shingly beaches and broken glass on 'lovely sands' (see the Guidebooks): give me a boat, I say, and a clear plunge with an utter fearlessness of rocks or the bottom, which are only a few degrees worse than the sharks and alligators common to the warmer latitudes. To be sure there is a pleasant little uncertainty-unless you have left a friend in the boat who will balance it on one side, while you climb in on the otheras to the possibility of your getting back again; but it is only sufficient to lend a zest to the occasion. I never knew any one who did not find the means of getting in again.

A little while, and the great an

nual exodus from the capital will
commence. Society will migrate
from Belgravia to the seaside. May
I not hope that it (society) will learn
to swim there; and thus take the
surest means of making society in
the sea pleasant and beneficial, and
preventing the recurrence of that
sad chapter of accidents, the records
of which are to be found in obscure
corners of newspapers, and on tomb-
tones in seaside churchyards. If it
does this, I shall have a pleasure in
this work of a far higher kind than
that which ordinarily attends the
accomplishment of a task.
J. D. C.

WHAT IS MY LOVE LIKE ?

WHAT

THAT is my love like? She is fair-
Fair as a tender autumn star,
Twinkling through the woodland air.
A cloven cherry is her mouth,

Her breath a breeze that wanders far
Through camphire hills in the sweet South.
And fine, and delicate, and slim

Is her rich, purple-boddiced waist,
Set round with fringes, quaint and prim.
O'er her cool neck, a rosary

Of fragrant pearls, white-serried and chaste,
In one close-linked measure lie.

O wondrous, wondrous is her hair

A twisted wealth of golden brown,
That droops above her temples bare.
A milky shoulder, gleaming shy,

Peeps coy and blanched above her gown,
As from a pleasant nunnery.

Her hand so oft doth kiss her lips,

That half the cherry blood has flown

In ruby to her finger tips.

I will not swear me for her eyes,

For, when we meet, my lids are prone―

Supine before their witcheries.

She hath a voice, like a low brook

That crystals through a bed of gold,

By saddest lilies sun-forsook.
And her sweet laugh is soft and slow,
And wise in meanings manifold-
A viol that the spring gusts blow.
Such is my love-a phantom bright,
The vision of a summer brain
Seen half between the dark and light.
She lives within a palace fine,

And sees the moons of fancy wane,
The image and the dream are mine.