I shall live again in little wayside flowers;
My flesh and bones and sinew shall give life to mighty trees
And my spirit shall abide in ancient towers.
* * * * * *
When I am dead, my dust shall mix with clay,
And "puddle" some lone dew-pond on the hill,
So every Dorset lad who drinks upon his way
Will somehow lead me back to Dorset still.
Anonymous.
Dorchester deserves to be chosen as the headquarters of the earliest of a series of excursions in Dorset, not only by reason of the premier position which it holds in the country, but also on account of the multitude of interesting surroundings which claim the attention of the literary pilgrim, the antiquary and the archæologist. The town is situated on a hill which slopes on the one side to the valley of the Frome, and extends on the other in an open country, across which run the Roman roads, still used as the highways. The principal thoroughfares divide Dorchester pretty equally, the High Street intersecting it from east to west, the South Street and North Market in the opposite direction. On the south-west is the suburb of Fordington. The principal street—on the line of the Via Iceniana—ends abruptly at the fields, and on the south and west is the rampart, planted with rows of sycamore and chestnut trees as a walk.