham from
the sea; certain portions of this precipice seem in imminent danger of
falling into the water, so much do they overhang the beach. At
Kimmeridge Bay the cliff takes the sombre hue seen near Chapman's Pool
and the beach and water are discoloured by the broken shale that has
fallen from the low cliff. It is thought that a sort of jet jewellery
was made here in Roman times; quantities of perforated discs have been
found about the bay--termed "coal money" by the fishermen. The greasy
nature of this curious form of clay is remarkable. Naphtha has been
obtained from it and various commercial enterprises have been started
at Kimmeridge in connexion with the local product but all seem to have
failed miserably because of the unendurable smell that emanates when
combustion takes place.
The "Tout" forms the eastern extremity of Worbarrow Bay; this boldly
placed and precipitous little hill forms a sort of miniature Gibraltar
and is one of the outstanding features of this bewilderingly intricate
shore. On the farther or western side of the bay is the exquisite
Arish Mel Gap,[1] that, taking all points into consideration,
particularly that of colouring, is probably the finest scene of its
kind on the English coast. Picturesquely placed at the head of the
miniature valley is Lulworth Castle, grey and stern, and making an
ideal finish to the unforgettable picture. A spring in the recesses of
the dell sends a small and sparkling stream down to the gap, the sides
of which in spring and early summer are a blaze of white and gold,
challenging the cliffs in their display of colour. A path climbs
gradually by an old wind-torn wood up the landward side of Bindon
Hill, with gorgeous rearward views across the fields of Monastery Farm
to the northern escarpment of the Purbeck Hills. The path very soon
reaches the top of Bindon that seems to drop directly to Mupe Bay and
its jagged surf-covered rocks. In two miles from Arish Mel the path
ends directly above the delectable Lulworth Cove, and of all ways of
reaching that unique and lovely little place this is the most
charming. Care must be taken on the steep side of Bindon. Several
accidents have taken place here. One of them is perpetuated by an
inscription on a board placed upon the hillside. The path must be
followed until it drops into the road leading to the landward village.
[1] Correctly--_Arish Mel_. "Gap" and "Mel" are synonyms in Dorset.
[Illustration: LULWORTH COVE FROM ABOVE STAIR HOLE.]
Lulworth bids fair, or ill, to become a "resort" apart from the
descents from Bournemouth or Weymouth, which are only of a few hours'
duration. Before the Great War there was an extension of West Lulworth
round the foot of Bindon Hill, but the railway at Wool is still a good
five miles away and the great majority of seaside visitors seem to
fight shy of any place that has not a station on the beach.
Lulworth has been described and photographed so many times that a
description seems needless. It would want an inspired pen to do any
portion of this coast full justice. Suffice it to say that the cove is
almost circular, 500 yards across, and that the entrance is so narrow
as to make it almost invisible from the open sea. The contortions of
the cliff face within the cove would alone render the place famous.
More often sketched than Lulworth; perhaps because it is easier to
draw, is Durdle Door or Barn Door, the romantic natural arch that juts
out at the end of Barndoor Cove. The outline has all the appearance of
stage scenery of the goblin cavern sort. So lofty is the opening that
a sailing boat can pass through with ease. Behind it is the soaring
Swyre Head, 670 feet high, and the third of that name in Dorset.
Between this point and Nelson Fort on the west of Lulworth Cove is
Stair Hole, a gloomy roofless cavern into which the tide pours with a
terrifying sound, especially when a strong sou-wester is blowing.
[Illustration: DURDLE DOOR.]
East Lulworth is a charming old village, three miles from the cove and
two from West Lulworth. Close to it is the castle that completes the
picture at Arish Mel. The church, much altered and rebuilt, is
Perpendicular, and in it are interesting memorials of the Welds to
whom the castle has belonged since 1641. This family are members of
the Roman church, and a fine chapel for adherents of that communion
was built in the park at the end of the eighteenth century. It is said
to be the first erected in England since the Reformation. The ex-king
Charles X of France sought and found sanctuary at Lulworth Castle in
August, 1830, as Duke of Milan. He was accompanied by his heir, the
Duke of Angoulême, and the Duke of Bordeaux.
[Illustrtion: CERNE ABBEY GATEHOUSE.]