In ‘62’ the American Civil war had commenced but
I cannot recall that, in following years, any local interest was evinced in the
events of that historic struggle any more than if the various battles had been
staged on some distant planet. But a few
faint echoes of the strife came to us in the shape of some simple ballads,
originating in the ‘states’ songs, which became generally popular and were
often heard in our modest entertainment’s:
‘Just before
the battle mother’ ‘When this cruel war
is over’ ‘mother kissed me in my dream’
and another which surveyed in the district for long afterwards. The chorus ran
‘On a bright may-day in sixty three
All ready for the action
On a battle field for liberty’
Stood gallant
Stonewall Jackson’ who was a celebrated General of the confederate army.
But the Crimean
war of 1854 was often recalled and discussed.
The chief features being the severe winter of that year when the workmen
at our local tannery were frozen out of employment for six weeks on end and
also a great scarcity of bread. The
prices of a quarter loaf rose to 1/6 and even so, for some reason unknown this
food could only be bought at Child Okeford.
This precarious supply was eked out by barley bread, a state of partial
famine recalled in my hearing, by now old people with sights and shaking of
heads.
Other topics of
that time were the ice disaster on the serpentine when several people were
drowned, the wreck of the London Steamship and the capsizing of the Royal
George in Portsmouth harbour with admiral Kemperfelt on board.
When Franco-Prussian
war broke out in 1870 I was old enough to follow its exciting progress. On an evening of early winter in that year
there occurred a trivial display of what we called ‘Northern Lights’ (aurora)
when the whole sky was overspread by a bright pink colour. With an elder brother I stood gazing,
awe-struck at the phenomenon as he told me this was a sign of war, that war had
already broken out and that possibly we should be ‘drawn into it’. Soon afterwards a little toy was being sold
called a ‘panorama’ in which by turning a handle, a strip of paper, bearing
coloured views of the battles, rolled across an aperture, price one penny. In that war-winter the frost was again very severe;
the Stour was strongly frozen around Christmas when the delights of snowballing
and sliding probably effaced our fears of the fighting coming nearer home. Another event of my early days was the
remarkable shower of meteors seen in November 1866. I must have been sound asleep during this
phenomenon but I heard full descriptions of the scene from my elders some of
whom could compare the display with a similar occurrence in 1833, having
witnessed both uncommon events.
In the town lived
an old man who had formerly plied between Sturminster and Poole as the driver
of a ponderous wain known as the ‘Road Wagon’.
He would tell of a most gruesome experience which came to him during the
meteoric shower of 1833. His story ran
that at the drear hour of that November midnight he was slowly driving through
Piddleswood, on his way homeward, when he heard a great noise, the sky opened
and a shower of blood came pattering down through the trees. I could never imagine what exactly gave rise
to such an extraordinarily impression but the man firmly believed in his story
which he would tell occasionally to the end of his life.
In the absence
of any railway the road wagon was the principal, or only, conveyance for heavy
goods between Plle and Stour. The speed
of this ‘juggernaut’ was such that only two journeys a week were made. When the railway was brought thorough Stour
(about 1860) the old driver must have lost his occupation.
I may mention
that I have been told that the old turnpike road originally ran through the
wood by the keepers cottage whence it continued onward to the foot of ‘Black
Close Hill’ where it crossed over proceeding in the little dip or lane which
may still be traced. 70 years ago, by the
same cottage there stood an ancient notice board, which for many years
announced ‘This road has been twinned’, which may have referred to the
alteration mentioned above.
During the dark
evenings of winter, I was occasionally a listener, silent but enthralled, to
the tales of some old people who met sometimes for tea and gossip. In this way, I gathered some details of
former times, many of which alas have escaped my memory. One of that little company was my
grandmother, born in 1784, who died at the age of 92, so that she must have
lived some years before the French Revolution of 1793. She clearly remembered the morning when news
came of the victory of Waterloo (1815).
Each morning, as the fate of Europe swayed in the balance, a small crowd
gathered at the river bridge, ravenous for the latest tidings of the war with
France. This and other news were
heralded by the driver of the mail cart from Blandford and from this man came
the glorious tidings which ran through the town like wildfire.
And my relative
would tell with much pride of the day when a visit to Weymouth was rewarded by
a sight (and more) of his majesty King George 11. Her story ran that, one of a small crowd of
sightseers, she took up a position at the entrance to the royal apartments
where now stands the Gloucester Hotel.
She had privately resolved that she would touch the king ‘just so that I
could say I had done it’ as she sued to remark.
Accordingly when ‘Farmer George’ returned from his morning bath and was
passing to the doorway she raised her hand and actually touched his shoulder. The monarch turned to my relative in quite a
friendly way, remarking with a smile ‘Good morning ma’am’. So the incident ended fortunately without any
suggestion of a penalty for lese-majestie.
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