mental pursuit have published its praises. There is, as the representative of poetry and moral philosophy, Professor Wilson, whose glowing essays all will remember; in natural philosophy, Sir Humphry Davy, with his poetic descriptions and scientific explanations. Law has sent Chitty to give us a textbook; and painting, Hofland, with his professional knowledge and piscatorial enthusiasm; and music, Phillips, who has brought his art to set off his favourite sport. I do not remember whether medicine has contributed anything, but we know that Sir Charles Bell practised, if he did not write about the gentle craft: nor do I remember that theology has added to its literature, but certainly many of the most successful of the present race of fly-fishers are divines. Apart from the fish, the practice with the fly is infinitely preferable to any other mode. Hofland used to say that every landscape-painter ought to be a fly-fisher; not merely because, as Davy has so well said, it leads him into the more secluded and wilder scenery of nature, for there the landscapepainter would go without adventitious inducement

-but because, whilst angling, somehow the scenery always appears so much fresher and brighter. And I think there is something in it. Sir Joshua Reynolds has mentioned in his Journey to the Flemish picture-galleries that he was greatly struck with the superior brilliancy of the colours on again looking at the pictures after he had stooped down to make some memorandums respecting them; and he attributes the effect to the contrast with the white paper on which his eyes had just been steadily fixed. But there is something more than that. Every one must have felt the weariness that arises from looking over a large collection of pictures,

and the freshness and beauty there appears to be, on revisiting the gallery, in some that in our previous visit we thought almost worthless or mediocre. The fact is, the eye becomes satiated, exhausted. And so with scenery. We go from one scene to another without respite or diversion, and both eye and mind become saturated and refuse to admit more. But in wandering from spot to spot, rod in hand, there is every minute a new interest excited, and then the eye returns refreshed to drink in greedily the loveliness before it.

In trolling there is something of this; in bottomfishing from a bank less: but the punt is horrible. To be nailed to the bottom of a chair-as is the Thames fashion-in the midst of a punt moored fore and aft, and there sit and dip and pull up, and dip and pull up again and again, without change or exercise for hours together, and all for the sake of a few roach or dace, is a thing so monstrously monotonous, that one cannot help wishing, when we see a punt-angler, the wish of one of old, that "joy may be given in proportion to the tediousness he has suffered. But punt-fishing is emphatically the Thames fishing, and the punts and their contents at least make pretty patient groups in the landscape, and are pleasant to sketch. Not very far from where we now are, there used some years ago to be one the very acme of a punt-angler. He was a comely, rotund, middle-aged gentleman, and used to dress in the height of neatness and good-fitting. His chair seemed contrived for ease. He had a livery servant beside him, to cast in ground-bait, put the gentle on the hook, and take the fish off-do every thing in fact but catch. Nor lacked he sherry-flask or sandwich-box, by which ever

and anon he might repel the insidious approaches of weariness or vacuity, and recruit the inner man. And thus he might be seen to sit and watch the float, lift up his rod and put it down again, day after day,

"From morn till noon, from noon till dinner-time" the summer thorough.

But I was only to say a few words! Verily, we must for the future eschew gossip and walk faster.

CHAPTER XIV.

CLIEFDEN.

WE have now reached a part of our river where the scenery is of the loveliest and most rememberable character. The four miles between Cookham bridge and Maidenhead are unquestionably superior to any we have yet passed over, and, in their way, are hardly surpassed by any in England. The scenery of the Thames has here attained its highest in the scale of beauty. Other places there are along its banks which are visited oftener, and with more interest, but they owe much of their charm to the associations connected with them or the edifices that adorn them, while this has little beside its natural beauty to depend on.

Along these four miles the river flows in easy windings, having broad meadows on the right, and on the left lofty hanging woods. Before we stroll along them, we must, however, visit the villages on each side of our starting-place.

Cookham is an extensive parish, embracing hill and dale, heath and meadow, with houses scattered widely about. The inhabitants are chiefly employed in agriculture, but there are many dwellings of a superior class. The church stands at the foot of the bridge, and has a pleasing appearance from the river. The houses which compose the village are at a little distance from both church and river.

A wooden bridge was about five years ago erected over the Thames at Cookham to connect the road from Maidenhead to Wycombe, which was previously connected by a ferry. No doubt the bridge is of service for the traffic between these towns, and has been beneficial to the villages to which it affords an easier approach, but it has added nothing to the beauty of the river, and has spoilt a very picturesque view of the village. The village of Hedsor has nothing notable about it, except that it affords many fine views and pleasant walks. In the churchyard lie the remains of Nathanael Hooke, the author of the Roman History.' Hedsor Lodge, the seat of Lord Boston, is celebrated for the beauty of the grounds, which, though inferior to Cliefden, and perhaps to Taplow, are deserving of all their fame. They are greatly broken in surface, well-wooded, and command prospects up the Thames and across the Buckingham hills, of vast extent and richness.

Near Hedsor the Thames receives a pretty little tributary called the Wick, which rises near West Wycombe, passes High Wycombe and Woburn, and in its course of some ten miles turns several mills, and expands into one or two sheets of ornamental water. From Hedsor a pleasant walk of about three miles leads to Beaconsfield, where lie the remains of Waller and of Burke. The house in which Burke resided-and who that has read his Correspondence will forget it and the joyful hours he spent there, with the gloomy close?-was accidentally burnt down in 1813. Burke's remains were deposited in the church. Waller was buried in the churchyard, where is a showy marble monument to his memory. The monument is shaded by a large