It is perhaps unnecessary to explain that the “fearful fiend” was not either my brother or myself, but some one supposed to be somewhere in the rear of us both; but in any case we were mightily pleased when we reached the “King’s Arms” at Sturminster, where we were looked upon as heroes, having now walked quite 1,100 miles.

(Distance that day, twenty-eight miles.)

Thursday, November 9th.

A sharp frost during the night reminded us of the approach of winter, and we left Sturminster early this morning with the determination of crossing the county of Dorset, and reaching the sea-coast that night, thence to follow the coast-line as far as was consistent with seeing all the sights we could, until we reached the Land’s End.  We again crossed the bridge over the River Stour by which we had entered the town in the black darkness of the previous night, and were careful not to damage any of the six arches of which it was composed, as a notice inscribed on the bridge itself stated that any one damaging any portion of it would be guilty of felony and liable to transportation for life!  We had not been able to find any special object of interest in the town itself, although King Edgar had given the manor to the monks of Glastonbury.  Even the old church, with the exception of the tower, had been pulled down and rebuilt; so possibly the old and well-worn steps that had formed the base of the cross long since disappeared might claim to be the most ancient relic in the town.  The landlord of the inn had told us that Sturminster was famous for its fairs, which must have originated in very early times, for they were arranged to be held on saints’ days—­St. Philip and Jacob’s, and St. Luke’s respectively.

[Illustration:  ALL THAT REMAINS OF STURMINSTER CROSS]

After crossing the bridge we climbed up the small hill opposite, to view the scant ivy-clad ruins of Sturminster-Newton Castle, which was all that remained of what was once a seat of the Saxon Kings, especially of Edgar and Edward the Elder.  We had a pleasant walk for some miles, and made good progress across the southern end of the Vale of Blackmoor, but did not keep to any particular road, as we crossed the country in the direction of some hills we could occasionally see in the distance.  Eventually we reached Cerne-Abbas, where we were told we ought to have come in the springtime to see the primroses which there grew in immense profusion.  We had heard of the “Cerne Giant,” whose fixed abode was now the Giant’s Hill, immediately behind the village, and whose figure was there cut out in the turf.  Formerly this monster caused great loss to the farmers by eating their sheep, of which he consumed large quantities.  They were quite powerless to stop him, owing to his immense size and the enormous club he carried; but one day he had eaten so many sheep that he felt drowsy and lay down to sleep.  He was seen by the farmers, who could tell by his heavy breathing that the giant