The pomp of its splendour has passed away, and the stern wardour disputing entrance to the belted knight is now succeeded by a lank cobbler, who watches for lounging strangers, and acts as “Cicerone,” blending the most absurd and ridiculous stories in order to eke another sixpence from the purse of his auditor, and to add greater importance to himself; but he had a most amusing method of answering any startling questions as to date, by significantly observing in the purest Dorset dialect, “Why Lord love ye, zur, it wur avore the memory of ony maun in the parish!”
Apropos to dates, the earliest mention of Corfe is A.D. 978, when the Saxon annals narrate the murder of Edward, King of the West Saxons, committed here by his mother-in-law, Elfrida.
It was in the gloomy dungeons of this castle that King John starved to death twenty-two prisoners of war, many of whom were among the first nobility of Poictu, victims to the cruelty of a barbarous sceptered tyrant! Then again, we thought of the fate of Peter of Pontefract, the imprudent prophet, who, if he had turned over a page in the book of fate, should have folded down the leaf instead of incurring the monarch’s vengeance by meddling with state affairs.
It was in this fortress that the unfortunate Edward II. was murdered in 1372, by his cruel keepers, Sir John Maltravers, and Sir Thomas Gurney, who having removed the dethroned monarch from castle to castle, subjecting him to every hardship and indignity, hoping that ill-treatment might shorten his days. At last they determined amidst the profound security afforded by this impregnable castle, to effect his death in the most horrible manner, in order to prevent marks of violence being seen on his corpse, namely, by inserting a horn tube into his body, through which was conveyed a red-hot iron! Well may the traveller shudder at these ruins as they beetle over him in frowning ruggedness, for they have been the murderers’ den; and doubtless many a deed of slaughter has been committed in them, which has never come to light, under tyrannical power, which has never come to the knowledge of men or blotted the page of history.
The vast masses of the castle ruins which lie scattered about and in the vale below, form a scene of havoc and devastation, at once magnificent and impressive. The towers were blasted with gunpowder, and many
"Which do slope
Their heads to their foundations,"
appear as if they were yet staggering from the blast of the mine which sprung them from their beds; they lean as if ready to tumble down the steep sides of the hill, and appear as if a child’s finger would roll them headlong. The ruins are in the possession of the family of Bankes.
In a meadow in the vale on the west side, which leads, by the by, to Orchard Farm, is to be seen a curious earthwork, apparently ancient British, which, from its structure, might have been a place of druidical judicature, or for pastimes. This relic has, we believe, escaped the notice of the intelligent Rev. John Clavell of Kimmeridge; and if the public are ever to be favoured with the result of his studies and patient investigations, it will be one of the most extraordinary productions of its kind.
There is a small work on Corfe Castle, published by a very intelligent resident of Wareham; and we are in hopes that the grey and hoary ruins may call forth the muse of J.F. Pennie, who resides on this wild romantic district, and whom we met with pleasure in our rambles.