level Down should be followed to the right past the shooting range, provided the absence of a warning red flag gives permission.  By a slight detour to the right as the ground slopes toward that extension of Ballard Down called Handfast Point, fearsome peeps may be had of the waves raging round Old Harry’s daughter and the submerged ruins of her parents.  Care must be taken here in misty weather, the cliffs are sheer, and unexpected gaps occur where nothing could save the unwary explorer in the event of an unlucky slip.  Little is gained by following the cliff top all the way to the extreme edge of the Point, and a return may be made from hereabouts or a short cut made to the path leading to 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 account, from Portland.  Probably the confusion arose through the original reporter using the term “the Island.”  Natives would know that the definite article could only refer to their own locality!  The stone is an effect of denudation and is similar to other isolated sandstone rocks scattered about the south of England, e.g., the “Toad” Rock at Tunbridge Wells and “Great upon Little” near West Heathly in Sussex.  A short distance away is a smaller mass called the “Puckstone.”  The derivation of the larger rock is probably Haligstane—­Holy Stone.  So difficult is it to contemplate the ages through which gradual weathering would bring these stones to their present shape that scientists, as recently as the middle of the last century, were at variance as to their natural or artificial origin.