Studland.

[Illustration: THE BALLARD CLIFFS.]

Studland was until quite lately one of the most unspoilt of English
villages. An unfortunate outbreak of red brick has slightly detracted
from its former quiet beauty, but it is still a charming little place
and claims as heretofore to be the "prettiest village in England," a
claim as impossible of acceptance as some other of the challenges made
by seaside towns. But it is unfair to class Studland with the usual
run of such resorts; perhaps its best claims upon us are negative
ones. It has no railway station, no pier, no bandstand, no parade, in
fact the old village turns its back upon the sea in an unmistakable
manner.

The foundations and lower parts of the walls of the church are
probably Saxon. The building as we see it is primitive Norman without
later additions or any very apparent attempts at restoration, though a
good deal of legitimate repairing has been carried out during the last
few years. The solemn and venerable churchyard yews lend an added air
of great age to the building. Close to the church door is the
tombstone of one Sergeant Lawrence, whose epitaph is a stirring record
of military service combined with a dash of real romance, though
probably the sergeant's whole life did not have as much of the essence
of dreadful war as one twelve months in the career of a present-day
city clerk.

A long mile west, on the northern slopes of Studland Heath, is the
famous Agglestone "that the Devil while sulking in the Isle of Wight
threw at the builders of Corfe Castle" or, according to another