alls were razed.

From Wallingford up to Dorchester the neighbourhood of the river grows
more hilly, varied, and picturesque. Dorchester stands half a mile from
the river. It can be reached by paddling up the Thame, if you have a
small boat; but the best way is to leave the river at Day's Lock, and
take a walk across the fields. Dorchester is a delightfully peaceful old
place, nestling in stillness and silence and drowsiness.

Dorchester, like Wallingford, was a city in ancient British times; it was
then called Caer Doren, "the city on the water." In more recent times
the Romans formed a great camp here, the fortifications surrounding which
now seem like low, even hills. In Saxon days it was the capital of
Wessex. It is very old, and it was very strong and great once. Now it
sits aside from the stirring world, and nods and dreams.

Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village,
old-fashioned, peaceful, and dainty with flowers, the river scenery is
rich and beautiful. If you stay the night on land at Clifton, you cannot
do better than put up at the "Barley Mow." It is, without exception, I
should say, the quaintest, most old-world inn up the river. It stands on
the right of the bridge, quite away from the village. Its low-pitched
gables and thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a story-book
appearance, while inside it is even still more once-upon-a-timeyfied.

It would not be a good place for the heroine of a modern novel to stay
at. The heroine of a modern novel is always "divinely tall," and she is
ever "drawing herself up to her full height." At the "Barley Mow" she
would bump her head against the ceiling each time she did this.

It would also be a bad house for a drunken man to put up at. There are
too many surprises in the way of unexpected steps down into this room and
up into that; and as for getting upstairs to his bedroom, or ever finding
his bed when he got up, either operation would be an utter impossibility
to him.

We were up early the next morning, as we wanted to be in Oxford by the
afternoon. It is surprising how early one _can_ get up, when camping
out. One does not yearn for "just another five minutes" nearly so much,
lying wrapped up in a rug on the boards of a boat, with a Gladstone bag
for a pillow, as one does in a featherbed. We had finished breakfast,
and were through Clifton Lock by half-past eight.

From Clifton to Culham the river banks are flat, m