And twelve pence for a grey."
But a noble has not always been the reward of the wily rustic who could entrap Reynard, and the churchwardens of Corfe were certainly a little niggardly in their disbursements:
| s. | d. | ||
| 1672 | Paid Richard Turner for a Pole-Cat | 0 | 4 |
| Paid for three Fox Heads, 1s. each | 3 | 0 | |
| 1691 | Margaret White, Son, for a Hedge-Hog head | 1 | 0 |
| Paid for one dozen Sparrow Heads | 0 | 2 | |
| 1698 | June 22nd— |
It was then agreed by the Parishioners of Corfe Castle met in the Parish Church that no money be paid for the heads of any vermin by the Church Wardens unless the said heads be brought into the Church yard within one week after they are killed and exposed to Public View."
By the last entry it will be seen that the parishioners of Corfe were determined to get their money's worth, and the old churchyard must at times have contained quite a large collection of fur and feather. Speaking of rewards for the extermination of the fox, I am reminded of an entry in the Holne Churchwardens' accounts for 1782 which has a tinge of sly humour about it. Four shillings and two pence is paid for "running a fox to Okehampton." We can imagine the good churchwardens of Holne rubbing their hands and congratulating themselves on having got rid of Reynard, or speculating over future raids on domestic fowls in the Okehampton district. But the churchwardens were not too hopeful; they were a little doubtful. As "dead men rise up never," so a dead fox would not come prowling home again. So they talked the matter over and decided that half the customary noble would be a fitting remuneration to the hunter away of the fox.
I cannot leave Corfe without saying a few words in praise of the Greyhound Inn. Here the beams of the roof are black oak and squared enormously, like the timbers of a mighty ship, and some of the odd, low doorways remind one of the hatchways in a vessel. Visitors have so often knocked their heads against the low doors that it has been necessary to paint in large letters above several of them, "MIND YOUR HEAD." In the little smoke-room at the back one might fancy himself on board a ship in strange seas—especially does one experience this sensation in the evening before the candles are carried in. If it is wintertime the impression is more intense—the wind howls and worries at the window and the sky is swept clean in one broad, even stretch; then one may call for a pint of Romsey ale, fill the pipe and enjoy the lonely kingdom of the man at the helm of a great vessel. When morning comes this same little room is bright and cheerful. The window looks out on a narrow courtyard paved with mighty stones, and Corfe Castle, which thrusts itself into every view of the town, fills the background. In the winter the rustics sit about the board in this room, but they do not come there in summer, being shy of visitors. The labourers seldom wear the smocks, made of Russian duck, which their fore-elders were so inclined to favour. These smocks were much more stout than people would imagine, and the texture was so closely woven and waterproof that no rain could run through it.
* * * * * *
Four miles of a good, comfortable road running through a breezy heathland brings the pilgrim from Corfe to Wareham. On these heaths large quantities of white clay are dug up and run in truckloads to fill vessels in Poole Harbour. This clay is used for making pipes and in the manufacture of china. The clay pits are a very ancient and uninterrupted industry, and they have been worked continuously since the Romans discovered them. The spade of the Dorsetshire labourer still occasionally turns up fragments of Roman pottery made from this identical clay. When Stoborough, now a mere village, once an antique borough, is reached we come within sight of Wareham, which is entered across a long causeway over the Frome marshes. More life can be seen in an hour here by the Frome than in a whole long day upon the hills. I have noticed how the birds that fly inland, high above me, will follow the river as a blind man feels his way, by natural impulse. Over the water-meadows the peewits are twisting in eccentric circles, and everywhere in the reeds the little grey-brown, bright-eyed sedge-warblers are flitting about. It seems almost incredible that such a small bird as the sedge-warbler can produce such a torrent of sound. For a right merry, swaggering song, which, without being very musical, is indeed exhilarating, commend me to the sedge-warbler. He sings all the day long, and often far into the night, and even if he wakes up for a few seconds when he has once settled down to sleep he always obliges with a few lively chirrups.
The ancient town of Wareham has been alluded to somewhat contemptuously by several writers as "slumberous" and dull. Perhaps it is, although it is brighter in appearance than some towns near London that I know. At all events its stormy youth—in the days when London itself was but a "blinking little town"—has entitled it to a peaceful old age. All the scourges against which we pray—plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder and sudden death—have been endured with great strength of mind and calmness by the people of the town. Sir Frederick Treves tells us that its history is one long, lurid account of disaster, so that it would need a Jeremiah to tell of all its lamentations. However, an indomitable temper and a readiness to believe that to-morrow will be brighter than to-day is the prevailing spirit of her people, and the town has an incredible hold upon life and the grassy ramparts which almost encircle it. The ramparts, or town walls, are ten centuries old, and form three sides of an irregular square, and enclose, together with the Frome, an area of a hundred acres. Before the silting up of Poole Harbour the sea came nearer to its walls than it does now and the river was much wider. We learn from ancient records that a great swamp stretched seawards from the foot of the ridge. That Wareham was a port of a kind is probable enough, for it furnished Edward III. with three ships and fifty-nine men at the siege of Calais. As far back as one can follow the ancient records of the town a good number of ships called here, and when one comes out on the ample quay it is clearly seen that this place has once been a lively and animated wharf, resounding to the clatter of sea-boots and the songs of the chanty men. The waterside taverns and huge storehouses on the boat-station speak of the brave days gone by, and I cannot imagine a more pleasant spot to linger in on a sunny day. The seats and tables outside the Rising Sun and New Inn are very inviting, and when I passed this way it gave me peculiar pleasure to spend an hour here, looking broadly about me. As I looked across the quay to the grey bridge, meadows and beautiful fertile valley the odours and sounds of the country cropped up around me. The sun, laying a broad hand on the river, had smoothed all the eddies out and was sending it between the banks, not bubbling loud, but murmuring softly. Yes, the river was very sleepy that day. However, the Frome has its share of living interests. Here one can see the heron as he stands upon the shallows waiting till an eel shall move in the mud. A melancholy-looking fellow he looks, too, as he stands, gaunt and still, brooding some new spell. Anon a small bubble rising in the shallows, followed by a slight turbidness of the water around it, attracts the watcher. A swift step or so, a lightning flash of his sharp beak and he has secured his eel. One watches him rising with labouring wings in a direct upward flight, the eel writhing in fruitless efforts to escape.
The summit of the town wall is used as a promenade, and one part of the west rampart, looking across the heath to the Purbeck Hills, is called the "Bloody Bank." Here were executed, by order of Judge Jeffreys, some of Monmouth's unfortunate adherents. Their bodies were cut up and placed on the bridge, and their heads were nailed to a wooden tower in the town on the completion of the execution. Here, too, Peter of Pomfret was hanged. He was a queer, cranky fellow and it appears that he was given to drawing horoscopes and meddling with secret and hidden things. He would have been quite free from any trouble had he not ventured to read in the scheme of the twelve houses of the Zodiac the fortune of King John. He read, "under a position of heaven," that the King's reign would end on Ascension Day, 23rd May 1213, and this prophecy reached the ears of the King, who had little faith in the sayings of Peter. However, the King made up his mind that Peter's reign should end on this date, and he passed the unfortunate prophet on to Corfe Castle, where, we may be certain, he was carefully looked after. The 23rd of May passed the same way as other long-lost May-days and pay-days have passed, but King John was still very lively and active, and to convince Peter of Pomfret that he was a poor soothsayer he ordered the fellow to be whipped at the back of a dung-cart from Corfe to Wareham, where a gallows had been erected to welcome him. At Wareham Peter was driven through the streets, followed by a crowd of yelling, bloodthirsty people, and then hanged from the Bloody Bank, with the heather-covered moor before his eyes and the sky full of birds twittering and flying above his head.