On the hill to the right is Sinodun, a remarkably fine British camp. The whole neighbourhood, so still and peaceful now, tells of bygone greatness, and of many a struggle of which the records have vanished from the page of history. Not far, however, from Dorchester in another direction is Chalgrove Field, where the brave and patriotic Hampden received his death-wound. His name, and that of Falkland, to be noticed farther on, awaken in these scenes now so tranquil the remembrance of the stormy times when, in this Thames Valley, were waged those conflicts out of which in so large a measure sprang the freedom and progress of modern England.

At Dorchester we are still eleven miles by water from Goring; and though the angler may loiter down the stream, we must hasten on, though ancient Wallingford and rustic Cleeve are not unworthy of notice. At Goring the chief beauties of the river begin to disclose themselves.

Ralph Waldo Emerson says of the English landscape, that "it seems to be finished with the pencil instead of the plough." Our fields are cultivated like gardens. Neat, trim hedgerows, picturesque villages, spires peeping from among groves of trees, cottages gay with flowers and evergreens, suggest that the landscape gardener rather than the agriculturist has been everywhere at work. If this be true of England as a whole, it is yet more strikingly true of the district through which we are about to pass. A thousand years of peaceful industry have subdued the wildness of nature; and the river glides between banks radiant with beauty: "The little hills rejoice on every side; the pastures are clothed with Hocks, the valleys are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing."

Yet there is no lack of variety. The course of the river is broken up by innumerable "aits" ("eyots"), or little islands; some covered with trees which dip their branches into the stream, others with reeds and osier, the haunts of wild fowl; on others, again, a cottage or a summer-house peeps out from amongst the foliage. Sometimes these aits seem to block up the channel, and leave no exit, so that the boat seems to be afloat on a tiny lake, till a stroke or two of the oar discloses a narrow passage into the stream beyond. Sometimes a line of chalk down bounds the view, its delicately curved sides dotted over with juniper bushes, the dark green of which contrasts finely with the light grey of the turf. Then comes a range of hanging beech-wood coming down to the water's edge, or a broad expanse of meadow, where the cattle wade knee-deep in grass, or a mansion whose grounds have been transformed into a paradise by lavish expenditure and fine taste, or a village, the rustic beauty of which might realise the dreams of poet or of painter. The locks, mill-dams, or weirs with their dashing waters, give animation to the scene. Nor is that additional charm often wanting, of which Dr. Johnson used to speak. "The finest landscape in the world," he would say, "is improved by a good inn in the foreground." True, there are no great hotels, after the modern fashion; but a series of comfortable homely village inns will be found, such as Izaak Walton loved, and which are still favourite haunts with the brethren of "the gentle craft." The landlord, learned in all anglers' lore, is delighted to show where the big pike lies in a sedgy pool, where the perch will bite most freely, or to suggest the most killing fly to cast for trout over the mill-pond; and is not too proud, when the day's task is done, to wait upon the oarsman or the angler at his evening meal.

* As we write, the following letter to the Times arrests our
attention; it is too graphic, as well as accurate, to be
lost:—
"I will not tell you where I am, except that I am staying at
an hotel on the banks of the River Thames. I hesitate to
name the place, charming as it is, because I am sure, when
its beauties are known, it will be hopelessly vulgarised.
Mine host, the pleasantest of landlords, his wife, the most
agreeable of her sex, will charge, too, in proportion as the
plutocracy invade us. I am surrounded by the most charming
scenery. Few know, and still fewer appreciate the beauties
of our own River Thames. I have been up and down the Rhine;
but I confess, taking all in all, Oxford to Gravesend
pleases me more. Herc, in addition to what I have described,
I am on the river's brink; I can row about to my heart's
content for a very moderate figure; excellent fishing;
newspapers to be procured, and postal arrangements of a
character not to worry you, and yet sufficient to keep you
au fait with your business arrangements. What do I want
more? Prices are moderate, the village contains houses
suitable to all clashes, and the inhabitants are pleased to
see you. I can wear flannels without being stared at, and I
can see the opposite sex, in the most bewitching and
fascinating of costumes, rowing about (with satisfaction,
too) the so-called lords of creation. As for children, there
is no end of amusement for them—dabbling in the water,
feeding the swans, the fields, and the safety of a punt. We
have both aristocratic and well-to-do people here—names
well known in town; but I must not, nor will I, betray them.
On the towing-path this morning was to be seen the smartest
of our Judges in a straw hat and a tourist suit, equally
becoming to him as it was well cut.
"Let me advise all your readers who are hesitating where to
go not to overlook the natural beauties of our River Thames.
There are one or two steamers that make the journey up and
down the river in three days, stopping at various places,
and giving ample opportunity for passengers both to see and
appreciate the scenery.
"E. C. W."

To describe in detail all the points of beauty that lie before us, would require far more space than we have at disposal; and a dry catalogue of names would interest no one. We have started, as said before, from Goring, where the twin village Streatley—bearing in its name a reminiscence of the old Roman road Ikenild Street,—nestles at the foot of its romantic wooded hill. The comfort of the little hostelry and the charm of the scenery invite a longer stay, but we must press on. Pangbourne and Whitchurch, also twin villages, joined by a pretty wooden bridge, once more invite delay. On the right, the little river Pang flows in between green hills; on the left, or the Whitchurch side, heights clothed with the richest foliage shut in the scene. The cottages are embosomed amid the trees; the clear river catches a thousand reflections from hillside, and sky; the waters of the weir dash merrily down; and the fishermen, each in his punt moored near mid-stream, yielding themselves to the tranquil delight of the perfect scene, are further gladdened by many an encouraging nibble. Surely of all amusements the most restful is fishing from a punt! Most persons would find a day of absolute idleness intolerable. But here we have just that measure of expectation and excitement which enable even a busy and active man to sit all day doing nothing.

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