continued until an Act of Parliament was passed which made the lighting of signal fires by unauthorized persons a punishable offence. The Earl of Malmesbury, in his Memoirs of an Ex-Minister, relates many anecdotes and adventures of Gulliver, who lived to a ripe old age without molestation by the authorities, for the reason, it is said, that during the wars with France he was able to obtain, through his agents in that country, valuable information of the movement of troops, with the result that his smuggling was allowed to continue as payment for the services he rendered in disclosing to the English Government the nature of the French naval and military plans.

Warner, writing about 1800, relates that he saw twenty or thirty wagons, laden with kegs, guarded by two or three hundred horsemen, each bearing three tubs, coming over Hengistbury Head, and making their way in the open day past Christchurch to the New Forest.

On a tombstone at Kinson we may read:—

The villagers of Kinson are stated to have all been smugglers, and to have followed no other occupation, while it is said that certain deep markings on the walls of the church tower were caused by the constant rubbing of the ropes used to draw up and lower the kegs of brandy and the cases of tea.

That many church towers in the neighbourhood were used for the storage of illicit cargoes is well known, and the sympathies of the local clergy were nearly always on the side of the smugglers in the days when a keg of old brandy would be a very acceptable present in a retired country parsonage. Occasionally, perhaps, the parson took more than a passive interest in the proceedings. A story still circulates around the neighbourhood of Poole to the effect that a new-comer to the district was positively shocked at the amount of smuggling that went on. One night he came across a band of smugglers in the act of unloading a cargo. "Smuggling," he shouted. "Oh, the sin of it! the shame of it! Is there no magistrate, no justice of the peace, no clergyman, no minister, no——"

"There be the Parson," replied one of the smugglers, thinking it was a case of sickness.

"Where? Where is he?" demanded the stranger.

"Why, that's him a-holding of the lanthorn," was the laconic reply.

It was early in the nineteenth century that a Mr. Tregonwell of Cranborne, a Dorset man who owned a large piece of the moorland, found, on the west side of the Bourne Valley, a sheltered combe of exceptional beauty, where he built a summer residence (now the Exeter Park Hotel), the first real house to be erected on the virgin soil of Bournemouth. A little later the same gentleman also built some cottages, and the "Tregonwell Arms", an inn which became known as the half-way house between Poole and Christchurch, and so remained until it was pulled down to make way for other buildings.

These, however, were isolated dwellings, and it was not until 1836 that Sir George Gervis, Bart., of Hinton Admiral, Christchurch, commenced to build on an extensive scale on the eastern side of the stream, and so laid the foundations of the present town. Sir George employed skilful engineers and eminent architects to plan and lay out his estate, so that from the beginning great care was taken in the formation and the selection of sites for the houses and other buildings, with the result that Bournemouth is known far and wide as the most charming, artistic, and picturesque health resort in the country. This happy result is due, in a large measure, to the care with which its natural features have been preserved and made to harmonize with the requirements of a large residential population. It is equally gratifying to note that successive landowners, and the town's Corporation, following the excellent example set by Sir George Gervis, continue to show a true conservative instinct in preserving all that is worthy of preservation, while ever keeping a watchful eye on any change which might detract from the unique beauty of Bournemouth.

BOURNEMOUTH: THE SQUARE AND GARDEN FROM MONT DORE

The town is situated on the curve of a large and open bay, bounded by lofty if not precipitous cliffs, which extend as far west as Haven Point, the entrance to Poole Harbour, and eastwards to Hengistbury Head, a distance of fourteen miles from point to point.

In addition to its splendid marine drives, its retiring vales, its pine-woods, and its rustic nooks and dells, the town is splendidly provided with Public Gardens, excellently laid out, and luxuriously planted in what was once mere bog and marsh land. The Gardens contain a liberal supply of choice evergreens, and deciduous shrubs and trees, while it is noticeable that the Ceanothus azureus grows here without requiring any protection. The slopes of the Gardens rise gradually to where the open downs are covered with heaths, gorse, and plantations of pines and firs.

It was not long after the first houses had been built that the true source of Bournemouth's attractiveness was realized to be her climate, her salt-laden breezes, and her pine-scented air. Since then she has become more and more sought, both for residential and visiting purposes. Year by year the town has spread and broadened, stretching out wide arms to adjacent coigns of vantage like Parkstone, Boscombe, Pokesdown, and Southbourne, until the "Queen of the South" now covers many miles in extent.

It is one of those favoured spots where Autumn lingers on till Christmas, and when Winter comes he is Autumn's twin brother, only distinguishable from him by an occasional burst of temper, in the form of an east wind, soon repented of and as soon forgotten. Thus it is that a large number of holiday visitors are tempted to make their stay a long one, and every winter brings an increasingly greater number of new-comers to fill the places of the summer absentees, so that, taking the year through, Bournemouth is always full.

Contrast is one of the charms of the place; contrast between the shade and quietude of the pine-woods, and the whirl and movement of modern life and luxury in its most splendid and pronounced development.

It is a town whose charm and whose reproach alike is its newness; but unlike many an ancient town, it has no unlovely past to rise up and shame it. The dazzle and glitter of the luxury which has descended upon her wooded shores does not frighten Bournemouth, since she was born in splendour, and the very brightness of her short life is compensation enough for the lack of an historical, and perhaps a melancholy past.

With the exception of the soil on which she stands, and the growths of that soil, everything in Bournemouth is modern—churches, houses, and shops—but all are as beautiful as modern architects and an unlimited supply of money can make them. There are hundreds of costly houses, charming both within and without; their gardens always attractive in the freshness of their flowers, and in the trimness of their tree-lined lawns. On every side there is evidence of a universal love and culture of flowers, due, no doubt, to the wonderful climate. Nowhere are geraniums larger or redder, roses fairer or sweeter,