Just beyond the White Hart we come to the first of the two bridges (the second, Grey's Bridge, being only a few hundred yards farther along) which have their parts in The Mayor of Casterbridge. Thomas Hardy has quaintly described these bridges and has discoursed upon the habits of their frequenters:
"Two bridges stood near the lower part of Casterbridge (Dorchester) town. The first, of weather-stained brick, was immediately at the end of High Street, where a diverging branch from that thoroughfare ran round to the low-lying Durnover lanes, so that the precincts of the bridge formed the merging-point of respectability and indigence. The second bridge, of stone, was farther out on the highway—in fact, fairly in the meadows, though still within the town boundary.... Every projection in each was worn down to obtuseness, partly by weather, more by friction from generations of loungers, whose toes and heels had from year to year made restless movements against these parapets, as they had stood there meditating on the aspect of affairs.
"To this pair of bridges gravitated all the failures of the town.... There was a marked difference of quality between the personages who haunted the near bridge of brick and the personages who haunted the far one of stone. Those of lowest character preferred the former, adjoining the town; they did not mind the glare of the public eye.... The miserables who would pause on the remoter bridge were of a politer stamp."
Dorchester has now lost its fame for brewing beer. But about 1725 the ale of this town acquired a very great name. In Byron's manuscript journal (since printed by the Chetham Society) the following entry appears:—
"May 18, 1725. I found the effect of last night drinking that foolish Dorset, which was pleasant enough, but did not at all agree with me, for it made me stupid all day."
A mighty local reputation had "Dorchester Ale," and it still commands a local influence, for this summer I was advised by the waiter of the Phœnix Hotel to try a bottle of "Grove's Stingo" made in the town. It is a potent beverage—and needs to be treated with respect, to be drunk slowly and in judicious moderation. Thomas Hardy thus describes this wonderful stuff, the "pale-hued Dorchester" in his novel, The Trumpet Major:
"In the liquor line Loveday laid in an ample barrel of Dorchester strong beer.... It was of the most beautiful colour that the eye of an artist in beer could desire; full in body, yet brisk as a volcano; piquant, yet without a twang; luminous as an autumn sunset; free from streakiness of taste; but, finally, rather heady."
Francis Fawkes, in his song of the Brown Jug (1720-1777), mentions the "Dorchester Butt," and perhaps the Dorset reader, with, it may be, some tender memories of his own, will fancifully identify "sweet Nan of the Vale" with another maid down Blackmore Vale way.
"Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale
(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale),