h more imposing than some
of the "lumps" that are double its altitude on the table-land of
central Wales, where the bed of the Upper Wye is not many feet below
the height of the "Pen." That, by the way, is a Celtic suffix; it
would be interesting to know if the word has continued in constant use
since British times.

The chief claim to fame on the part of Broadwindsor is that the famous
Thomas Fuller, witty writer and wise divine, was its royalist parson
and that he preached from the old Jacobean pulpit in the parish
church. This building has been well restored by the son of a former
vicar. The usual Perpendicular tower surmounts a medley of Norman and
Early English in the body of the church.

But this is a long way from the Tollers, and the road must now be
taken by Mapperton, back to the train that provokingly burrows through
cuttings, with an occasional flying glimpse of lovely wooded dell and
tree-crowned hill, on the way to Powerstock or, according to
Dorset--"_Poor_ stock."

The well-restored church here is interesting. There is a very early
Norman arch in the chancel with beautifully sculptured pillars and
capitals. Upon the hill top above the village is the site of
Powerstock Castle that was built within the ramparts of an ancient
earthwork by King Athelstan. A short distance to the south-east is
Eggardon Hill (820 feet) with a great series of entrenchments upon its
summit which deserve to rank with those of Maiden Castle and Old
Sarum. The fortifications have a strong resemblance, on a smaller
scale, to the first-named stronghold.

[Illustration: EGGARDON HILL.]

Our present goal--Bridport--is one of those pleasant old English
towns, cheerful and bright, and to outward seeming entirely
prosperous, which make the average Londoner who has to earn his living
long for the chance to try his fortune there. For the traveller on his
first visit a great surprise is in store; with a name such as this one
pictures in advance a place of quays on a sluggish river, fairly wide
and very muddy, opening to the sea, with the conventional loungers,
tarry and fishy scents and a fringe of lodging houses. But nothing
could be farther from the truth. Here is no evidence of the sea at
all, and although West Bay, the real "quay" of Bridport, is less than
two miles from the High Street, the town seems to be surrounded by
hills and to be solely concerned with the neighbouring farmers and
their interests. The only direct relation w