more or less within its ancient bounds, for turning in the other
direction we are soon in a different and "suburban" atmosphere. High
West Street is lined with pleasant eighteenth century houses, the
residences or offices of professional men intermixed with some
first-class shops. Once these houses were the mansions of county
families who "came to town" for a season when London was for several
reasons impracticable. The chief buildings are congregated round the
town centre; here is the Perpendicular St. Peter's church, a building
saved during the great fire in 1613 when nearly everything else of
antiquity perished. Outside is the statue of William Barnes, the
Dorset poet, whose writings in his native dialect are only now gaining
a popularity no more than their due. The bronze figure represents the
poet in his old fashioned country clergyman's dress, knee-breeches and
buckled shoes, a satchel on his back and a sturdy staff in his hand.
Underneath the simple inscription are these quaint and touching lines
from one of his poems ("Culver Dell and the Squire"):

"Zoo now I hope his kindly feäce
Is gone to vind a better pleäce;
But still wi' v'ok a-left behind
He'll always be a-kept in mind."

The speech of the older Dorset folk is the ancient speech of Wessex.
It is not an illiterate corruption but a true dialect with its own
grammatical rules. But alas! fifty years of the council school and its
immediate predecessor has done more to destroy this ancient form of
English than ten centuries of intercourse between the Anglo-Celtic
races.[2]

[2] A good example of the Dorset dialect is contained in the message