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Cunard Line, Something about the. By John Burns

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April. By Alexander Falconer

"A Way of Many Moons." By Oscar Park
Birds, The Battle of the. By Hamilton Aïde
Blind Reader, The. By Alexander Anderson
Broadlaw, On. By the Editor

Castle Gloume. By John Russell
Deluge, The. By William Canton
Gertie's Wee Garden. By George Hill

Given Back. By H. E. Waring

Gloom and Gleam. By the Rev. R. F. Horton, M.A.
Gold and Silver. By the Rev. F. Langbridge, M.A.
Jubilee Ode. By Walter C. Smith, D.D.

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Love and Thought. By Elizabeth Sophia Watson
.331 May, A Song for. By John Dennis

New Year in the Colonies. By the Author of "John
Halifax, Gentleman "

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AUTHOR OF "NO NEW THING," "MY FRIEND JIM," "MADEMOISELLE MERSAC," ETC.

CHAPTER I.-SIR BRIAN.

MOST of us have such excellent, albeit melancholy, reasons for being beholden to members of the medical profession that we ought to be very much ashamed of sneering at them, and calling them a pack of humbugs, as we are far too apt to do in the arrogance engendered by a fit of robust health. Nations, it is said, have the rulers that they deserve, populus vult decipi, and if (as has been asserted on high authority) bread pills are frequently administered with results of a satisfying and drastic nature, what business have we to cavil at a method of treatment which benefits the patient and does no harm to anybody else? It is the fault of the patients-if indeed there be any question of fault in the matter-that fashionable physicians are constrained to work fashionable cures, to vary their remedies, and to discover at least one new wateringplace every year. That for cleansing purposes Jordan is equally valuable with Abana and Pharpar, and that the Yang-tse-Kiang is probably neither superior nor inferior in that respect to any of the three, is not to the point. People must be sent to places which they think likely to do them good, and when they have tried half-a-dozen well-known localities without conspicuous change in their condition, there is obviously nothing for it but to recommend some locality which is not well known. Thus remote Alpine valleys, African deserts, and primitive English fish ing villages are wont to find sudden greatness thrust upon them; and thus, quite recently, Kingscliff, which for hundreds of years had led a peaceful, slumberous ex

XXVIII-1

istence beneath its sheltering heights in the far west, without ever suspecting that it possessed a climate comparable to that of the Azores, had the honour to receive as a passing visitor the celebrated Sir Guy Bartholomew, M.D. Sir Guy made a few inquiries, took a few notes, and returned to London with the complacent mien of one who has hit upon an entirely novel prescription. Nor was his prescription long in bearing fruit. Invalids appeared, first by twos and threes, then in larger and ever larger numbers; lodging-houses sprang up to receive them; an imposing hotel rose upon the shores of the bay; the railway company at last constructed the long-talked-of branch which now connects the town with the main line; finally, that energetic contractor and builder, Mr. Buswell, of Bristol, came down, bought land, and set to work to erect villas, which were taken before their walls were dry. In short, Kingscliff, where the weather during December, January, and February is really not worse than might be expected in a place situated in that latitude and facing west-south-west, speedily blossomed out into a favourite winter resort. That the sun actually has more power there than in other parts of England one must not venture to deny, in the face of the formidable array of decimal figures which have been brought forward to prove it, and indeed it seems scarcely worth while to dispute about such minute differences; but that it is amply shielded from the north and east by its overhanging red cliffs anybody can see at a glance, and the beauty of its position and of the surrounding scenery has never been called in question.

Yachtsmen, dawdling along the coast from regatta to regatta in the month of August, have long been familiar with this charming spot, and have admired it through their fieldglasses; but no yacht ever puts in there, because the anchorage is so bad, and the bay lies open to the quarter of prevailing winds. If you were running before the prevailing wind, and consequently making up Channel, you would obtain your first glimpse of Kingscliff immediately after rounding Halcombe Head, which forms the western horn of the bay. It is a low, bare promontory, exposed to the stormy blasts and swept by them of all vegetation save a few stunted shrubs; the soft red sandstone of which it is composed is continually crumbling away and falling in great blocks into the sea, which blocks have been tormented by the rush of water into fantastic crags and pinnacles; but as the red cliffs trend inland from this point they gradually increase in height; their slopes, down to the water's edge, become clothed with hanging woodlands, and just where the eastern curve begins stands Kingscliff, a cluster of white cottages, fronted by a white beach, whereon some half-dozen of stout fishing-smacks are hauled up high and dry. Down the deep gully behind the village a trout-stream leaps to join the sea, the silvery gleam of its miniature cascades visible here and there between the trees. To the westward of this gully, and at a considerable height above the village, there is a space of level ground occupied by Morden Court, the property of Rear-Admiral Greenwood, to whom also a good part of Kingscliff belongs, and behind the house there are more woods, topped by a stretch of heathy moor and by waving fields of wheat and barley.

Morden Court is a comfortable, substantiallooking mansion, but its architectural pretensions are slight; the eye of the observant stranger is more likely to be attracted by an ancient Tudor building which rises conspicuous on the eastern side of the bay. It is of comparatively small dimensions, but is considered by connoisseurs to be a singularly perfect specimen of its style. This is Kingscliff Manor, where many generations of Winstowes have lived and died. The Winstowes were once a wealthy and powerful family, possessing properties of far greater size and importance than this cradle of their race, but their possessions gradually fell away from them; the last of them is now dead, and the Manor has passed to their neighbours, the Segraves of Beckton.

The first thing that you open out after

leaving Kingscliff Bay is Beckton itself, a noble old grey structure, erected-possibly from an Italian design-rather more than two centuries ago. Viewed from the sca, Beckton, with its length of flat façade and its two jutting wings, is decidedly imposing. A long flight of semicircular granite steps leads up to its central entrance from a grassy bowling-green. Between this and the spectator there is a balustrade, also of granite, broken in the middle by wrought-iron gates, on either side of which is a high pillar, surmounted by a ball; from the gates a second flight of steps leads down to a second lawn, then comes a second balustrade exactly similar to the first, a third flight of steps, after which there is an end of levelling, and nature is allowed to have her own way with the land until it touches the sea. The general effect is fine, though perhaps a little sombre, no flower-garden being visible from this quarter.

Kingscliff, as above described, is the Kingscliff of some years back; nowadays the fishing-boats on the beach are flanked by a regiment of bathing-machines; the Royal Hotel and the Marine Parade have displaced the fishermen's cottages, and a goodly portion of Admiral Greenwood's property is covered with smart villas. From the yachtsmen's point of view these changes may not seem to be altogether changes for the better, but from the point of view of Admiral Greenwood, Mr. Buswell, the butcher, the baker, and the lodging-house keeper, and others too numerous to mention, they are a joy to the eye and a comfort to the heart. All these, comparing past with present times, are wont to lift up their hands with one consent and bless good Dr. Bartholomew. Nevertheless, at the time when this story opens, there was a dissentient minority. True, this minority consisted only of one, but then he was a host in himself. MajorGeneral Sir Brian Segrave, K.C.B., owner of Beckton, of a moiety of Kingscliff, and of much land thereunto adjacent, was, as Mr. Buswell would frequently declare, a born obstructionist. Sir Brian had been vehemently opposed to the whole scheme of Kingscliff improvements from beginning to end. He did not, he said, want to have mushroom watering-places cropping up under his nose; pleasure-seekers were offensive to him; brass bands were more offensive still; Mr. Buswell was most offensive of all. There is every reason to believe that he would have quarrelled with his old friend Admiral Greenwood for aiding and abetting the enemy,

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