ady path beneath an avenue of trees, and it is this path that
attracts attention to the meadow; for it is said that it was here that
Addison loved to pace up and down, as in the early years of the
eighteenth century he thought out his essays for the _Tatler_ or
_Spectator_.

The rivers of Oxford--the Isis and the Cherwell--are so much part of her
meadow loveliness, that the one seems almost to include the others.
Where the meadows are the fairest, there the rivers gleam and sparkle in
the summer sun of memory. The Isis, stately stream, proud of the great
oarsmen she has taught, and of historic boats that she has borne; the
Cherwell, winding, secretive, alluring, willow-girt, whispering of men
and maidens, and of the dream days of ambitious youth. Each river has
its bridge. The mightier stream, as is most fitting, spanned where for
centuries the road has passed from Oxford into Berkshire; the little
Cherwell, to make up for any loss in navigable importance, crossed near
Magdalen Tower by the lovely bridge which was built over the two
branches of the stream more than two hundred years ago.

The meadows and the rivers bring to mind the trees. What and where would
be the loveliness of Oxford without her trees? Some have already been
mentioned--the stately elms of the Broad Walk, and the old gnarled
willows along the Cherwell's banks. But there are others, needing
perhaps a little looking for, but none the less an integral part of
Oxford's beauty when once found. One of these, the great cedar in the
Fellows' garden at Wadham, was wrecked in a gale not so very long ago,
and many who had been familiar with its dark-green foliage contrasting
with the soft grey of the chapel walls, feel almost as though they had
lost a friend.

Then just across the road there are the limes of Trinity, pollarded
every seven years to form the roof of an avenue, a most retired spot,
but counting for much with those who love green leaves and dappled
shade.

Of the trees of Oxford pages might be written. They are everywhere,
though not everywhere in prominence. Often enough it is just the peep,
the suggestion of hidden beauty, that is seen as we pass from one
college to another and a green bough overtops the wall. Lovers of Venice
know how delightful is the same thing here and there along a side canal,
where a treetop is reflected with a crumbling wall in the still water
below. In Oxford these overhanging boughs have no reflections, but the
patc