the countenances of a rural audience when
Mr Ingilby, or other juggler, produced, out of some unaccountably
prolific hat, a stewing-pan, a salt cellar, a couple of eggs, a brood
of chickens, and finally the maternal hen. We ordered a cold dinner to
be put into baskets, with a moderate accompaniment of bottles and
glasses--enquired if a boat was to be had to take us up the Wye--were
recommended to a certain barge-master of the name of Williams; and, in
a very short space of time, were safely stowed in a beautiful clipper,
thirty feet long, with only nine inches draught of water, with a
gorgeous morning over our heads, luxurious cushions on the seats, a
tug, in the shape of a most strong, active fellow, pulling us by the
towing-path, and, seated at the helm, the most civil, the most polite,
the most communicative, and the most talkative man that it ever was
our fortune to meet. He united in his own person a vast multiplicity
of trades and offices. He was innkeeper, boat-builder, boat-owner,
pilot, turner, Bristol-trader, wood-merchant, coracle-maker,
fisherman, historian, and, above all, a warrior of the most tremendous
courage. In all of these capacities he had no rival; and as it was his
own boat, his native town, his own river, and we were merely his
passengers, he had it all his own way. He stood up in the excitement
of his discourse, and talked without a moment's intermission--sometimes
to us--sometimes to a little boy he had brought on board to look after
the baskets--sometimes to the man on the towing-path--and sometimes to
himself; but at all times there fell thick and fast about our ears the
words of Thomas Williams; and of all his words, Thomas Williams was
the hero. As people get used to the noise of a waterfall, at last we
stood the perpetual sound without any inconvenience, and carried on
quiet conversation, or sank into silent admiration, as we floated past
the bold cliffs, or soft-wooded shores, of the sylvan Wye.

For the first mile or two from Monmouth, the hermit of the woods is
nothing to boast of. The banks are low; the water sluggish; and the
scenery common-place. The beauties begin at a bend of the river, where
Mr Blakemore has built a large and comfortable-looking house. On a
high, conical hill above the mansion, there stands a lofty gazebo of
open iron-work, commanding a view of we don't remember how many
counties; but before our _cicerone_ had got half-way into an account
of each of them, with th