ees shut it out almost entirely, so that part of Hampshire
and all Sussex disappear. Looking to the west you can see the pines on
Chobham Common, and perhaps Bagshot Heath beyond, but you can no longer
get a sight of Windsor Castle, for the trees have grown up on Cooper's
Hill, which lies between. To the north the church spire on the hill at
Harrow stands beautifully up from the horizon; the Wembley Tower, which
used to scar the distance, has gone. Eastward lie two familiar towers;
and you are reminded of Mr. Max Beerbohm's reflective observation that
"the great danger of travelling on the South Eastern Railway is that you
might put your head out of the window and catch sight of the Crystal
Palace." So much the greater by contrast is the loss of Windsor Castle
to the north-west. I have never yet, by the way, had the good fortune to
get to the top of St. Anne's Hill on a really clear day. I have been
informed by the lodge-keeper that the best time to get a view is in the
summer immediately the sun is up and before the London fires are
lighted. You can then see all the big London buildings, the Clock Tower,
and the Houses of Parliament, and "the dome of St. Paul's as plain as a
mushroom in the field."

Fox lived at the house at St. Anne's Hill in his quieter old age. Samuel
Rogers in his _Table Talk_ draws a pleasant picture of his life among
his books and farm buildings:--

"When I became acquainted with Fox, he had given up that kind of
life (gambling, etc.) entirely, and resided in the most perfect
sobriety and regularity at St. Anne's Hill. There he was very happy,
delighting in study, in rural occupations and rural prospects. He
would break from a criticism on Porson's _Euripides_ to look for the
little pigs. I remember his calling out to the Chertsey hills, when
a thick mist, which had for some time concealed them, rolled away:
'Good morning to you! I am glad to see you again.' There was a walk
in his grounds which led to a lane through which the farmers used to
pass; and he would stop them, and talk to them, with great
interest, about the price of turnips, etc. I was one day with him in
the Louvre, when he suddenly turned from the pictures, and, looking
out at the window, exclaimed, 'This hot sun will burn up my turnips
at St. Anne's Hill.'"

In his later life, Fox's chief delight was almost wholly in his garden,
and in country sights and sounds. It was with