Modern Weymouth is made up of two distinct townships, Weymouth and Melcombe Regis, which were formerly separate boroughs, with their own parliamentary representatives. Of the two Weymouth is probably the older, but Melcombe can be traced well-nigh back to the Conquest; and now, although it is the name of Weymouth that has obtained the prominence, it is to Melcombe that it is commonly applied. Many visitors to Weymouth never really enter the real, ancient Weymouth, now chiefly concerned in the brewing of Dorset ale. The pier, town, railway station and residences are all in Melcombe Regis. The local conditions are something more than peculiar. The little River Wey has an estuary altogether out of proportion to its tiny stream, called the Blackwater. The true original Weymouth stands on the right bank of the estuary at its entrance into Weymouth Bay. Across the mouth of the estuary, leaving a narrow channel only open, stretches a narrow spit of land, on which stands Melcombe. The Blackwater has thus a lake-like character, and its continuation to the sea, the harbour, may be likened to a canal. The local annals of the kingdom can hardly furnish such another instance of jealous rivalry as the strife between the two boroughs. Barely a stone's-throw apart, they were the most quarrelsome of neighbours, and for centuries lived the most persistent "cat and dog" life. Whatever was advanced by one community was certain to be opposed by the other, and not even German and English hated each other with a more perfect hatred than did the burgesses of Weymouth and Melcombe Regis. As they would not live happy single, it was resolved to try what married life would do, and so in 1571 the two corporations were rolled into one, the only vestige of the old days retained being the power of electing four members to Parliament from the joint municipality—a right which was exercised until 1832. Not until the union was the old-fashioned ferry over the Wey supplemented by a bridge, the predecessor of that which now joins the two divisions of the dual town. The union proved to be a success, and in this way Weymouth saved both itself and its name from becoming merely a shadow and a memory.

It is to George III. that Weymouth must be eternally grateful, for just in the same way as George IV. turned Brighthelmstone into Brighton, it was George III. who made Weymouth. Of course there was a Weymouth long before his day, but whatever importance it once possessed had long disappeared when he took it up. For many years the King spent long summer holidays at Gloucester Lodge, a mansion facing the sea, and now the sedate Gloucester Hotel.

Considering its undoubted age, Weymouth is remarkably barren in traces of the past, and a few Elizabethan houses, for the most part modernised, well-nigh exhaust its antiquities.

Weymouth, which figures as "Budmouth" in Hardy's romances, is the subject of many references. Uncle Bengy, in The Trumpet Major, found Budmouth a plaguy expensive place, for "If you only eat one egg, or even a poor windfall of an apple, you've got to pay; and a bunch of radishes is a halfpenny, and a quart o' cider tuppence three-farthings at lowest reckoning. Nothing without paying!"

When George III. and the sun of prosperity shone upon the tradesfolk of Weymouth the spirit of pecuniary gain soon became rampant. The inflated prices which so roused poor old Uncle Bengy even staggered Queen Charlotte, and "Peter Pindar" (Dr John Wolcot) criticised her household thriftiness in bringing stores and provisions from Windsor:

Sandsfoot Castle, built by Henry VIII., on the southern shore of the spit of land called the Nothe, Weymouth Bay, is now a mere pile of corroded stone. It was built as a fort when England feared an invasion prompted by the Pope. The old pile plays a prominent part in Hardy's The Well-Beloved. The statue of King George, which is such an object of ridicule to the writers of guide-books, was the meeting-place of Fancy Day and Dick Dewy in Under the Greenwood Tree.

The "Budmouth" localities mentioned in The Trumpet Major are: the Quay; Theatre Royal; Barracks; Gloucester Lodge; and the Old Rooms Inn in Love Row, once a highly fashionable resort which was used for dances and other entertainments by the ladies and gentlemen who formed the Court of George III. It was also the spot where the battle of Trafalgar was discussed in The Dynasts. However, the old assembly rooms and the theatre have now vanished. Mention of Hardy's tremendous drama reminds me that it is rarely quoted in topographical works on Dorset, and yet it is full of the spirit and atmosphere of Wessex. Thus in a few words he tells us what "Boney" seemed like to the rustics of Dorset:

"Woman (in undertones). I can tell you a word or two on't. It is about His victuals. They say that He lives upon human flesh, and has rashers o' baby every morning for breakfast—for all the world like the Cernel Giant in old ancient times!

"Second Old Man. I only believe half. And I only own—such is my challengeful character—that perhaps He do eat pagan infants when He's in the desert. But not Christian ones at home. Oh no—'tis too much!

"Woman. Whether or no, I sometimes—God forgi'e me!—laugh wi' horror at the queerness o't, till I am that weak I can hardly go round house. He should have the washing of 'em a few times; I warrent 'a wouldn't want to eat babies any more!"

There are a hundred clean-cut, bright things in The Dynasts, and some of the songs are so cunningly fashioned that we know the author must surely have overheard them so often that they have become part of his life. Does the reader remember this from the first volume?—

Or the other ballad sung by a Peninsular sergeant—

The principal attraction of Weymouth is its magnificent bay, which has caused the town to be depicted on the railway posters as the "Naples of England"; but Mr Harper, in his charming book, The Hardy Country, cruelly remarks that no one has yet found Naples returning the compliment and calling itself the "Weymouth of Italy." But there is no need for Weymouth to powder and paint herself with fanciful attractions, for her old-world glamour is full of enchantment. The pure Georgian houses on the Esplanade, with their fine bow windows and red-tiled roofs, are very warm and homely, and remind one of the glories of the coaching days. They are guiltless of taste or elaboration, it is true, but they have an honest savour about them which is redolent of William Cobbett, pig-skin saddles, real ale and baked apples. And those are some of the realest things in the world. There is a distinct "atmosphere" about the shops near the harbour too. They shrink back from the footpath in a most timid way, and each year they seem to settle down an inch or so below the street-level, with the result that they are often entered by awkward steps.

Near the Church of St Mary is the Market, which on Fridays and Tuesdays presents a scene of colour and activity. In the Guildhall are several interesting relics, the old stocks and whipping-posts, a chest captured from the Spanish Armada and a chair from the old house of the Dominican friars which was long ago demolished.

Preston, three miles north-east of Weymouth, is a prettily situated village on the main road to Wareham, with interesting old thatched cottages and a fifteenth-century church containing an ancient font, a Norman door, holy-water stoups and squint. At the foot of the hill a little one-arched bridge over the stream was once regarded as Roman masonry, but the experts now think it is Early Norman work. Adjoining Preston is the still prettier village of Sutton Poyntz, hemmed in by the Downs, on the side of which, in a conspicuous position, is the famous figure, cut in the turf, of King George III. on horseback. He looks very impressive, with his cocked hat and marshal's baton. Sutton Poyntz is the principal locale of Hardy's story of The Trumpet Major. The tale is of a sweet girl, Anne Garland, and two brothers Loveday, who loved her; the "gally-bagger" sailor, Robert, who won her, and John, the easy-going, gentle soldier, who lost her. The Trumpet Major is a mellow, loamy novel, and the essence of a century of sunshine has found its way into the pages. Even the pensiveness of the story—the sadness of love unsatisfied—is mellow. The village to-day, with its tree-shaded stream, crooked old barns and stone cottages, recalls the spirit of the novel with Overcombe Mill as a central theme. How vividly the pilgrim can recall the Mill, with its pleasant rooms, old-world garden, and the stream where the cavalry soldiers came down to water their horses! It was a dearly loved corner of England for John Loveday, and if to keep those meadows safe and fair a life was required, he was perfectly willing to pay the price—nay, more, he was proud and glad to do so. In the end John was killed in one of the battles of the Peninsular War, and his spirit is echoed by a soldier poet who went to his death in 1914:

The mill is not the one sketched in the tale, but it still grinds corn, and one can still see "the smooth mill-pond, over-full, and intruding into the hedge and into the road." The real mill is actually at Upwey.

Bincombe, two miles north-east of Upwey, is one of the "outstep placen," where the remnants of dialect spoken in the days of Wessex kings is not quite dead, and as we go in and out among the old cottages we come upon many a word which has now been classed by annotators as "obsolete." "I'd as lief be wooed of a snail," says Rosalind in As You Like It of the tardy Orlando, and "I'd as lief" or "I'd liefer" is still heard here in Bincombe. There is a large survival of pure Saxon in the Wessex speech, and Thomas Hardy has made a brave attempt to preserve the old local words in his novels. He has always deplored the fact that schools were driving out the racy Saxon words of the West Country, and once remarked to a friend:

"I have no sympathy with the criticism which would treat English as a dead language—a thing crystallised at an arbitrarily selected stage of its existence, and bidden to forget that it has a past and deny that it has a future. Purism, whether in grammar or vocabulary, almost always means ignorance. Language was made before grammar, not grammar before language. And as for the people who make it their business to insist on the utmost possible impoverishment of our English vocabulary, they seem to me to ignore the lessons of history, science, and common sense.

"It has often seemed to me a pity, from many points of view—and from the point of view of language among the rest—that Winchester did not remain, as it once was, the royal, political, and social capital of England, leaving London to be the commercial capital. The relation between them might have been something like that between Paris and Marseilles or Havre; and perhaps, in that case, neither of them would have been so monstrously overgrown as London is to-day. We should then have had a metropolis free from the fogs of the Thames Valley; situated, not on clammy clay, but on chalk hills, the best soil in the world for habitation; and we might have preserved in our literary language a larger proportion of the racy Saxon of the West Country. Don't you think there is something in this?"

Returning from Bincombe and passing through Sutton to Preston we come in a mile to Osmington. A short distance beyond the village a narrow road leads off seawards to Osmington Mills. Crossing the hills, this narrower road descends to the coast and the Picnic Inn—a small hostelry noted for "lobster lunches" and "prawn teas." If we strike inland from Osmington we come to Poxwell, the old manor-house of the Hennings, a curiously walled-in building with a very interesting gate-house. This is the Oxwell Manor of The Trumpet Major and the house of Benjamin Derriman—"a wizened old gentleman, in a coat the colour of his farmyard, breeches of the same hue, unbuttoned at the knees, revealing a bit of leg above his stocking and a dazzlingly white shirt-frill to compensate for this untidiness below. The edge of his skull round his eye-sockets was visible through the skin, and he walked with great apparent difficulty."

Pressing onward from this village, we arrive, after a two-mile walk, at "Warm'ell Cross," three miles south-west of Moreton station. The left road leads to Dorchester, the right one to Wareham, and the centre one across the immemorially ancient and changeless "Egdon Heath." Here we turn to the right and Owermoigne, the "Nether Mynton" in which the events of The Distracted Preacher take place. Here indeed is a nook which seems to be a survival from another century; a patch of England of a hundred years ago set down in the England of to-day. The church where Lizzie Newberry and her smugglers stored "the stuff" is hidden from those who pass on the highroad and is reached by a little rutty, crooked lane. The body of the church has been rebuilt, but the tower where the smugglers looked down upon the coastguard officers searching for their casks of brandy remains the same.

The highway leads for two miles along the verge of Egdon Heath, and then we come to a right-hand turning taking us past Winfrith Newburgh and over the crest of the chalk downs steeply down to West Lulworth.

Lulworth Cove is justly considered one of the most delightful and picturesque retreats on the coast. It is a circular little basin enclosed by towering cliffs of chalk and sand and entered by a narrow opening between two bluffs of Portland stone. It exhibits a section of all the beds between the chalk and oolite, and owes its peculiar form to the unequal resistance of these strata to the action of the sea. The perpetually moving water, having once pierced the cliff of stone, soon worked its way deeply into the softer sand and chalk.

Lulworth is the "Lullstead Cove" of the Hardy novels. Here Sergeant Troy was supposed to have been drowned; it is one of the landing-places chosen by the Distracted Preacher's parishioners during their smuggling exploits, and in Desperate Remedies it is the first meeting-place of Cynthera Graye and Edward Springrove.

The cove is most conveniently reached from Swanage by steamer. By rail the journey is made to Wool and thence by bus for five miles southward. By road the short way is by Church Knowle, Steeple, Tyneham and East Lulworth—but the hills are rather teasing; however, the views are wonderful. It is nine miles if one takes the Wareham road from Corfe as far as Stoborough, there turning to the left for East Holme, West Holme and East Lulworth.

The entrance to the cove from the Channel is a narrow opening in the cliff, which here rises straight from the sea. Mounted on a summit on the eastern side of the breach is a coastguard's look-out, while in a hollow on the other side are the remains of Little Bindon Abbey. The cove is an almost perfect circle, and in summer the tide, as it flows in, fills the white cove with a shimmering sheet of light blue water. Each wave breaks the surface into a huge circle, and the effect from the heights is a succession of wonderful sparkling rings vanishing into the yellow sands. To the east rise the ridges of Bindon Hill and the grey heights of Portland stone that terminate seaward in the Mupe Rocks, then the towering mass of Ring's Hill, crowned by the large oblong entrenchment known as Flower's Barrow, which has probably been both a British and a Roman camp.

In the summer steamers call daily at the cove. The landing is effected by means of boats or long gangways. After having climbed the hill roads into Lulworth, the pilgrim will not, I am certain, look with any delight upon a return to them, and will welcome an alternative trip to Swanage, Weymouth or Bournemouth by an excursion steamer.

Portisham, under the bold, furzy hills that rise to the commanding height of Blackdown, appears in The Trumpet Major as the village to which Bob Loveday (who was spasmodically in love with Anne Garland) comes to attach himself to Admiral Hardy for service in the Royal Navy. Notwithstanding the fact that Robert Loveday is merely an imaginary character, the admiral was a renowned hero in real life, and no less a personage than Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy. He lived here, in a picturesque old house just outside the village, and the chimney-like tower on Black Down was erected to his memory. In a garden on the opposite side of the road to Hardy's house is a sundial, inscribed:

JOSEPH HARDY, ESQ.

KINGSTON RUSSELL, LAT. 50° 45'

1769

FUGIO FUGE

Admiral Hardy was born at Kingston Russell, and his old home at Portisham is still in the possession of a descendant on the female side.

From Portisham a walk of four miles leads to Abbotsbury, situated at the verge of the Vale of Wadden and the Chesil Beach. The railway station is about ten minutes' walk from the ancient village, which consists of a few houses picturesquely dotted around the church and scattered ruins of the Abbey of St Peter. The abbey was originally founded in King Knut's reign by Arius, the "house-carl," or steward, to the king, about 1044, in the reign of Edward the Confessor. The building at the south-east corner of the church is part of the old abbey. It is now used as a carpenter's shop, but an old stoup can be seen in the corner. At the farther end of this building is a cell in which the last abbot is said to have been starved to death.

A gate-house porch and a buttressed granary of fourteenth-century architecture, still used as a barn, and a pond, with a tree-covered island, the ancient fish-pond of the monks, are all that remain to remind us of the historic past of this spot.