a Danish chief, but, of course, that is a mere conjecture, though Gough has not hesitated to name the person-Baereg. The explosion that Sir Walter has recorded to have been caused by Flibbertigibbet did not disturb the stonework, but it destroyed every vestige of the vault underneath. Every trace too of the marsh that Tressilian feared to venture upon has disappeared, and the visitor will a little wonder how a marsh could ever have existed on this hard chalk down. While alluding to the novel it may be added that the peasantry in these parts no longer speak in an Anglo-Scottish dialect.

Another of the objects referred to is the Blowing Stone, in the estimation of Berkshire men the next great wonder to their White Horse. This Blowing Stone is a huge sort of natural trumpet, which some fancy was used by the Druids as a call to the sacred rites; others, that it was a war-signal. It is a great block of stone about a yard high and nearly as thick, and pierced in a curious manner. You blow into a hole in the top, and a sound is produced of a singular character-varying, however, according to the skill of the performer and the strength of his lungs. Its compass is from a something louder and more musical than Lablache's loudest swell down to the bellow of a calf or the bleat of a sheep. In fact, it has properties almost as marvellous as the magic horn that Orlando won from the giant Jatmund, which might be heard twenty miles off. This, when skilfully played, may be heard at some five miles' distance; and connoisseurs, it is said, can tell by the note where the player comes from. Essex men are betrayed at the first breath. Londoners "roar you an' 't were any nightingale." Americans are known by the twang.

A celebrated politician once blew into it, and the milk in all the dairies around turned sour. Some years ago the stone was removed from its original position; it now stands in front of a little publichouse called after it, "The Blowing Stone." Should the visitor be diffident of his musical powers, any one at the public-house will play him a voluntary. Indeed, if there be no one else in the way, Mrs. Willis, the good-natured landlady, will, with a little persuasion, apply her own lips to the instrument.

She is quite a proficient. I have heard her "Force sweet niusic from the old batter'd stone" in a most masterly style.

But the White Horse, which gives its name to the range, is after all the wonder, and the ranıbler should not be at Faringdon without going to see it. It is an extraordinary animal, standing some four hundred hands high, and visible (to those who can see so far) fifteen miles off. Judges say that it is necessary to be at least a mile distant to see its points to perfection. But it must be looked at from the right station, or, like an old picture, it will not be distinguishable at all.-The reader, I suppose, knows that the White Horse is the rude figure of a horse cut out of the side of a chalk-hill. It has been supposed to mark the site of a victory over the Danes; but Mr. Thoms, in a paper published in the recent vol. (xxxi.) of the 'Archæologia,' suggests that it had probably a religious origin-in fact, was a representation of the Sacred Horse of the Celts. Once in three years the peasantry assemble and carefully remove any of the turf that has encroached on the figure, or, as they say, "rub down the horse." On these occasions a fair is held on the hill-top, at which there is commonly horse-racing, jumping in sacks, and even more than the usual amount of rustic merriment. Uffington Castle is on the hill above the White Horse; there is a barrow near the base of it; and the Blowing Stone is little more than a mile distant: they are all about four miles from Faringdon-except Wayland Smith's Cave, which is nearly six miles. The Vale of the White Horse is one of the most fertile tracts in England.

CHAPTER IV.

STANTON-HARCOURT.

By Radcot Bridge, where the river makes a bend, there is, as in several places we shall come to hereafter (and pass by without notice), a straight cut made for the convenience of the navigation, along which the path runs-but the old way is the pleasantest. Short cuts, like all other utilitarian contrivances, are harsh, rigid, right-angled affairs. They allow of no amplification or adorning. Faney cannot find in them a curve to play about in, nor will Beauty forsake the chequered shade, where 66 the green leaves quiver with the cooling wind," for the shelter of their tarred palings. We will leave the cuts to the bargemen.

And the river here has a great many choice turns, and quiet nooks where the angler finds just employment enough to give a relish to his meditations, and the rambler is tempted to lie down and let the minutes roll away in dreamy enjoyment. Willows, alders, and poplars skirt the banks, and send their contorted roots into the stream; while their reflected forms and colours mingle with the hue imparted to the water by the tints of the sky, and the aquatic plants that float gracefully on the surface; and sky, trees, and water, with a solitary angler plying his craft under the shadow of the foliage, blend into lovely little pictures that the

eye delights to gaze upon, but which are too general to impress themselves upon the memory. These cool shady spots alternate with stretches of open country, spotted over with outlying farm-houses and clumps of elm or chesnut; and the river itself is enlivened by the frequent recurrence of a picturesque weir or lock, or the occasional passage of a barge. On the south side a low range of hills forms the distance, and in front are the thickly wooded heights of Bucklands, so frequently mentioned in Cowper's Correspondence as the family residence of his friends the Throckmortons. The manor was the property of Thomas Chaucer, the son of

"That old Dan Geffrey, in whose gentle sprite
The pure well-head of poesie did dwell."

On the north side the grounds are flat, and the tall spire of Bampton is the only object that arrests the attention.

Tadpole bridge, which is about three miles below Radcot bridge, is the next noticeable place we arrive at. The road over it leads from Bampton to the London and Faringdon road near Bucklands. Bampton, which is about two miles and a half from the bridge, is a good-sized market-town, with nearly two thousand inhabitants. It has considerable trade, some manufactures; and a large cattlefair is annually held in it. The church is a spacious and very fine one, with a lofty spire, which is visible for many miles in every direction: there are also som vestiges of a castle. Philips, the author of The Splendid Shilling,' was born in Bampton, of which his father was rector.

For the next few miles the way is wearisome enough to test the patience of the pedestrian pretty