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 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.
[Illustration: THE FAMOUS TILLYWHIM CAVES
The mine-like entrance, from a photograph taken in 1860]
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 Phoenicians
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.
[Illustration: CORFE CASTLE
From a photograph taken in 1860, showing the old Greyhound Inn, with
projecting porch and a capacious room poised above it. The
picturesqueness and solid comfort of this inn, built three hundred years
ago, remains unimpaired to this day]
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.
"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 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.