with Anna at Melchester (Salisbury).

Walking down High East Street the most unobservant eye could not fail to notice the beautiful distant view of the Frome Valley and the Yellowham Woods, and to note the number of the hostels on either side of the short length of street. Prominent among them is the King's Arms, with a spacious and noble Georgian window projecting over the main portico. This window, that is at once the delight and the despair of the modern architect, gave light to the room wherein was held "the great public dinner of the gentle-people and such like leading folk—wi' the Mayor in the chair".

Just below this still fashionable hotel is the "Three Mariners" with its "four-centred Tudor arch over the entrance". The original inn has vanished, but the present one occupies its site. On the opposite side of the way stands the "Phoenix", but risen again from her ashes since it was the scene of Jenny's last dance in one of the Wessex Poems:—

PUDDLETOWN

At the end of the street, and standing a little way back from the roadway, is the White Hart, once a famous coaching inn, and one which, although somewhat modernized, still carries its emblem, a large white hart, above the main entrance. To this hostelry came Sergeant Troy after appearing at Greenhill Fair as the Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian who played the part of "Dick Turpin" at the circus; and here, too, the carrier Burthen conveyed the story-tellers, the "Crusted Characters". This inn is also mentioned in connection with Gertrude Lodge of The Withered Arm.

Although the glories of its coaching days are but memories of the past, and notwithstanding that the motorists pass so unpretentious a building for the more attractive-looking King's Arms, the despised of the modern traveller has retained a portion of its old-time custom and prosperity, by reason of its being the inn at which the carriers' carts deposit their morning and take up their evening passengers. The loading of a "tranter's" cart with men, women, and children, not to mention the immense packages of millinery, garden produce, and poultry, is a fine art that could have been evolved only by centuries of experience. To watch one of these caravans from the heart of Dorset disgorge its contents reminds one of nothing so much as the conjuror's hat at our first "grown-up" Christmas party. How so many human beings can be squeezed into the few cubic feet left over from the merchandise is a mystery, the knowledge of which would make the fortune of an enterprising omnibus company. When meeting one of these Noah's Arks in the country one would think at first sight that it contained men only, although the incessant chattering that proceeds from the cavernous depths of the vehicle has a distinctly feminine note. The reason for this is that the "gaffers" occupy the front seats, where they smoke, make sarcastic and distinctly personal remarks to their stay-at-home neighbours, who gaze with envious eyes from their doorsteps, and keep a keen eye on the various crops that grow along the sides of the route. No matter what the weather, and whatever the season of the year, the men sit over the horse's tail, the gloomy interior of the vehicle, being allotted to the women and children, garden produce, and occasional live stock. The return journey affords the travellers no relief, for the "imports" of the morning journey have merely been exchanged for "exports", and so the tired but happy parties return to their secluded village homes, carrying with them a pungent odour in which beer, oranges, and pepper mints are curiously mingled. All readers of Mr. Hardy's novels will remember Tranter Dewy in Under the Greenwood Tree.

At the Swan Bridge, which crosses the Frome just below the White Hart, we can leave the busy thoroughfare and proceed along a pleasant and shady walk that lines the bank of the stream. On our left is the town, with the gardens of the houses coming down to the water's edge; and on our right the green luscious meadows, watered by many streams, stretch away until lost to sight in the distance. Very cool and refreshing are these paths by the rippling brooks that flow around this side of the town. Everyone loves running water, and there is a strange fascination about gurgling streams and swirling brooks that is difficult to define. Our ancestors built their towns and directed their roads by the waterways, and for reasons other than those attached primarily to defence or commerce. Masses of brambles and sedges sway over deep crystal pools, the haunt of the trout, and the peculiar reflected light from the water enhances the visionary loveliness of the glade.

At the end of this walk is the Hangman's Cottage, a small brick building with a roof-covering of thatch. There is nothing in its present appearance to suggest the abode of the public hangman and the town scavenger. The upper floor was reached originally by an external stone stairway, the holes once occupied by the supporting stanchions still being visible. Within this picturesque little dwelling Gertrude Lodge questioned the hangman when in search of a remedy for her "Withered Arm". The public executions took place on a roof over the prison gateway, and in the County Museum the visitor will see two leaden weights, each of which is inscribed with the word "Mercy". These gruesome objects were supplied by a tender-hearted governor to shorten the agony of a prisoner of light weight.

From the Hangman's Cottage a delightful walk through the low-lying meadows, towards Charminster, passes by Wolfeton, an historic Tudor house wherein Thomas Trenchard entertained Philip of Austria and Joanna, after their fleet had put into Weymouth Harbour for shelter. It was in the grounds of this house that the Lady Penelope, in A Group of Noble Dames, pacified the three suitors for her hand with the roguish remark: "Have patience, have patience, you foolish men! only bide your time quietly, and, in faith, I will marry you all in turn!"—a remark made in jest that was afterwards fulfilled in earnest.

From Wolfeton the return journey can be made by way of the main road that trends in a northerly direction somewhat beyond our present limits—to Maiden Newton (Chalk Newton), the Hintock Country, and the Blackmore Vale (the Vale of Little Dairies), all of which figure in the novels. Nearing Dorchester again one notices that the sidepath is raised a considerable height above the level of the roadway, being one of many such tree-planted walks that mark the site and extent of the ancient circumvallation of the town, the greater part of which is still intra muros.

Proceeding down High West Street, the western counterpart of the thoroughfare we joined at the Corn Exchange and left at the White Hart, we pass on our left the Shire Hall, a reminder, if such were needed, that we are in the county town. Farther on is the Dorset County Museum, within which are exhibited the remarkable relics of Celtic and Roman days that have been discovered in the town and its immediate environs. Nearly opposite the Museum is the house (now a shop) wherein Judge Jeffreys was lodged when he opened his Bloody Assize at Dorchester. The house has retained its little gallery and the greater part of its original woodwork, while several stone-mullioned windows look out on the pretty garden at the back. In Glydepath Road, near the Shire Hall, may be seen the "leering mask" that formed the keystone of the doorway arch of Lucetta's house.

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