covered with names and initials. The staring red and white
"castle" that crowns the cliff is a restaurant built to accommodate
the day visitor, but if the evidence of discarded pastry bags and
ginger-beer bottles that at times litter and disfigure the cliff and
caves is to be regarded, the castle is not as well patronized as it
should be. This unseemliness is kept under by what appears to be a
daily clean up, though the writer has never met the public benefactor
who makes all tidy in the early morning hours before the steamers have
discharged their crowds. Possibly this is the same individual who
keeps the tangle of blackberry and tamarisk pruned down so that while
resting with "Sir Walter Scott" or "Shakespeare" we may duly admire
the view across Swanage Bay.

No one should omit the glorious walk northwards across the fine
expanse of Ballard Down to Studland. The coast road round the bay is
taken to a path bearing to the right in the pleasant suburb of New
Swanage. At the time of writing this leads through the before-mentioned,
partly derelict, military camp and, after passing on the right the old
Tudor farmhouse called Whitecliff, emerges on the open Down. The
rearward views gain in beauty with every step, and when the summit is
reached at the fence gate and the stone seat that seems to have
strayed from Durlston, a magnificent and unforgettable view is
obtained of Poole Harbour and the great heathland that stretches away
to the New Forest. Every intricacy of the harbour can be seen as on a
map, and its almost landlocked character is strikingly apparent as the
eye follows the bright yellow arc of sand to the cliffs of Bournemouth.
That town has most of its more glaring modernities decently hidden,
and the pier and a few spires and chimneys seem to blend into the
all-pervading golden brown of the Hampshire coast. In the near
foreground Studland looks very alluring in its bowery foliage, but
before descending the hillside the long and almost level Down should
be followed to the right past the shooting range, provided the absence
of a warning red flag gives permission. By a slight detour to the
right as the ground slopes toward that extension of Ballard Down
called Handfast Point, fearsome peeps may be had of the waves raging
round Old Harry's daughter and the submerged ruins of her parents.
Care must be taken here in misty weather, the cliffs are sheer, and
unexpected gaps occur where nothing could save the unwary expl