Abbotsbury. While at Waterson it is worth while to mount Waterson Ridge, the scene of Time's Laughingstocks, a poem that appeared in the Fortnightly of August, 1904.

From Puddletown through Tolpuddle (one of the numerous villages to which the Puddle or Piddle gives name), and we are quickly at Bere Regis, which Dr. Stukeley identified with the Roman Ibernium. This is the "Kingsbere" of the novels and the ancient seat of the Turbervilles, a family that flourishes still in Glamorgan, and of whom Tess was a fictitious descendant. Within the church, which has a remarkable carved roof, the gift of Cardinal Morton, who was born at Milborne Stileham, three or four miles away, are two canopied tombs of the Turbervilles. Half a mile to the north-east is Woodbury Hill, where was held the great sheep fair, the "Greenhill Fair" where Troy performed the part of "Dick Turpin" at the circus. At Bere the smuggler Owlett was hidden after his struggle with the excise officers, and it was selected as a hiding place for the women by Miller Loveday, should Napoleon's threatened invasion prove successful. Here, too, beneath the Cardinal's noble gift, Yeobright's father put such power into his playing of the bass viol as to cause the windows to rattle, and "old Pa'son Gibbons to lift his hands in his great holy surplice as natural as if he'd been in common clothes, and seem to say to himself, 'oh for such a man in our parish!'"

Apart from its historical and literary associations Bere Regis is as charming a spot as exists in rural England, and one where the modern cultivation which demolishes the hedgerows and stubbs up the copses has not yet shown its evil presence. The old manor house of the Turbervilles has vanished, with the exception of a portion that still remains in Court Farm; and times have changed since the old race of manorial lords and squires were laid to rest in their family vaults. Here, as in most Dorset villages, the ancient families have died out or, owing to agricultural depression, have been driven into bankruptcy or exile. The manor houses have fallen into decay, with the exception perhaps, as here, of a solitary wing which serves as a modern farmhouse. On the tombstones in the churchyard you may read names once honoured in the countryside, and far beyond it, names that are rapidly becoming extinct, except as what Grant Allen would have called "verbal fossils".

PORTISHAM

It is generally thought that the untitled landed gentry represent a longer connection with land than the nobility, whose estates have constantly been added to by purchase or inheritance. It is, however, quite otherwise; for of all the squirearchy there are very few families who can show an unbroken succession since the termination of an event so comparatively recent as the Wars of the Roses. True, there are a certain and a not inconsiderable number of Englishmen with large landed estates who are descended from ancestors who held land sometime before them; but it will generally be found that the ancestors were yeomen. It has been estimated by an eminent authority that an analysis of modern landowners in any English county will prove that not more than a dozen descend from forbears owning 3000 acres (the minimum qualification for a great landowner) in the time of Elizabeth; and that the peers, comparatively modern as the majority of them are, represent a much larger average of old families than the country squires.

If possible, the return journey from Bere Regis to Dorchester should be made by way of "Egdon Heath", of which we get so impressive a description in the opening chapters of The Return of the Native. If the weather be fine, what could be better than a long tramp over the moor? especially as our most lasting memories of a landscape are those we gain afoot. Blue skies and green fields are things we are all familiar with; but there is assuredly nothing in the wide world that appeals to us so much as our English moorlands, and "Egdon", aglow with yellow gorse, and afire with purple heather, is as fine a sight as can be offered by these southern lands that fringe the Channel seas. It is not pretended, of course, that these combined Dorset heathlands can rival in extent or grandeur the great Devonian moorland that gives birth to the romantic River Dart; but in their own peculiar way they have no rival.

In Domesday this tract of country is called a "heathy, furzy, briary wilderness", and the antiquary Leland writes of it as being "overgrown with heth and moss". Mr. Hardy characterizes it finely in eight words as "singularly colossal and mysterious in its swarthy monotony." His description of it could have been penned only by one who was familiar with all its various moods, and whose mind had become absorbed with its mysterious and subtle influences.

It was among the solitudes of these moorlands, and amid the fragrant meadow-lands of Dorchester, that William Barnes made himself sweet imageries the livelong day; and here Thomas Hardy has thought out his great prose romances, and clothed them with beautiful description. Certainly both of these great writers have revived much of the forgotten wealth of our language, and wander where you will in their beloved Dorset homeland, by winding stream or breezy down, the shade of the dead poet and the presence of the living novelist accompany you on your way.

Eight miles to the south of Dorchester is Weymouth, backed, as seen from the landward side, by the great promontory of Portland, lying like some stranded whale upon the waters. The quickest and easiest way to reach this "Budmouth" of the novels is by train, but by far the more interesting way is to walk or cycle. True, the rail motor has many "halts", at which one can alight, but those who do the sights of a place between the trains miss a hundred natural beauties and a thousand healthy pleasures granted to the pedestrian and the cyclist.

Leaving the county town by the Weymouth Road, and passing the "Rings" where Henchard and his wife met to discuss future arrangements, the first definite turning towards the right leads to Maiden Castle, where rise the steep and grassy tiers of the most stupendous prehistoric earthwork we possess, and one that was in existence for centuries before it was strengthened, and, for a short period, occupied probably by the Romans. A whole day is scarce sufficient in which to explore this great camp, with an area of 160 acres, that occupies the summit of a natural hill, and where the entrenchments and fortifications are of a most elaborate character.

Emerging from this prehistoric fortress, camp, and cattle-station at its western extremity, a short but hilly walk leads to the charming village of Upwey, nestling at the foot of a well-wooded hill where rises a spring of water, the source of the little River Wey. Upwey Church is a very interesting one of Perpendicular date. Some portions of the picturesque old mill here are introduced into the Trumpet-Major, but their locality has been moved to Sutton (Overcombe), a few miles away. Beyond the mill a sharp turn to the left joins the main road we left to reach Maiden Castle. Here, on the old vicinal way of the Romans, stands the "Ship" inn, the hostel wherein Dick Dewy and Fancy Day became definitely engaged after their accidental meeting by