The visitor to the Hardy country will quickly realize that, in spite of railways, motor cars, and cycles, more than half of South Dorset is a closed book to those who do not walk; while the beautiful coast scenery of this historic land is for the pedestrian alone. The iron road conveys the conventional tourist from an inland to a maritime town, motor cars and cycles thread the great highways, now stripped of their high and shade-giving hedges for the convenience of their mechanically propelled travellers. Contrast this with a tramp over a succession of grassy downs where the salt sea-mist fills the natural amphitheatres made by the hollows in the retreating hills, and across sandy bays eaten out of the soft chalk by the ceaseless action of the sea. There is an indefinable charm in a view combining sea and cliff, hill and dale, the near orchard and the distant down, within the field of vision.

It is impossible by mere words to convey any idea of the wealth of colour exhibited along the Dorset coast, where the brilliant tints of the sea-worn rocks are contrasted with hues of vivid green; for here verdure triumphs over decay, and drapes the wrecks of time with the richest vegetation. In a wide open country such as this, great clouds sweep over the hills, casting as they travel moving shadows over land and sea; so that before long we are perfectly intoxicated with the charms of the district, where idlers forget their ennui, and invalids gain strength in its invigorating air.

Leaving Weymouth by the Wareham Road, and past the low-lying but picturesque marshlands of Lodmoor, we arrive at Preston, where the much-disturbed tessellated floor of a good Roman villa may be seen for the payment of sixpence. Near the roadside is a small one-arched bridge that has been claimed by some antiquaries to be of Roman, and by others of Norman, date. Many think it to be a mediaeval pack-horse bridge.

Preston's sister village of Sutton Poyntz is the "Overcombe" of The Trumpet-Major, with its millpond, which Ann Garland surveyed from her chamber window. "Immediately before her was the large, smooth millpond, overfull, and intruding into the hedge and into the road." On the hillside at the back of the village is the gigantic figure of George III on horseback, cut out of the chalk in 1808. This work of art is 280 feet in length and 323 feet in height, and there is no better way to reach it than from Sutton. Should we make the ascent we can act as Ann Garland did on her visit here with the Trumpet-Major, namely, pace "from the horse's head down his breast to his hoof, back by way of the King's bridle-arm, past the bridge of his nose, and into his cocked hat", or we can follow the example of the Trumpet-Major, and stand, "in a melancholy attitude within the rowel of his majesty's right spur".

Descending the hill and passing through Osmington, where nothing need detain us, we reach the village of Poxwell, a name that some authors assure us is a corruption of Puck's well; but it is more likely that it comes from Pochesvill of the Domesday Survey. This is the "Oxwell" of the novels; and the singularly picturesque Jacobean house is "Oxwell Hall", where resided old Derriman in the Trumpet-Major. Apart from its literary associations this old building is well worth a visit by anyone who is interested in these old types of domestic architecture. It is one of hundreds of old manor houses in Dorset, and elsewhere, that have become degraded in the social scale to the status of a farmhouse. Its most pleasing and distinctive feature is the gatehouse or porter's lodge, the keystone of the gateway arch bearing the date 1634. The lower floor of this pleasing little erection gives entrance to a beautiful walled-in garden of velvet lawns bordered by bright flower-beds. The upper room, approached by a flight of stone steps from the garden, is lighted by two small windows, one looking towards the house, the other commanding a view of the drive. This upper room is known as the "Fool's Chamber", the tradition being that the fool of the family was allowed a last throw at any departing guests from his coign of vantage. For the purposes of his story Mr. Hardy has placed the house considerably nearer to "Overcombe" (Sutton) than it really is.

A short walk from Poxwell would land us at Osmington Mills, on the coast, a most delightful little spot, where hot lobster teas are one of the standing dishes at the Picnic Inn. From here Lulworth can be reached by a fine walk past Ringstead Bay and a long toil up the grassy shoulder of Whitenose, the whole being one of the best coast walks to be found in Dorset. The main road to Lulworth proceeds from Poxwell to Warmwell Cross (Warm'ell Cross), the place where Stockdale released the excisemen who had been overtaken by the smugglers. The whole of this portion of the coast and its Hinterland, figure in Mr. Hardy's smuggling stories, the illicit cargoes being hidden in the neighbouring church of Owermoigne.

Near Warmwell Cross is Warmwell House, an interesting Jacobean residence that was for some time the home of John Saddler, the famous Cromwellian jurist, who was despoiled of all his property at the Restoration. Another interesting old house is that of Owermoigne, the manor of which, then called Ogres, or Owers, was held by William le Moigne "of our lord the King in capite by the service and serjeantry of being caterer in the King's kitchen, and keeper of his larder". A fine feature of the house is a range of beautiful and original thirteenth-century windows, in the solar on the first floor. This is the "Nether-Moynton" of The Distracted Preacher, where stands the church to which Lizzy guided Stockdale. A recent restoration has swept away the gallery stairs beneath which the illicit cargoes were hidden, but the tower within which the smugglers lay concealed is much as it was when described in the story.

Another way to reach Lulworth is to take the turn by the Red Lion that leads through Winfrith Newburgh, a pretty little village, but of no particular interest save for an old manorial custom by which Robert de Newburgh held Winfrith "by the service of giving water for the hands of our lord the King on the day of his coronation; and to have the basin and ewer for the service aforesaid". At the coronation of James II a claim was made by the lord of the manor to perform this service, but the claim was not allowed. We find also that the tithing man of the neighbouring village of Coombe Keynes was obliged to do suit at Winfrith court leet; and, after repeating the following incoherent lines, was mulcted in the sum of threepence:—

Coombe Keynes is situated a mile or so to the south of Wool, its chief claim to notice being the singularly beautiful pre-Reformation chalice preserved within the church, a building that was extensively restored in 1860. The chalice is one of three pieces of pre-Reformation church plate that now remain in the county, although out of some three hundred parishes over one hundred have retained their Elizabethan chalices, while seventy possess Communion plate of the seventeenth century.

The Coombe Keynes chalice is in excellent condition, and is surpassed in beauty only by the very similar but slightly earlier example at Wylye, in Wiltshire. Its height is 63/8 inches; diameter of bowl, 4 inches; depth, 2 inches; narrowest part of base, 33/8 inches; widest part, 5¼ inches. The bowl is broad and conical; the slender stem hexagonal and quite plain, with ogee moulded bands at the junctions. The knob is full sized, having six lobes spirally twisted with traceried openings, terminating in angels' heads, crowned. The date is about 1500, if not somewhat earlier. The two other examples of pre-Reformation plate in Dorset are a paten at Buckhorn Weston, and a chalice at Sturminster Marshall.

A short walk from Winfrith, and we arrive at our destination, the romantic and justly famed Lulworth Cove. During the summer months this attractive little spot can be easily reached by steamer from Weymouth, and for those to whom the literary associations and natural beauties of the landward route make no appeal, the short sea voyage of about an hour's duration has much to recommend it, while an ideal holiday jaunt is to make the outward journey on foot or wheel, and return by sea.

Who among the readers of Mr. Hardy's novels has not longed to visit the far-famed Lulworth Cove? that "small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs", wherein Troy bathed after spending the night in the porch of Puddletown Church. The sea entrance to the little landlocked bay requires careful navigation by reason of "the two projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules to this miniature Mediterranean". This is the "Lulstead", and occasionally the "Lullwind" of the Wessex novels, tales, and poems, and is the scene of the Napoleonic sketch in Life's Little Ironies, entitled A Tradition of 1804. Here Cytherea Graye met Edward Springrove, and here the dead bodies of Stephen Hardcombe and his cousin's wife were washed ashore.

The prospect from the cliffs that overlook the cove is a very extensive one. To the west the Bay of Weymouth, with a small portion of the town, is visible, with the green heights of the down in its rear. South-west is the bold and rocky mass of Portland, while to the east the eye takes in the projecting portions of the strangely contorted cliffs of the Purbeck coast line, and the dangerous Kimmeridge Ledges, beyond which rises the high wall-like ridge of cliff that terminates in the bluff promontory of St. Aldhelm's Head.

The village of West Lulworth is rather barren of interest, and the little trade of the place seems to be confined entirely to administering to the necessities of visitors and pilgrims. Sad to relate, this secluded spot, where untrammelled nature has reigned supreme for centuries, is beginning to show signs of ugly modernity, and bathing cabins are encroaching on its encircling belt of shingle. Nothing, however, can vulgarize Lulworth except in patches, for, modernize it how you will, it will always retain its rugged crags that tower above its sea margin, and the complex witchery of its rock-bestrewn coast. The background of Millais's famous picture, "The Departure of the Romans" is a view of the Dorset coast looking from the cliffs of Lulworth towards Weymouth, the standpoint being Dungy, with St. Oswald's Bay in the foreground, and Whitenose terminating the splendid lateral prospect of the cliffs. It is a singularly literal rendering of the scene. At the same time learned historians tell us that it is by no means certain that any of the Roman legions left this country by way of the Dorset coast.

The greatest architectural attraction of the neighbourhood is Lulworth Castle, standing in a finely wooded park of 640 acres. The building is in the form of a cube, and is of early Jacobean date, having been built almost entirely with material from the Abbey of Bindon, near Wool, when such was demolished at the Reformation. The faÇade of the edifice is ornamented with heraldic shields and allegorical figures representing Music and Painting. In 1641 it was purchased by the Weld family, who still own it. It was visited by James I and Charles II, while George III and his family were frequent visitors during their residence at Weymouth. Charles X, when exiled from France in 1830, also found asylum here, by the hospitality of Mr. Joseph Weld. The interior of the castle may be seen on application to the Lulworth Estate Office at Wool, and it is well worth while to apply for permission, as the house contains some fine apartments and a curious set of portraits painted by Giles Hussey, a native of Marnhull, the harmony of whose colour-scheme was corrected by a musical scale. The Welds are a Roman Catholic family of whom the famous Cardinal Weld was the most prominent member.

Close to the Castle stands the Protestant church on the south side and the Catholic chapel on the north. The latter, built in 1786 by the special leave of George III, was described by Fanny Burney as "a Pantheon in miniature, and ornamented with immense wealth and richness. The altar is all of the finest variegated marbles, and precious stones are glittering from every angle", a description that holds good to-day.

From the castle a most charming walk through a wood and down over grassy fields leads to Arish Mell Gap, a narrow bay shut in by high grass-covered downs, and near which is situated the Monastery Farm, founded in 1794, for Trappist monks, by Thomas Weld and his son, who afterwards attained the dignity of cardinal.

From Lulworth the enterprising pedestrian can find an abundance of magnificent coast walks by Worbarrow Tout, the Kimmeridge Ledges, and St. Aldhelm's Head. The walk towards the last-named is one of the wildest solitude, the only living creatures being the white sea-birds, and the only sounds the murmur of the waves as they surge round the bleak pinnacles of rock. Here and there, where the track-way turns at an angle, we catch a glimpse of vast cavernous recesses, some natural and some the work of men's hands, where ponderous masses have been riven away from the face of the cliff, and tumbled headlong into the water, where they lie amid the swirling eddies of the tide.

It is impossible to describe adequately the manifold beauties of the Purbeck coast line, which concentrates in itself all the elements of the bleak and the picturesque, pastoral valleys and grassy downs that end seawards in great walls of barren rock and masses of fallen cliff. Some old muzzle-loading guns lying on the shore between Winspit and Seacombe mark the site of the wreck of the Halsewell, an East Indiaman that was driven ashore here with great loss of life on January 6, 1786.

While at Lulworth the reader of Mr. Hardy's romances will not fail to visit Wool, and the old manor house of the Turbervilles wherein was enacted one of the most dramatic scenes in English fiction. Crossing the old bridge of "five yawning arches" we stand before "Wellbridge House", where Tess and Angel Clare came to spend their honeymoon. "Welcome to one of your ancestral mansions!" was the bridegroom's greeting, as his bride passed the threshold of the house. At the head of the stairway are the two panels on which are depicted the portraits of those ancestors, the sight of which caused Tess to shudder. The house itself is an interesting specimen of ancient domestic architecture, from which in the gloom of the evening the phantom coach and four drives out of the gateway; but this ghostly equipage is visible only to a member or near relative of the Turberville family. The house and bridge never look better or more romantic than when their masses of grey masonry loom out against the evening sky. At such times the soft murmur of the night wind through the rushes that edge the shimmering water, and a farewell gleam of sunlight through a rift in the long low clouds, seem to symbolize the spirit of Tess.

One of the best-known members of this old Dorset family was George Turberville (1540-1610). He was secretary to Sir Thomas Randolf, Queen Elizabeth's ambassador in Scotland and Russia. He was the author of several books on Falconrie and hunting, but the one by virtue of which he ranks amongst the Elizabethan poets was the Epitaphes, Epigrams, Songs, and Sonnets, the second edition of which was published in 1567.

Contemporary with Turberville were Barnabe Googe, Thomas Churchyard the soldier and poetaster, Thomas Phaer, the wellnigh forgotten lawyer of Norwich, who translated the first nine books of the Æneid into fourteen-syllable verse. Other contemporaries were Sir Thomas Chaloner, a soldier and diplomatist, who wrote both prose and verse; and Arthur Golding, an industrious translator of Latin and French theological works.

Half a mile away is Bindon Abbey, of which the whole of the Abbey Church can be traced among the ruins. Large portions also remain of the sacristy, chapterhouse, and calefactory. The original foundation belonged to the Cistercian Order, and was established in 1172, and Professor Windle tells us that after it was surrendered to the king in 1539, "its twelve bells were stolen and appropriated by the churches of Wool, Coombe, and Fordington; a tale which is embodied in the local rhyme:

Two empty stone coffins, one tomb, and one broken grave slab of the abbot's remain, including one with the matrix of a brass, the margin of which has an inscription in Lombardic capitals recording the interment of Abbot Richard de Maners. Here, too, is the old stone coffin described by Mr. Hardy:

Near at hand Bindon Mill, with its picturesque setting, makes a charming picture, and one that is a great favourite with artists. It was here that Angel Clare came to learn the art of milling.

A short ride in the train or a pleasant walk by road from Wool leads to Wareham, one of the oldest towns in Dorset, and the "Anglebury" of the novels, where, at the Red Lion, Ethelberta and Lady Petherwin were staying when the story of The Hand of Ethelberta opens. In the earlier editions of The Return of the Native, Wareham figures as "Southerton", the town from whence Thomassin fled in the reddleman's cart, when the defect was discovered in the marriage licence which postponed her union with Wildeve. It was at Lychett (Flychett), a few miles away, that Sol and Lord Mountclere's brother stopped to change horses on their way to bar the wedding of Lord Mountclere and Ethelberta at Swanage (Knollsea).

Wareham itself is an interesting little borough, most delightfully placed on rising ground that slopes to the River Frome on the south, and to the Trent or Puddle on the north. These two streams flow into Poole Harbour, so that the boating man has an abundance of freshwater sailing, which can be varied by taking the craft around the numerous creeks and inlets of Poole Harbour, past the wooded isle of Brownsea, and so out into the open Channel beyond. For those who are fond of boating on a moderate scale this corner of Poole Harbour is an ideal spot; for although the experienced yachtsman may consider river sailing rather tame, he will find the adjoining harbour of Poole large enough to satisfy his roving propensities, and with winds and waves of sufficient strength to test his skill to the full.

Wareham town has retained several links with its ancient state, which may be said to be epitomized in the earthen ramparts that enclose it on all sides but that guarded by the waters of the Frome. Upon and around these grassy walls the old-time inhabitants fought the Danes with varying fortunes; for early in the eleventh century the town was captured by Cnut, who made it his port, and to some extent his headquarters, until bought off with a grant of money.

The antiquary should not fail to visit St. Martin's Church, a reputed Saxon building, with some interesting Early Norman features that include a narrow chancel arch. The parish church of Lady St. Mary has been over-"restored", but the exquisite little side chapels of St. Edward the Martyr and St. Thomas À Becket remain unspoilt. An old stone coffin, a lead font, and two interesting cross-legged effigies are worthy of attention, as also are two inscribed pillars of stone that have been alleged to be portions of an old Roman altar. Of Holy Trinity Church, Hutchins, the historian of Dorset, was once rector.

Before the silting up of Poole Harbour, Wareham was an important port, and here in 1291 Edward I came to superintend the manning of some ships for one of his numerous expeditions against the French; and in later days the profits of the salmon fishery were given by Henry VIII to Catherine of Aragon as a dowry. In the reign of the third Edward the town furnished three ships and fifty-nine men for the siege of Calais.

Mr. Hardy's pre-eminence as a novelist is apt to make us forget that Mrs. Craik (Miss Mulock) was a frequent visitor here, and Agatha's Husband is full of references to the town and the neighbourhood, and contains some delightful character sketches of its inhabitants. Here also lives "Orme Agnus" (Mr. J. C. Higginbotham), at Northport House close to the railway station.

Situated halfway between Wareham and Swanage, and easily reached from either place, are the ruins of Corfe Castle, all that is left of what was, until the building was demolished by order of the Parliament, one of the most powerful fortresses ever erected in Europe. Tradition associates Corfe Castle, or Corfe, with the murder of "Saynt Edward Kyng and Martyr"; but certain modern antiquaries are rather suspicious of the story, and it is very doubtful if any portion of the existing masonry is of an earlier date than the Conquest, although it is quite possible that so favourable a site would be chosen for its natural defensive properties long before the advent of the Normans. The Saxon Chronicle, recording the murder of Edward, does not mention a castle, but says the foul deed was done "at Corfes GeÄt", where stood the domus ElfridÆ. It has not inaptly been termed the "Royal Prison of Purbeck", and the many famous personages incarcerated here include some French nobles whom King John starved to death early in the thirteenth century. Here also the same monarch imprisoned his niece Eleanor, together with two daughters of the Scottish King, William, sent as hostages. Edward II was confined here by Queen Isabella and her paramour, Roger Mortimer. After being held by various nobles, including George, Duke of Clarence, of Malmsey-wine celebrity, the castle was bought by Sir Christopher Hatton from Queen Elizabeth, and was eventually purchased by Sir John Bankes, to whose descendants it still belongs. On Sir John's joining Charles I at York, in 1642, Lady Bankes held Corfe for the King, and so successful was her heroic defence, that it was only through the treachery of Colonel Pitman, one of the garrison, that she was forced to capitulate in 1645, when the brave defenders were allowed to march out, bearing their arms and with their colours flying. The estates of this "Brave Dame Mary" escaped confiscation, but she was mulcted in heavy fines, while the fortress she had so gallantly held against overwhelming odds was reduced to a mass of picturesque ruins, where wall-flowers grow in the crannies, sweetbrier twists around the base of a bastion, and ivy and honeysuckle crown a detached fragment of a ruined gateway. On every side great masses of broken masonry lie in heaps on the grass, or are seen suspended as if by magic in mid-air, a testimony to the destructive power of gun-powder and to the excellence of the mortar used by the Norman builders. The ancient name of the place was Corvsgate, from Ceorfan to cut, and referred to the natural cutting that surrounds the hill on the summit of which this magnificent fortress was erected.

The little old-world village of Corfe has also many architectural attractions in the way of projecting upper stories supported on columns, gabled houses, and the fine old manor house of the Dackombes. The ruined castle on its scarped hill is fascinating from every point of view. Whether flushed with the warm tints of sunset, veiled by opalescent haze, or looming stern and dark against a dull and stormy sky, it has always great pictorial charm, and a rugged beauty that suggests the embodiment of mediaevalism, its grandeur, pride, cruelty, arrogance, and death.

In the Wessex novels Corfe Castle appears under its ancient name of Corvsgate, and it figures as such in The Hand of Ethelberta, a novel in the early editions of which it is also referred to as "Coomb Castle". Here came Ethelberta on the donkey she had hired at Knollsea (Swanage) on the occasion of the meeting of the Imperial Association, to which she had been invited by Lord Mountclere.

Among these historic ruins and the fashionable company that had come to inspect them, Ethelberta disowned her donkey, the faithful steed that had served her so well; and here Lord Mountclere presented her to "Sir Cyril and Lady Blandsbury; Lady Jane Joy; also the learned Dr. Fore; Mr. Small, a talented writer, who never printed his works; the Reverend Mr. Brook, Rector; the Very Reverend Dr. Taylor, Dean; and the rather reverend Mr. Tinkleton, Nonconformist, who had slipped into the fold by chance."

Five miles from Corfe Castle is Swanage, a town that is rapidly coming to the front as a fashionable watering-place. During the summer an excellent steamboat service connects it with Bournemouth and Weymouth, from both of which it is also easily reached by rail. The place has changed vastly since it served as a background for Ethelberta's life history, the place where she retired to marry Lord Mountclere, with Sol and the bridegroom's brother vainly endeavouring to reach "Knollsea" in time to stop the ceremony. Mr. Hardy writes: "Knollsea was a seaside village, lying snug 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."

"The row of rotten piles" to which the steamer was moored in the days when The Hand of Ethelberta was penned, have long since been supplemented by a substantial pier, while in place of the boatmen and quarriers the inhabitants to-day seem to depend for a living on attending to the needs of the many tourists attracted to Swanage by its splendid climate and beautiful surroundings.

A fine walk over Ballard Down not only commands some exceptional and sweeping views of the Dorset and Hampshire coast, but leads to Studland, a charming village with an ancient Norman church and a glorious little bay of golden sand, that is edged by the wide expanse of unenclosed moorland known as Studland Heath. The magnificent panorama from the high land above Studland embraces nearly the whole of the eastern half of Dorset, the far-famed Isle of Purbeck, and as we turn from the amphitheatre of rolling downs the eye ranges to the blue sea breaking at the base of the chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight, or foaming round the near promontory of Peveril Point.

Away in a north-easterly direction the low-lying lands that edge the creeks and mudflats of Poole Harbour spread out like a map, and contrast their warm greens with the silvery tones of the great harbour. A brief description of Poole is given in one of the short stories of Life's Little Ironies, where it figures beneath the thin disguise of "Havenpool".

During the smuggling days Poole, together with the majority of these south-country ports, enjoyed a very unenviable reputation, and was the home of the celebrated Harry Paye, or "Arripay" as the Spaniards who so dreaded him rendered the name, who is said to have brought into Poole Harbour, on one occasion, more than one hundred prizes from the ports of Brittany, and "to have scoured the channel of Flanders so powerfully that no ship could pass that way without being taken".

Poole has retained quite a number of its ancient domestic buildings, including the problematical fifteenth-century structure known as the "Town Cellars"; but nothing is known with regard to the purposes for which it was originally erected. Some antiquaries believe it to have been connected with the Guild of St. George, others hold that it was used as a manorial storehouse, wherein were deposited the goods left by the lord of the manor. Michael Drayton in his Polyolbion depicts the rivers Frome and Puddle as entertaining each other, "oft praising lovely Poole, their best beloved bay"; and in truth Poole Harbour is charming at any state of the tide. It has been the haunt of the painter since the days when Turner found such uncommon sources of inspiration along the shores of its wooded creeks, and counterfeit presentments of this Dorset lakeland hang on the walls of many a European picture gallery. Exclusive of all islands the area of this vast sea-lake is ten thousand acres, while it has been calculated that thirty-six million tons of water flow into and out of the narrow entrance at every spring tide.

The sheet of water is studded with wooded islands that add not a little to its manifold charms. The most considerable of these islands are Branksea or Brownsea, Fursey, Long, Round, and Green Islands.

For the pedestrian there is a delightful walk along the edge of the water to Haven Point with its Marconi installation, thence by way of cliff and chine to Bournemouth; but the beauties of this great salt lake are only fully revealed to those who woo them from the water.

By means of a motor launch, with a dinghy in tow for landing purposes, a thorough exploration can be made of such little-known spots as Pergins' Island, with its clumps of fir trees, Hole's and Lychett Bays.

Another charming water trip is by way of that arm of the harbour where there is a confluence of three waters—the creek of Middlebere; the Corfe river, that debouches at Wych Passage House, the ancient port of Corfe Castle; and the Upper Bushey. As someone has fittingly said: "All will agree that a fairer sight than the panorama of Poole and its much-fretted and freakish harbour one would have to go far to see!"

The still meadows that lie around this landlocked haven are green with the growth of centuries; and over the golden corn waving freely on the upland slopes, or above the lavender fields of Broadstone, the lark in summer air is singing. Quietly, with clear spaces of light above them, in silver lapses under the darkening trees, the little rivers thread the fertile valleys, and the Frome runs eastwards from Dorchester, linking, as with a liquid thread, the far-famed county town with the equally ancient maritime port of Wareham.

If this land of Purbeck as a whole has altered but little since the days when our Norman rulers made it a happy hunting ground, its people have changed still less, and its distinctive class—the marblers or quarriers—have been practically unaffected by the tide of civilization that has affected the rest of the county in thought, dress, and customs.

The working of Purbeck marble is one of the oldest industries in the country, for the material was used by the Romans for the lining of sepulchral cists, and in later days it was in great demand for the fashioning of effigies, monuments, pillars, and similar architectural adornments. From Purbeck came the stone for some of the gates of London, for the Cross at Charing, for the abbeys of Westminster and Bindon, and for many portions of the cathedrals of Exeter, Salisbury, and Winchester.

It is a matter for regret that the early history of the Purbeck quarriers is obscure, owing largely to the records of the company having been destroyed by a fire at Corfe Castle. It is generally agreed, however, that they are of Norman descent, for certain names indicative of French origin are still very common among the natives of Corfe and Swanage. Although the trade is a declining one, a good deal of quarrying for the rougher kinds of stone is still carried on by the "Company of Marblers of the Isle of Purbeck". No one but the son of a freeman can become a member of this ancient association, though a freeman's wife is made a freewoman on payment of a shilling—the "marriage shilling" as it is called—so that she may be able to carry on the work should she outlive her husband. One of the articles of the guild, and one that is still rigidly enforced, is that not even a day's work shall be given to a non-member. Some serious disturbances have taken place when attempts have been made to introduce "outside" labour. The most important right claimed by the marblers, the right to enter on any man's land and work the stone, has not been conceded for many years. The natives assert that this concession was granted to them by royal charter, but it is doubtful if their claim could be legally enforced at the present time. The admission of apprentices is governed by a number of curious laws. A "free boy" may enter the quarries and work without being bound, and until he attains his majority he is subject to his father, to whom his wages are supposed to belong by right.

It is to be hoped that the demand for the stone will continue, and that the "Company of Purbeck Marblers" will long remain a link with the dim and distant past.

While in the neighbourhood of Poole the tourist should not fail to visit Wimborne, with its magnificent minster, and Bournemouth, which latter, although just beyond the eastern boundary of Dorset, was the town (Sandbourne) where was enacted almost the final scene of Mr. Hardy's great drama of Tess:

Space fails one to trace the boundaries of the re-created Wessex any further. Very rightly, very thoroughly has the novelist par excellence of our day, appreciated all the nobleness and all the poetry that lies within the area of his chosen mise en scÈne. Not the least of the services which Mr. Thomas Hardy has rendered us, perhaps even to be prized more than his faithful portraying of rustic character, is his thus revivifying, and by consequence exciting the popular taste for and delight in so interesting a portion of our English homeland.

Nor let it be forgotten that his novels are not altogether fictitious, but are impregnated with authentic social and national history. There is truth enough in his works of fiction to make him a famous historian, omitting altogether what belongs to the proper region of romance.

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