property and estate, and died as much respected in a good old age as
he was beloved in his buoyant childhood, when the gossips and the
maidens of Poole agreed that the orphan boy promised to be a "nice
young man."--"And not word of a lie in it," said Dick Hart, as he
finished his story, his pipe, and his grog.

We were now steering across Studland Bay. Banks of dark clouds were
gathering majestically on the eastern horizon, and the sun was
rapidly sinking in a flood of golden light. Behind us was the Isle
of Brownsea, with its dark fir plantations and lofty, cold-looking,
awkward castle. On the left was the line of low sand hills, stretching
away towards Christchurch, and seeming to join the Needles' Rocks,
situated at the western extremity of the Isle of Wight, the high chalk
cliffs of which reflected the sun's last rays, giving a rich and
placid feeling to the cold and distant grey. On the right, and closer
to us, was the brown and purple heath-land of Studland Bay. Here
barren, there patches of verdure, and the thin smoke threading its
way from a cluster of trees, denoted where the village hamlet lay
embosomed from the storms of the southwest gales, close at the foot
and under the shelter of a lofty chalk range which abuts abruptly on
the sea, and before which stands a high, detached pyramidical rock,
rising out of the waters like a sheeted spectre, and known to mariners
under the suspicious name of _Old Harry_.

This coast was once notorious for smuggling, but those days of
nautical chivalry have ceased, if Dick Hart is to be credited, who
shook his head very mournfully as he alluded to "the _Block-head_
service."

JAMES SILVESTER.