sured by the fisherman's account of the phenomenon, that "'twas always so," he will perhaps fail to obtain any convincing scientific explanation. But the immediate result of this freak of nature is to drive us upon the shingle, which is not pleasant walking, so the best plan is to scale the cliff by one of the steep but practicable paths used perhaps by smugglers in days gone by. If smugglers are scarce, there are still plenty of Coastguardsmen. Their statior, with the tall flagstaff, the low-roofed buildings, and the neat garden plots, is in full view now that we have reached the top of the cliff, while directly in our path rises a substantial post, crowned at this moment by the figure of a Coastguard, who is planting there a red flag, which indicates some kind of caution to passers by. Viking, after fighting his way to his ships, while the Britons swarmed in over the deserted ramparts, and shouted curses and maledictions at the retreating foes. But the secret of such famous welldefended winter quarters-with their warm, sunny exposure, and the sloping shore upon which the ships could be safely hauled up for the season of ice and snowwould be handed down from one generation of sea-rovers to another. Here was a Danish stronghold, doubtless, in later centuries, when the Northmen plundered Christchurch, and harried the neighbouring lands. And many a fierce battle has been fought over these great earthworks, of which no record remains, except a cluster of bones here and there turned up in the adjoining fields. But as we sit on the scarred side of the great berg, some faint echo of the tramping and shouting of contending hosts seems to reach the ears, swimming deep down in the water, is Dunster Head, which many a stout ship has struggled in vain to weather, and gone hopelessly to destruction against the cruel cliffs. Such was the fate of the "Halsewell," East Indiaman, outward bound, with two hundred and forty souls on board, which, after wallowing helpless and water-logged in the channel for weary days and nights, struck on that inhospitable coast one dark and stormy night. Now the meaning of the red flag, as the preventive man civilly explains, is that the Coastguardsmen are turning out for rocket Dim clarions awake and faintly bruit, Where long ago a giant battle was. practice, and as rockets, even of the lifesaving class, are awkward customers to Further reflections are cut short by meet, and at times erratic in their flight, the sight of a serpentine train of fire it is advisable to give them a wide berth. and smoke roaring and hissing through Beyond here the cliff rises gradually to- the air. The rocket brigade are at wards the headland of Hengistbury, and the work, and have fired their trial shot broken heights of that famous promontory over the sea. The sight suggests storms will afford a capital point of observation. and shipwrecks, of which this coast has So far, the furzy edge of the cliff has been had its share. Yonder in the furthest bordered by wide open fields, in the haze, where far out at sea the uttermost corner of one of which stands the travelling-headland shows like some monster saurian van that contains the rocket-apparatus used in shipwrecks, and the cultivated land extends to the margin of a huge prehistoric fortification that defends the headland from approach on the landward side. The place bears the name of the Double Dykes, and double they are, two huge parallel ramparts, with an artificial ditch between. All the surroundings point to this spot as an ancient stronghold of great strength and importance, and the tradition that associates the name of Hengist, the great Saxon chief, with this striking headland, is not to be rashly disregarded. Probably, like most Viking chiefs, Hengist died fighting, and likely enough in defending this very line of ramparts. A tumulus that still exists on the headland may be actually the tomb of Hengist. He was not very successful in the West, as the most ancient history we have-that of Nennius tells us how Hengist's son after his death retired to Kent, and founded the line of Kings of that ilk. He may have sailed from this very point, the young But the Coastguard detachment, satisfied with their one trial shot, have limbered up and are marching off to parts unknown. And now to work across the Head, where, at the highest points, are mosses and lichens flourishing in profusion. And down below is a gully, where high tides have left a deposit of mud and lime, while great slabs of red, rusty-looking stones stick up here and there. And this, if you please, is, or was, an iron mine. An iron mine in Hampshire! But it is only a little one, and has been unworked for some time. A rapid descent brings us to a stretch of sandy hummocks, where on one side storms and tempests have scattered seaweed, wreck, and wreckage; and on the other the swollen rivers have left their contributions, too. A happy-looking casebottle suggests rum, but turns out to be sheep-wash. An old boat or two lies yawning as to its timbers among the tufts of wiry bent grass. In the broad, shallow lagoon, with its winding channel marked out with pine boughs, trim little yachts lie moored, together with dumpy-looking boats of the fisher class. The opposite shore is fringed with coppices, and neat, white houses shining among the trees, and all is as quiet and still as can be. But a little further on we come upon a scene full of life and animation. It is the harbour mouth, a narrow, swift channel between sandy shores. On this side a cottage or two, and rows of stakes for drying nets; the other shore, embanked by rude piles and dark, weatherstained boards, and a crazy, wooden stair for landing, shows a rough, picturesque group of houses, some with the trace of ancient dignity about them, all isolated from the rest of the world on this lonely spit of sand; a true fishing settlement, the inhabitants of which may have dwelt there in continued succession from the days of the Vikings. The name of the place, Mudiford, suggests the association. It has nothing to do with a ford for crossing; but represents the Norse fiord, or inlet, so that in this way, as well as in dyke and gravemound, the old sea rovers have left their mark upon the coast. But for a better view of the proceedings we must cross the channel. Men and boats are too busy to be disturbed; but here are two lads, too young to help in the fishing, and a boat that has retired from active service by reason of age and infirmities. The heads of the boys hardly appear above the gunwales; but they are smart little fellows, who know how to handle a boat, and after a short and sturdy struggle with the tide, they land us safely by the crazy wooden stairs. And now for the point of sandy shore that lies opposite the strand where the fishermen haul ashore their nets, just where sea and river meet. Our man in the boat has by this time reached the shore, on the side he started from, but considerably lower down. The man with the rope was there as soon, and the boatman landing with his end of the net, after throwing a big stone or two into the water, either for luck, or to scare back any fish that might think to slink away between the net and the shore, each man hauls away at his end; the net comes merrily in-too merrily, indeed, for when the bight of it is finally hauled on shore, there is nothing in it but some seaweed and small crabs. And now the net is piled in the boat again, and the shore-hand takes the tow-rope over his shoulder, and tows the boat up the channel again. The boat meets the floats other nets which are floating down in like manner-but passes easily over them; and when the upper station is reached, the business is all to begin again. And so boat after boat, and net after net come sweeping down the tideway, but never the ghost of a fin among them. The interest is beginning to flag, and a ramble of a day or two previous is recalled, when, from the parapet of an old bridge over the River Stour, a few miles above the present scene, we watched some river fishermen, with boat and net, sweeping a deep pool below. Result: an old tin can, and a decayed cabbage-stalk! Busy enough are their descendants this breezy morning. Boat after boat puts forth from the sloping shore on this side of the channel, each with one stout rower on board, and a long seine net carefully piled in the stern. A man on shore holds the head rope of the net, as the boatman pulls as for dear life almost to the rude staging on the other side, while the net is shot out across the channel, the wellweighted lower edge falling quickly to the bottom, while the great disks of cork that support the upper edge float swiftly down in a graceful curve between the boat and man on shore, who, with the rope over his shoulder, hurries along with the stream. There seems no end to the nets and boats which, at due intervals, follow each other In fact, we have given up the Christdown the channel; and then it is seen that, church salmon, and have lost faith as to as in a stage army, the same performers his existence, when, as a net is almost reappear again and again in the procession. I hauled in, there is a sudden and vehement "What sport?" cried an enthusiast, arriving breathlessly on the bridge, just as boat and nets were dropping down the stream, "Haan't had none this week, nor yet laast!" shouted back the head man of the party, grimly. splash in the water which it encloses. The men pull now with a will, and next moment a fine silvery salmon is pulled bodily out of the water, and trundled up the strand. A beautiful fellow he is, too -a twenty-pounder, at the least the picture of piscine strength and beauty; and when the shore-hand picks up a big stone and bangs the head of the fish, the crashing sound of the blows inspire a momentary pity for the fate of this gallant gentleman. But our way is along the coast; and a pleasant path along the edge of the low cliff promises well, and for a mile or so keeps its promise. From the heights the dimpling sea is spread before us, its varied depth, and underlying crust of rock or sand or marly clay, expressed in so many glowing tints. The great white chalk cliffs that form the butt-end of the Isle of Wight come into bolder prominence with the jutting knife-edge of the Needles rocks, and the tall, white lighthouse-the only needle-like thing about the group. Then the path brings us to a wicket gate, invitingly open, that leads through pleasant grounds and past an unassuming cottage, just such "a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea " that the poet demands for the downhill of life. A curious-looking structure of blackened timber projects from the cliff, and forms a kind of gallery or verandah, with views all round from its cabin windows. For the structure is actually the poop of some big steamer, hurled ashore and left high and dry by the ocean. But at the gate of this little paradise we meet the angel with the flaming sword in the shape of an amiable gardener, who turns us back with the utmost politeness. The cottage - in hushed tones-is a favourite retreat of the Marchioness. So there is nothing for it but a sort of toboggan slide down the cliff, and a tramp over the shingle. But the view from below has an interest of its own. For about here the character of the cliff changes altogether; sands and gravels are replaced by clayey strata, of a somewhat putty-like consistency, and along the face of the cliff, steeply sloped like a railway cutting, bands of men are at work forming trenches, so it seems, down the slope. It seems a large undertaking, this, to shape the coast of mighty ocean with a spade. But the foreman, on being interrogated, explains that this is done in order to relieve the agricultural land above, where there is a rich fat soil and plenty of it, from a superabundance of water. Yet on the whole, what with the shingles and the clay, the walking is a little bit trying. And we see the whole coast line stretched before us with nothing to break its regularity till the eye rests upon the new settlement of Milton-on-Sea, some miles away, with its big, modern hotel shining conspicuously on the pleasant headland. Beyond lies Hurst Castle, a hazy strip almost lost to view against the bold contours of the island opposite. Our business now is to climb the cliff again, and make across the country to the nearest station, to reach our starting-point again. Another pleasant morning invites a ramble in the opposite direction. But first let us seat ourselves in a sheltered hollow in the cliffs, and reckon up the component parts of the scene that is stretched before us. A long line of hilly coast forms one of the turns of the great, crescent-shaped bay. There is Durlston Head at the extreme point, with its inhospitable bay, and the rugged-looking Peveral Point, and Swanage, with the grey limestone hill behind it. So far the coast is harsh and stern, rock-bound with the hard, oolitic limestones. But the softer bay of Swanage, with its sloping beach and low, red cliffs, suggests the green sand, so called because it is almost always red, and this is followed by a sheer precipice of chalk, which forms the butt-end of the narrow range of downs that stretches across the Isle of Purbeck, cleft at one point by the narrow gorge of Corfe-gate. The great white cliff on this side corresponds so exactly with the huge chalk buttress of the Isle of Wight-the hard chalk which weathers into layers that almost exactly resemble the courses of masonry, and which is carved by the sea into fantastic points, the Needles on one hand, and detached masses, called Old Harry and Old Harry's Wife, on the other-that we needs must believe that the chalk range once stretched across from point to point, when perhaps the bay before us was a region of fertile meadows and marshes, inhabited by some unknown race of primeval man. Now the opposing cliffs form the great white gateway of what may be called our pocket Mediterranean, with its gentle tides and genial winter climate. And the eye, after passing the low-lying coast line that opens with the great lagoon known as Poole Harbour, rests upon the brown cliffs of Bournemouth. Can we hear the band on the pier Faintly, perhaps, if the breeze blows this way, although Bournemouth Pier is some four miles distant. Anyhow, we can see the steamers putting out on their daily excursions, two of them racing away towards Swanage, and two others bound for some more distant port. On the beach below, the yellow sands are as yet unfurrowed by human footsteps; but all along the margin of the sea are tracks of some little animal, perhaps a weasel which has been busily foraging along the coast during the night, no doubt in search of the shell-fish which may have been thrown up by the tide. The sea is calm, and now that the steamers are out of sight, there is nothing to attract attention except an old trading brig, which is veering about in the bay waiting for the tide to carry it into Poole Harbour, her dark, well-patched sails forming a welcome relief to the glitter and sparkle of the sea. About half-way to Bournemouth we come to Boscombe Pier, at the mouth of a ravine known as Boscombe Chine, which is now laid out as ornamental grounds, and very tastefully done; nature being not too much interfered with. At the head of the chine we are full into the busy haunts of men. For here are fine shops, and big hotels, and a grand street that leads towards Bournemouth, which street is in appearance an avenue through a pineforest, the houses being prettily interspersed among the trees. Here you may hail a 'bus as if you were in Piccadilly, or a bansom if you please, and be trundled down to Lansdown, where are tall houses, hotels, cab-stands, fine streets branching out in various directions, interspersed with open heathery knolls and tufted banks with the ever-green pine always closing the vista. There we are fairly among the shops and marts of Bournemouth, and in the midst of a throng of people, a pleasant, leisurely crowd that is doing its shopping, its chattering, its general loafing, in the happiest spirit of content. A pleasant lounge is the Arcade, with its seats and glittering shops on either hand. If chemists' shops abound, suggesting pills and prescriptions, so also do confectioners, with the daintiest forms of chocolates and confitures. for long drives in various directions round the New Forest; to Wimborne; to Poole; to Dorchester; or where you please. Although early in the season, when other watering-places have hardly yet awakened from their winter's sleep, Bournemouth has already begun to behave as if summer were fairly here. And every sunny day seems to justify the assumption. Yet a dangerous place is Bournemouth. Drusilla, whose mind in rural solitudes dwells serenely on her surroundings, finds sermons in stones, and revels in pleasant and inexpensive bits of scenery, no sooner is turned loose among the shops decked with all the season's fashions, than she begins to yearn towards bonnets that are lovely, and hats that are chic, and tailormade gowns, and such-like vanities. Now we have just "one more river to cross." It is Sunday evening, and from the brow of our Southbourne heights, looking towards the land, there is spread out a fair scene, tinged with a mystic kind of radiance by the declining sun. Softly chime the sweet bells of Christchurch over the river flats, and the noble tower of the old priory church stands out in solemn relief from the dark shadows that cluster about it. The way is through a pleasant lane, arched over with trees, a turn of which brings us to the ferry-house. It is the Wick ferry, where boat and ferryman have waited in the gloaming for those passing to and from old Christchurch. He has ferried over Saxon Thanes and peasants; great Alfred himself may have taken a seat in this boat. Danish chiefs and Vikings, too, perhaps for the fiercest barbarians spared the harmless, necessary ferryman; cowled monks and black-robed canons have ofttimes crowded thy boat, oh, ferryman; and many fair dames hast thou ferried across, even as now, when the rustle of feminine draperies almost overpowers the gentle murmur of the stream, From the shady cove the ferry-boat shoots out into the sunlit stream, and we are soon landed on the causeway which leads by a path across the meadows to Christchurch. The soft chime of the bells has been succeeded by the strenuous "ting tong." We are a little late, and the organ has begun to roll out its notes, and the chant of the choir meets us as we enter the sacred building, hallowed by prayers that have ceased not for a thousand years. The grand old Norman arches rise from their massive piers, illumined by bright gas clusters; shadows rest deeply in the dim aisles among chapels and altar tombs. Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries; and monuments with tattered banners and rusty helms, half seen in the claustral gloom. They are a secondary consideration. He would look upon scenes and places hallowed by their connection with Shakespeare himself. In a manner they are familiar to him already. The birthplace, the church, Ann Hathaway's Cottage, Charlecote Park, Mary Arden's House-all these he feels he must see. He needs no guide-book to tell him of their existence; but unless he is more fortunate than is frequently the case, he will miss the opportunity of visiting one spot which has a distinct claim of its own upon his attention. It is the school in which the poet received his early The fine Perpendicular choir is almost shut off from view by a massive rood screen, of medieval origin, designed to cut off the nave, which formed the parochial church, from the chancel appropriated to the Black Canons. A glance through the open door reveals beautifully-education. carved stalls and misereres, of the fifteenth and later centuries, and a grand reredos of carved stone, showing the stem of Jesse. But to view the church aright one must visit it by broad daylight. But then we should miss the beautiful effect of coming out through the noble Early English porch into the dim avenue of elms, daylight still hovering in the sky and moonlight mingling with it, while the white tombs rise palely on either hand, with the river, swift and clear from the priory weir, flowing beneath the chancel walls, and the strange old Norman turret, with its interlacing arcades and curious trellis stonework-all this is best seen by such a light as this in all the softness and gloom of hoar antiquity. SHAKESPEARE'S SCHOOL. FEW spots in England have such a deep interest for members of the Anglo-Saxon race as Stratford-on-Avon, the birthplace of their greatest poet. During the summer months the small Midland town is visited by many thousands. Owing partly to increased railway facilities, but chiefly to the spread of education and the consequent wider ap preciation of the genius of Shakespeare, the number of pilgrims to this favourite shrine is annually increasing. Upon the pages of the various visitors' books are to be found the names of many famous men and women. We do not wonder at it, for apart from its associations Stratford has many natural advantages. It lies in an undulating valley through whose rich pasture-lands the Avon winds slowly along, and standing out clearly in the landscape is the beautiful spire of Trinity Church, "where sleeps the illustrious dead." But the principal object of the visitor is not to refresh the eye with the beauties of nature. The building stands in the main street of the town, and adjoins the chapel erected by the Guild of the Holy Cross, whose foundation dates from the year 1296. Unfortunately, the outside of the school is deformed by a coat of roughcast which covers the old oak beams, and gives no promise of the quaint beauty of the interior. The history of the school is closely connected with that of the guild chapel, and is a good illustration of the changes wrought in the condition of ecclesiastical institutions by the Reformation. It seems probable that the oldest part of the school buildings is a long low room called the Guild Hall. An any rate, we know that in 1482, Thomas Jolyffe, one of the priests, built the Old Latin Schoolroom over it, and endowed the institution with various lands. The hall was probably used for business and judicial purposes by the members of the guild. In Shakespeare's day it was the largest public room, and as such was the scene of dramatic performances. The Earl of Worcester's players visited Stratford in 1569, and this visit was repeated annually for nearly twenty years. The father of the poet held the position of bailiff or mayor in 1571, and doubtless took his son with him to see these rude representations, which must have deeply fired his youthful imagination. On the south wall, hidden by the panelling, is a large fresco of the Crucifixion, in a very battered condition, though a part of the body of the Saviour may be traced, and the face of the Virgin is in a fair state of preservation. Unfortunately a part of this room has been cut off by a partition, and is now occupied by the town authorities. It is satisfactory to learn that they have recently decided to restore it to the school. At right angles to the Hall is the Armoury, a room with Jacobean panelling, having on the wall over the fireplace a large painting |