It was among the solitudes of these moorlands, and amid the fragrant meadow-lands of Dorchester, that William Barnes made himself sweet imageries the livelong day; and here Thomas Hardy has thought out his great prose romances, and clothed them with beautiful description. Certainly both of these great writers have revived much of the forgotten wealth of our language, and wander where you will in their beloved Dorset homeland, by winding stream or breezy down, the shade of the dead poet and the presence of the living novelist accompany you on your way. Eight miles to the south of Dorchester is Weymouth, backed, as seen from the landward side, by the great promontory of Portland, lying like some stranded whale upon the waters. The quickest and easiest way to reach this "Budmouth" of the novels is by train, but by far the more interesting way is to walk or cycle. True, the rail motor has many "halts", at which one can alight, but those who do the sights of a place between the trains miss a hundred natural beauties and a thousand healthy pleasures granted to the pedestrian and the cyclist. Leaving the county town by the Weymouth Road, and passing the "Rings" where Henchard and his wife met to discuss future arrangements, the first definite turning towards the right leads to Maiden Castle, where rise the steep and grassy tiers of the most stupendous prehistoric earthwork we possess, and one that was in existence for centuries before it was strengthened, and, for a short period, occupied probably by the Romans. A whole day is scarce sufficient in which to explore this great camp, with an area of 160 acres, that occupies the summit of a natural hill, and where the entrenchments and fortifications are of a most elaborate character.