resort to the glitter and crowds of Bournemouth. That it will never
attain the dimensions of its great neighbour to the north is fairly
certain. Swanage is in a comparatively inaccessible position. Barely
eight miles from Bournemouth as the crow flies, it is twenty-four
miles by rail and about the same by road. So that during the five
years of war, when the steamer service was suspended, Swanage had no
day trippers and the quietness of the town was accentuated, and the
camp on the southern slopes of Ballard Down did not interfere to any
great extent with this somnolence. But now the steamers pant across to
Swanage pier again and unload the curious crowd who make straight for
the Great Globe and Tilly Whim and pause to "rest and admire" as they
breast the steep slopes of Durlston.

[Illustration: OLD SWANAGE.]

The tutelary genius of Swanage is of stone and the two high priests of
the idol were Mowlein and Burt. Some undeserved fun has been poked at
the shade of the junior partner, who conceived the enormous open-air
kindergarten that has been formed out of the wild cliff at Durlston.
For the writer's part, while venturing to deplore certain
incongruities such as the startling inscription that faces the visitor
as he turns to survey the Tilly Whim cavern from the platform of rock
outside, a feeling of respect for the wholehearted enthusiasm and
industry of the remarkable man who was responsible for these marvels
is predominant. Every guide to Swanage enumerates in exhaustive detail
the objects which make the town a sort of "marine store" of stony odds
and ends. The best of these cast-offs is the entrance to the Town
Hall, once in Cheapside as the Wren frontage to Mercer's Hall. The
"gothic" tower at Peveril Point at one time graced the southern
approach to London Bridge as a Wellington memorial. The clock at the