Toller Porcorum (Toller of the Swine) has a railway station on the Bridport branch line and is two miles from Maiden Newton. The name is explanatory, and great herds of swine were once bred here. The affix serves to distinguish this Toller from its next neighbour, Toller Fratrum (Toller of the Brethren, i.e. monks), which is one mile from Maiden Newton station. The mansion of Sir Thomas Fulford still stands and is a fine instance of early seventeenth-century domestic architecture. The very first things I noticed about this house were the tall, narrow, thick windows—windows that any man might look upon with covetous eyes. Such tall stone-mullioned windows are an enchantment, and, as Hilaire Belloc says, it is the duty of every man to keep up the high worship of noble windows till he comes down to the windowless grave. A building with a thatched roof near the house is a refectory, and appropriately cut in stone on the wall will be noticed a monk eating bread.

At Wynford Eagle, two miles south, the church still preserves a curious tympanum of a Norman door. It shows two ferocious and unspeakable-looking beasts, who are about to fight. They are said to be wyverns—which are heraldic monsters with two wings, two legs and tapering bodies. The most remarkable discovery ever made in the vicinity of Wynford Eagle was recorded by Aubrey in connection with the opening of a barrow at Ferndown. The diggers came upon "a place like an Oven, curiously clay'd round; and in the midst of it a fair Urn full of very firm bones, with a great quantity of black ashes under it. And what is most remarkable; one of the diggers putting his hand into the Oven when first open'd, pull'd it back hastily, not being able to endure the heat; and several others doing the like, affirmed it to be hot enough to bake bread.... Digging further they met with sixteen Urns more, but not in Ovens; and in the middle one with ears; they were all full of some bones and black ashes."

The house of the Sydenhams still stands at Wynford Eagle. On the highest point of the central gable a fierce-looking stone eagle arrests our attention, and under it is carved the date 1630.

Rampisham is three miles south of Evershot, and the churchyard contains an ancient stone cross, the decayed condition of which will test the patience and ingenuity of those who desire to satisfy themselves of the accuracy of Britton's description of the sculpture—namely, that it represents "the stoning of St Stephen, the Martyrdom of St Edmund, the Martyrdom of St Thomas À Becket, and two crowned figures sitting at a long table, to whom a man kneels on one knee."

The inn called the "Tiger's Head" is of great antiquity; it has stooped and settled down with age, and, within, the low-ceiled rooms seem saturated with influence, and weighty with the wearing of men's lives.

Cross-in-Hand stands on the verge of the down, which breaks away precipitously to the vale where Yetminster lies. A bleached and desolate upland, it took its name from a stone pillar which stood there, a strange, rude monolith, from a stratum unknown in any local quarry, on which was roughly carved a human hand. Differing accounts were given of its history and purport. Some authorities stated that a devotional cross had once formed the complete erection thereon, of which the present relic was but the stump; others that the stone as it stood was entire, and that it had been fixed there to mark a boundary or place of meeting.

It was on this stone that Alec D'Urberville made Tess swear not to tempt him by her charms. "This was once a holy cross," said he. "Relics are not in my creed, but I fear you at moments." It was with a sense of painful dread that Tess, after leaving this spot, learned from a rustic that the stone was not a holy cross. "Cross—no; 'twere not a cross! 'Tis a thing of ill-omen, miss. It was put up in wuld times by the relations of a malefactor, who was tortured there by nailing his hands to a post and afterwards hung. The bones lie underneath. They say he sold his soul to the devil, and that he walks at times."

Deep down below is the sequestered village of Batcombe. An uncanny story attaches itself to a battered old Gothic tomb in Batcombe churchyard. The tomb stands near the north wall of the church, and it is said to be the resting-place of one Conjuring Minterne, who Hardy in one of his novels tells us left directions, after having quarrelled with his vicar, that he was to be buried "neither in the church nor out of it." It is said that this eccentric injunction was complied with, but the tomb has since been moved. What deed Minterne had committed that prevented him from lying quietly in the usual grave like the other good folk of Batcombe who had departed this life no man can tell. All the rustics could tell me was they had heard he had sold himself to Old Nick, and that his request to be buried in such a unique manner was a ruse to prevent his master "the old 'un" from getting him when he died.

In bygone days the "conjurer" was an important character in the Dorset village, and he was generally of good reputation, and supposed to be gifted with supernatural power, which he exercised for good. By his incantations and ceremonies he cured anything from inflamed eyes to lung disease. A Wessex dealer in magic and spells is mentioned in Hardy's story, The Withered Arm. He lived in a valley in the remotest part of Egdon Heath:

"He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything about their continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, 'sharp sand,' and other local products. Indeed, he affected not to believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been shown him for cure miraculously disappeared—which it must be owned they infallibly did—he would say lightly, 'Oh, I only drink a glass of grog upon 'em—perhaps it's all chance,' and immediately turn the subject."

But to return to Minterne. The present vicar of Batcombe church—Rev. Joseph Pulliblank—thinks the fore-shortened stone of Minterne's tomb, which is square instead of the usual oblong, gives some support to the story of the "conjurer" being buried with his feet under the masonry of the church wall. The following paragraph is also from some notes kindly sent to me by the Rev. Joseph Pulliblank:—

"Batcombe Church, originally Saxon, has only two points which testify to the fact—(1) A Saxon font inside, (2) a small portion of Saxon masonry worked into the outside south wall.

"In modern times Batcombe was the seat of 'the Little Commonwealth' settlement founded by the Earl of Sandwich and run on the lines of the 'George Junior Republic' in America—owing to financial and other difficulties it came to an end during the war."

In the church are wall tablets to the Minterne family: one to a John Minterne who died in 1716, as well as a John Minterne who was buried in 1592. There is a monument to Bridget Minterne in Yetminster church, who was the wife of John Minterne of Batcombe. The inscription runs:

"Here lyeth y body of Bridgett Minterne wife of John Minterne of Batcombe esq., second daughter of Sir John Brown of Frampton Kt. who died y 19th July Ano Domini 1649."

Which of the ancient possessors of Batcombe can claim the honour of being the famous Conjuring Minterne I was unable to discover. Little remains of his history. We only know that he was always kind, and knew how to ride well, for he once jumped his horse from the crest of the down into the village, knocking one of the pinnacles off the church tower on his way. He would not talk much about wizardry, but would rather sing songs. No doubt Minterne was a very lovable fellow!

In Rudyard Kipling's "Marklake Witches" (Rewards and Fairies) the Sussex "conjurer" is represented by Jerry Gamm the witchmaster, and he is one of the most striking examples in literature of the rustic astrologer and doctor. The following charm—a very excellent one, too—was Jerry Gamm's charm against a disease of an obstinate and deadly character:

"You know the names of the Twelve Apostles, dearie? You say them names, one by one, before your open window, rain or storm, wet or shine, five times a day fasting. But mind you, 'twixt every name you draw in your breath through your nose, right down to your pretty toes, as long and as deep as you can, and let it out slow through your pretty little mouth. There's virtue for your cough in those names spoke that way. And I'll give you something you can see, moreover. Here's a stick of maple which is the warmest tree in the wood. It's cut one inch long for you every year," Jerry said. "That's sixteen inches. You set it in your window so that it holds up the sash, and thus you keep it, rain or shine, or wet or fine, day and night. I've said words over it which will have virtue on your complaints."

Bridport lies two miles inland from the sea and its unheard-of harbour of West Bay. We first hear of the town in the reign of Edward the Confessor, when it could boast a mint, a priory of monks and two hundred houses. In Saxon days it was probably a place of some importance, owing to the fact of it being the port to the River Brit, but its early history is without any distinctive mark or important event. When Charles II. arrived at Bridport in his hasty flight from Charmouth the town was full of soldiers, but the royal party went boldly to an inn (the George, now a shop, incorporating part of the old building opposite the Town Hall) and mixed with the company. Every stranger was mistrusted by the troops, however, and Charles and his suite quitted the town after a hasty meal. They retired by the main Dorchester road and took a lane leading to Broadwindsor and so escaped. Lee Lane, a mile to the east of Bridport, is said to be the actual scene where the royal party retreated to security.

The first thing the pilgrim will notice when entering Bridport is the generous width of the streets, and it is a curious fact that the local industries have left their stamp on the town in this way. The town was always famed for its hempen manufactures, and it furnished most of the cordage for the royal fleet in the good old times of "wooden walls." It was for this reason the roads were made wider—to allow each house to have a "rope walk." At one time the town enjoyed almost a monopoly in the manufacture of cordage. Gallows' ropes also were made here, hence the grim retort often heard in Wessex: "You'll live to be stabbed with a Bridport dagger!"

George Barnet, "a gentleman-burgher of Port Bredy," in Hardy's Fellow Townsmen, was descended from the hemp and rope merchants of Bridport.

The church is fifteenth-century and contains a cross-legged effigy of a mail-clad knight, probably one of the De Chideocks. The old building was restored in 1860, when two bays were added to the nave. Thomas Hardy waxes bitterly jocular over this piece of restoration: "The church had had such a tremendous joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to be scarce recognisable by its dearest old friends."

West Bay and Bridport are scenes in Hardy's tale, Fellow Townsmen, where they are dealt with under the name of "Port Bredy," from the name of the little River Bredy, which here flows into the sea. The town mainly consists of one long highway, divided at West Street and East Street by the clock tower of the Town Hall, which forms the very hub of commercial liveliness, with the fine old inns and quaint shops about it. The Greyhound Hotel is a place very much favoured by travellers, and for old-fashioned fare and comfort there is no inn in England which could better it. Mr Trump, the broad-shouldered landlord, is one of the old school, a man of genial humour and generous strength, and his popularity reaches well over the borders of Dorset. He is a great lover of horses, and I stood by his side as he surveyed a manifestation of Divine Energy in the form of a horse of spirit and tremendous power owned by a local farmer. "Walter" Trump took off his hat to the fine animal and turned to me, saying: "If there are no horses in heaven I don't want to go there."

South Street turns down to the quay near the Greyhound, and in the summer traps will be usually found at this corner to take one down to the sea.

The Literary and Scientific Institute, in East Street, opposite the Bull Hotel, contains a number of coins and some natural history exhibits, as well as a library.

The Conservative Club has been established in a fine old Tudor building in South Street, on the opposite side of which is another ancient house called Dungeness. At the back of a house on the south side of the East Bridge is a portion of the old Hospital of St John. The Bull has been modernised, but it is the Black Bull where George Barnet put up on his return to his native town, in Fellow Townsmen.

Between the Town Hall and the Greyhound is a passage known as Bucky Doo, which the Rev. R. Grosvenor Bartelot traces to "Bocardo," "originally a syllogism in logic, which was here, as at Oxford, applied to the prison, because, just as a Bocardo syllogism always ended in a final negative, so did a compulsory visit to the Bocardo lock-up generally mean a closer acquaintance with the disciplinary use of 'the Bridport dagger' and a final negative to the drama of life."

If the pilgrim wishes to make a pleasant excursion on foot to West Bay he must take a track that goes round the churchyard and follow the riverside footpath on the right bank of the stream. Thus we arrive at Bridport Quay and West Bay. The harbour never became of any importance owing to the microscopic shingle which has always obstructed and choked its mouth. Everywhere the pilgrim turns he sees hillocks of this waste sand which has prevented a willing port from serving its country. The fact that Bridport was not called upon to provide any ships either for the siege of Calais in 1347 or for the fleet to oppose the Spanish Armada may be accepted as proof that the burgesses of the town possessed no vessels large enough for fighting purposes. So the little harbour fell into indolence and sluggishness, thus bearing out the truth of the old saying: "That which does not serve dies."

The place is picturesque in an odd and casual way, and a scattering of quaint old dwellings contrast with a row of new lodging-houses which are very showy (rory-tory the Dorset rustic would style them!) in spite of their affectation of the dandy-go-rusty tiles of antiquity. A little group of fishermen may always be seen loafing and smoking by the thatched Bridport Arms Hotel, and the only time these good fellows ever show any quickening to life is when some barque, taking unusual risks, allows itself to be towed and winched between the narrow pier-heads. At such times the spirit of ships and men departed seems to enter into them, and they shout and heave and sing randy-dandy deep-sea songs, and use much profanity.

The shingle is part of one of the remarkable features of the Dorset coast—the Chesil Beach or Chesil Bank, which runs as far as Portland. Chesil is Old English for pebble, the old word being found in Chesilton in Dorset and Chislehurst in Kent. The pebbles gradually grow coarser as one progresses in a south-easterly direction, so that in olden days the smugglers, running their "tubs" ashore, at venture, in the fog or during the night, knew the exact stretch of bank they had arrived on by taking a handful of shingle to examine. The attractions of West Bay are good bathing, good sea fishing and good boating, for the curious little harbour is a particularly pleasing haunt for amateur sailors.

There are many pleasant short walks in the neighbourhood of Bridport and West Bay. Eype is reached from Bridport by field paths passing through Allington and the Lovers' Grove. A bridle-way takes one to Eype church, standing on the ridge, whence it leads through the village down a deep hollow to the beach. Continuing over Thorncombe Beacon, we reach Seatown, which is a seaside branch of Chideock. "Chiddick," as any Wessex man of the soil will pronounce the name, is a little less than a mile inland on the Lyme Regis road. The Anchor Inn at Seatown is an old place of entertainment I have not personally visited, but a man who knows his Dorset informs me that it is a place where the centuries mingle; with black beams in the ceiling, oak settles, shining with long usage, and ironwork full of the rough simplicity of the Elizabethan forge. I shall call there next time I fare Dorset way, if only to stand in the great bay window which looks out to the sea. Such buildings remind one, not of decay but of immutableness. Perhaps even the summons of the dark Reaper would not sound quite so sharp in an ancient inn. There are less perfect places one might die in, and if I had my wish I would choose to pass away in an inn, where all my regrets would be arrested by the stamping of feet on the sanded floor beneath, and the ancient and untutored voices of farmhands and ploughmen singing some lively song.