And thro' the soil, beneath the earth,
He burrow'd like a mole.

He burrow'd deep, he burrow'd swift,
With his red wife and child-
Then up they rose thro' the kirk-floor,
And rolled their eyes so wild.

It was the good St. Laurence
Stood on the altar-stair;

And while they gript the pillars strong,
He bowed his head in prayer.

They gript the pillars with their hands,
And groan'd, and pulled with might,
They sought to shake the good kirk down,
And rolled their eyes of light.

The great tower shook above their heads,
Deep, deep groaned roof and wall,
The lightning leapt from heaven in wrath,
The good kirk quaked to fall.

It was the good St. Laurence

Stood at the altar-head,

And o'er the Trolls, before they wist,

The holy water shed.

And ere the Trolls could stir a limb,

Or fly, or give a groan,

Lo! each was frozen in his place,
To a still shape of stone!

All clinging round the pillars' base,
They turned to stone so cold;
And there they stand unto this hour,

For all men to behold.

Their cheeks are dust, their hair is clay,

Their eyes are seams of sand,

All dumb upon the pavement cold,
For evermore they stand.

The priest sings on the altar-stair,

The folk creep in to pray,

But there, within St. Laurence kirk,

They wait till the Last Day.

B.

LONGINGS FOR THE SEA.

I HAVE just heard costermongers, big and little, hoarsely shouting and shrilly barking "Mackareel-fine silver maquereau !" "Soles alive, 'live, 'live, oh !" How I pitied the poor fish- -come up to fry in London, like myself. Oh, that I had the wings of one of the Crystal Palace carrier-pigeons! Catch me going back to my inland dormer! Nay, I would flee away and be at rest-supine or prone, with fist-pillowed or elbow-propped head-upon the ribbed sea sand. With physical sense I can only hear the hollow-sounding and mysterious main by taking a cowry from my mantel-shelf; and "after all, that is only fancy," I say, petulantly, as I pitch back the pretty shell as if it were a mere fluke potato. "It is the real moan and murmur and crisp or rippling talk of the waves I want to hear."

How cooling it would be to be roused from one's bask upon the sunny sands by a distant cry of "Porpoises!" and looking up to see just beyond where the green shore water has been turned into green and purple and gold-shot silk, a line of triangular black fins swiftly ploughing through the blue water; then up comes one shiny-wet curved back after another; presently they begin to play at leap-frog, and then, with a fling-up of their undeveloped heels, down they dive into unsunned depths. Perspiring fishing-boats with tangles of greyand-black bunged tanned nets are lying, like one's self, upon the shoreonly a little higher up, upon the shingle-with sleepily manly-looking Peggotys, unperspiring in spite of their guernseys and the mysterious complication of oilskin, cloth, flannel, and leather about their legs and loins, drowsily pottering over the nets, or drowsily smoking, or downright dozing, as they sit in rows like roosted fowls upon the bulwarks, or lean against the sides. But a few of the boats are out; their stiff, salt-candied lug sails blotching the blue sky like slabs of warped, weather-stained, unpolished mahogany. In the far distance, the sea is flecked with tiny white sails, and there is a long trail of steamer's smoke smudging the summer sky. Nearer at hand the white and black and white and ash-grey gulls are circling and crossing in the air, or riding on the crest of a wave, and laughing as if they were crying; and sea-swallows are skimming the water, spooning up fish without stopping.

At the bend of the beach yonder, where the white bathing-machines

are drawn up, white-caparisoned donkeys are careering, or ceasing in career, with a suddenness which sends their riders over their heads ; little boys and girls, with their shoes and stockings off, and their trousers tucked up and their petticoats kilted, are performing engineering operations with wooden spades, and paddling in their flooded trenches; swains in reefer suits are flirting with the lasses in mushroom hats, who are pretending to read in the shade of the bathing-machines; "rogue elephant" bachelors have secured the shadiest places, and are smoking therein in saucy solitude; on the esplanade behind, a German band is playing, equestrians are cantering, flys are crawling, donkey and pony chaises are jangling, and goat chaises solemnly parading along it; and on the other side of the sands, white-winged yachtkins, and blue and green pleasure-boats with moistly golden oar blades dropping gold, are gliding or shooting over the bright waters, or lazily rocking on them like corks.

But, after all, a south-coast watering-place is not the kind of seaside after which I crave: the feeling is greedy-of the eatingyour-whole-cake-in-a-corner kind; but still I must confess that I like to have the seaside to myself-of course, I don't object to natives, but I like to be the only stranger there. Thank Heaven, numerous as our seaside watering-places have become at least one fresh one being invented every year-speculative builders have not discovered all the beautiful beaches and grand cliffs in the kingdom. I know seaside scenery quite as romantic as any that can be found in the neighbourhood of any watering-place -more picturesque, indeed, because not man-spoiled, that one can have all to himself-not another soul on the beach, except when a pony-cart comes down for seaweed, or a donkey and sack for sand.

White and black and red the cliffs rise sheer above the blue billows that thunderously break on the jumble of green-brown weedshaggy rocks beneath, sending up a seething sheet of white that falls back foiled, and flies away in silvery spray and creamy foam. In crannies in the cliff-face there are wild fowl, and gulls, and grebe, and petrel, and cormorants, and shags, and gannets, and puffins, and auks. A few gulls are flying about screaming; just above the dash of the white surge, which makes him look as black as a sweep, sits a cormorant, trying to wriggle a mackerel into its throat. But fire a gun, and you will be dizzied by the snowstorm-like whirl of feathers that instantly fills the air, and be deafened by the hoarse croaking and shrill cries of the startled birds.

"How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half-dream!"

For such lotus-cating commend me to one of the green gorges,

dotted with outcropping grey stones, that run up into the land from clefts in the cliff-face.

"Hateful is the dark-blue sky
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea,"

evoked by the

however, is certainly not the sentiment likely to be sight of the sea and the sky at the end of the vista. Up there the roar of the waves sounds like a musical murmur; only the blue heave of unbroken billows can be seen. "The downward stream "

a crystal-clear runlet-gurgles down through a jungle on both sides. of lush-grass and buttercups, daisies, violets, primroses, hemlock, wild parsley, ground-ivy, forget-me-not, periwinkle, sea-stock, foxglove, and poppies-now and then spreading out into little sandybottomed pools, from which it tumbles over mossy stones in tiny waterfalls, which almost make evergreens of their fringing ferns. Golden broom and brownly golden furze bask in the sunlight on both sides of the gorge. Between the clumps stray little black-faced sheep, cropping thymy grass and bluebells, where the ground is steepest going down on their knees to graze. Up to her udder in heather, a white-faced cow looks down upon the stranger with calmly contemplative eyes. Tiny blue butterflies flit hither and thither. Yellow-banded bees are booming, and burnished green and blue flies are buzzing about. Unseen larks shake out their halfmad-with-joy song high overhead, and "cuck-oo, cuck-00" says the musically monotonous, sometimes startlingly near, "wandering voice."

If, according to Thackeray's dictum, man was born to labour, and to be lazy, I cannot conceive a sweeter place to be lazy in after labour.

No grasping lodging-letters, who take a good deal more than the tithe of all that you possess in the pantry and cheffonier, are to be found in this part of the world. If you can get lodgings at all, it is in some primitive farm-house, at which the good people seem to think it a good joke to be compelled to put a money value on the cream, eggs, butter, and poultry you ravenously consume.

No bathing-machines either. Fearless of observation, you walk towards the disrobing place you have selected, flicking with your towel as you go at the countless sandskippers hopping about like

You ram your walking-stick into the sand, place your hat on the top, arrange your other garments around it à la scarecrow, and then wade out for your delicious dip. There is just the chance that, when you come back, you may find your hat afloat-bobbing about like a saucepan-your boots wet-sand-logged, and your raiment cast upon the waters, only to be found again, if ever, after many days; but if you have to walk back over the sedgy sand-hills in an

Adamite condition, you can comfort yourself with the thought that there will be only the rabbits to look at you. What a beach for shells it is!-how different from a good many of the watering-place beaches, over which the little people wander, basket on arm, fancying that they are shell-gathering, but often glad to content themselves with a wave-worn bit of slate or tile! Here, in some places, the sand is so full of shells that it crackles beneath the tread-purpuras, and tops, and wentletraps, and razor-shells, and scallops, and beautiful little frail pink-and-white bivalves, just the colour of a blush-rose or a pretty woman's finger-nail, besides common cockles, whelks, mussels, and so on. Starfish galore, too, you come across, and jelly-fish, and prickly "sea-eggs," and real sea-eggs, some looking like clusters of fruit, and some like square sea-weed pods, with a handle at each corner; white cuttle-bones, too, and terebella-tubes that look like rough gold pencil-cases jewelled down the sides.

But the rocks at the foot of the cliffs at low water-that's the place to feast your eyes, even though you may wrench your ankles and cut through your boots, and break your knees in the jockey's sense-in your clamberings over the pop-popping bladder-wrack. Light-green, dark-green, amber, pink, purple, rosy-red, scarlet, crimson, golden, brown, almost black, podded, jointed, feathery, cabbage-leaflike, grass-like, peacock's-tail-like-I never grow tired of looking at sea-weed. Is there a more beautiful sight in existence than a deep rock-pool?-the water like molten emerald, the silvery-sanded bottom dappled with white and variegated and purple pebbles, the walls draped with a submarine jungle of almost every imaginable hue, in which lurk rakishly graceful, piratical-looking fish. Presently out they shoot-go for a little cruise-poise themselves motionless-and then, swinging as if on a pivot, back they dart to their gorgeously coloured hiding-places. The little rock-pools, too, dotted with white acorn-shells, tent-like limpets, damson-like periwinkles, velvet-buttonlike anemones-with the sulky little crabs peering out of the holes in the sides and rehearsing a nip with their claws, the shadowy shrimpkins and gobies and blennies gliding across like mere ghosts of little fish, and now and then a red and yellow brittle star wriggling about like a Catharine wheel going off under water!

Oh, dear me! I have made myself pine so for a whiff of "the briny," that, although the hour is untimely, I must undress and give myself a second tub, and put some Tidman's sea-salt in it.

CHARLES CAMDEN.