As for winter floods, and freshets in spring, they are to be reckoned rather as benefits bestowed by the river god, freshening up the pastures and giving fertility to the meadows, "o'er which," again to quote the majestic old poet: O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring. The really destructive and disastrous floods which at times spread distress and misery among the inhabitants of the lowlying districts about London, and which call so imperatively for further works of embankment, are not to be placed to the account of the river, but are, in fact, invasions of the ocean, which with an exceptionally high tide may do an immense deal of damage, while the river itself may be perfectly quiescent in the matter. But at an exceptional season when long-continued rains have filled to the brim every rat and brook, and caused the quietest streams to burst their bounds, our river is a noble sight as it comes down in full majestic volume. With a high spring tide and an equinoctial gale to pile up the waters at the river's mouth, and such a banker as this in the way of flood water, there might be a tale of a flood which would throw other records into the shade. But happily the two first conditions are wanting, and except for the strength of the downward current and the brown earthy colour of the water, there is nothing to call special attention to the river as it whirls past the palaces and towers of Westminster and London. Chelsea fields are in no danger of inunda tion, and Chiswick meadows still rise well above the stream, and Kew and Richmond are in no danger of an overflow. We must travel higher up the river to appreciate the full force of the autumnal torrent. By good luck a day opens out fine, snatched from clouds and tempests. Pleasant sunshine lights up the suburban groves, and plays upon the dishevelled orchards, and in the broad fields where yellow marrows lie piled in disregarded heaps, while huge entrenchments of seakale and celery give a faint perfume to the air suggestive of Christmas banquets in immediate prospect, and of the walnuts and wine of the festive season. From these lowly fields the contrast is great as we come to the lordly avenues of Bushey Park. The gales have wrought some mischief among the ancient trees, and one or two noble trunks are lying prostrate on the sward; but they have not yet stripped the fine chestnut avenue, which is all ablaze with gold, from the reddest to the palest yellow. Past the walls of Hampton Court, and across the green with its handsome old redbrick structures pleasantly illuminated by the sunshine, we soon come to the bridgethat ugly iron bridge which is so out of keeping with its surroundings. But bere the old river is coming along with a whizz, the waters darting under the arch with & mighty swirl, and rising angrily at pier or buttress or outlying pile. And here the river has risen over trim gardens, and eddies and shallows encompass raised flower-beds still ablaze with colour, here a Mount St. Michel of geraniums, and there a sunny isle all glowing with chrysanthemums. The gravel paths are now so many watercourses, eels may wriggle into the wine-cellar, and swans peer in at the larder windows. Half-way up the trim sloping lawn the brown flood is still creeping on; the rustic seat where lovers discoursed not long ago, is up to its middle in water. Coming to Moulsey Lock, the river is seen in still greater force; a whirl of angry waters shows where the weir should be, but there is no fall to speak of, for the flood has obliterated all distinctions of level, and the lock might be thrown open without any effect upon the river's majestic march. Higher up there is nothing to show for the island but the trees, the branches of which are battling with the current and catching stray wisps of floating drift as it hurries by. Notice -boards, too, have a comical appearance, rising forlornly out of the stream, assuring the world that the vanished isle is private property, and prohibiting landing-in two feet of water. Still higher in the back-water we come upon a whole street of house-boats, some of which are still inhabited, and with gay flowers still blooming, and curtains and hangings, give touches of summer-like gaiety to the reflections of the brown and turbid waters. Here is actually an adventurous crew of Amazons who have ventured forth upon the treacherous tide, perhaps under the stern necessity of exhausted supplies, and who are pulling back to their floating home with a skill and vigour which would entitle them to the freedom of the Watermen's Company, were female members allowed. Further on, the tow-path itself has disappeared beneath the waves, and an excursion through a gap in a hedge seems advisable; but even if the terrors of threatening notice - boards be braved, there is the more palpable danger of wire fencing all stuck over with sharp points. Your riparian proprietor would rather see anybody drowning than getting over his fence, and so there is a scramble across as best you can, till terra firma is reached again. This experience of the tow-path suggests to us that the highway on the other side of the river might afford a better way of getting along, especially as this side of the river is closely barricaded with the palings of Hurst Park Racecourse, neatly garnished with spikes and prickly things in general Here by good luck is Hampton Ferry. O'er the brown wave, a tiny sail appears. It is the ferry-boat, which is running the gauntlet of the flood, with a lady on board and a fox-terrier. They spring ashorethe dog received in a hostile manner by the dogs on this side of the water-and the ferry-boat returns with another fare. There is wonderful skill about that ferryman; he has an assistant who does all the pulling with one oar, while the ferryman leans on his, and by judicious jibes, admonitions, and exhortations, so contrives to take it out of the other man, that we arrive safe, but exhausted-as far as the assistant is concerned at the landingstage. Here, sitting snugly in the lee of a shed, and anchored to some piles, are three men in a punt, engaged in fishing. One would think that the fish were all washed out of their holes, and too much bothered and worried to think about nibbling at a bait, even if they could see it. Still, the resources of the craft are inexhaustible, and perhaps these wily fishermen know of a place where the fishes all go when they are flooded out of their homes. It is not everybody who knows Hampton, whose fame is obscured by its illustrious offshoot at Hampton Court; but it is a pleasant little settlement, although just now almost overwhelmed with dead leaves, and the trailing shoots of creepers. But it is high and dry above the river, and a deluge that would get Hampton under water would be almost Noachian in its proportions. But the highway after leaving Hampton dips into the flat, and again the river comes crankling in, filling up the ditches, and squirting through the drains, and showing in ominous patches by the roadside. Here are old water - courses opened out anew, meadows converted into islands, and a haystack perilously near the water-level suggests how exciting would be the sight were it solemnly to float away and begin a journey down the river. Our forefathers, it seems, had some skill in planting villages and towns, if they did not look out for views and picturesque bits, and so we find Sunbury well out of the flood, with its shops and inns, and High Street, not concerning itself much about the river, it seems, although people look out of their back windows and exclaim that the water is still rising. Bat beyond Sunbury the road is under water at places, although the thoughtful provision of an extinct race of vestrymen has established raised pathways, which keep the pedestrian out of the floods. There is a wooden bridge high above a tributary stream which one would hardly notice in ordinary times, but which is now a brimming river, deep enough to drown you, and strong enough to carry your body away and deposit it somewhere in the ooze and slime of the river bed as a geological specimen for future ages. The crossing is called Hoo Bridge; but whether the river is the Hoo, or whether it has a name at all, or any history belonging to it, is more than we can tell. Now we take the road that turns toward the river again and to Walton Bridge. And here, on the margin of the sloppy road, is the cart of a travelling tinker, with a lot of little ragged urchins paddling about in the mud, and materfamilias visible in the distance filling her pail at one of the brimming water-courses. But the shafts of the cart are turned towards London, and soon some court in Whitechapel or Bethnal Green may receive the wandering tribe. For the storms and rains that are stripping the trees and raising the floods, are driving the race of wandering performers of all kinds to their winter quarters sooner than usual. Here we are standing upon Walton Bridge, which is a long, rambling structure, half iron and half stone, which, in a general way, stretches over a good deal of land as well as water, but which now barely succeeds in crossing what seems a wide lagoon, with distant shores. And a pleasant view it is that stretches before us from the parapet of Walton Bridge. A broad, swollen mere, with green islands rising here and there, is bounded by gentle heights clothed in all the rich tints of autumnal woodlands. Through all this plunges the main channel of the river, rushing with tremendous force under the bridge, while the trunk of a tree, legionaries wading through breast-high, balanced against one of the protecting and dispersing the natives who awaited piles, swings to and fro with the force of them on the higher ground. The name of the current that rises over it with an angry the hamlet implies an ancient ford, although rush. Scattered among the waters of the none may exist at present, the channel of lake, huts, summer-houses, boat-houses, the river having probably changed more show, half submerged, with rustic bridges than once since those days remote, in its over water-courses where now all is water. progress across the lake-like valley. The But the most exciting sight of all is of a name, too, seems to have signified the huge barge, which a team of powerful Holy Ford, whether as leading to the abbey horses are dragging up against the stream. of Chertsey, venerated by the Saxon race, The horses themselves seem to be splashing or in memory of some great baptism, through the middle of the lake; but the when the heathen were converted wholeline of the tow-path is just to be made out sale into Christians by some saintly Auby the posts that rise here and there out gustine or Paulinus. of the flood. How they strain, those horses; and how the stream curls over the bluff bows of the barge! At the corner, where the channel turns, and the barge receives the full impact of the torrent, it seems even doubtful for a moment whether horses or river will prevail. If the barge goes, won't the bridge go too, for what could withstand the impact of that rude mass? If the bridge goes, we should go. So that the question becomes one of strong personal interest as the horses tug and strain, and the drivers shout, and the rope tightens perilously, and the old barge rolls and sways to the current. But the corner is rounded at last, and the tension of the moment is relaxed. Walton Bridge is not at all the lonely place one might expect, little known as it is to fame. A good many people come riding this way, some with the military swing of the "vieux sabreur," Captain or colonel, or knight-at-arms. Phaetons, and pony-gigs, and the stately landau, come rattling over the bridge, which is the avenue to a pleasant and peopled region abounding in villas and mansions. But our way lies not in that direction, but along the shores of the present mere, where were green meadows a week ago; and so we proceed towards Halliford, which is one of the pleasantest nooks in this part of the river, for here is one of the finest curves imaginable, where the river, confined in narrow limits, fairly boils and seethes as its waters whirl round. And above we have a glimpse of the valley and shallow meres, marshes, and winding watercourses, just as the great Julius might have seen it when the eye of civilisation first rested on the lovely vale, now for one brief space restored to its ancient condition. Here, if anywhere, it must have been that Cæsar crossed the Thames, the However that may be, here in the roadway is a peremptory notice from the lords of the manor of Halliford, that none shall erect stages or lodge their caravans on the waste of this manor, which looks as if the place were the scene of some popular observance, dating—who knows?—from the baptismal day above mentioned. But a pretty village, anyhow, is Halliford, with its screen of lovely foliage boldly commanding the river. The river, further on, seems disposed to dispute possession of the wastes of the manor with its lords; and here it is washing over the highway, while a flock of swans, and foreign geese as big as swans, are splashing, and ducking, and enjoying themselves, and seem a good deal more at home than the horses, who come splashing through, and seem to mistrust the whole affair, or than the ladies in their little pony-gig, who tuck themselves up so carefully, to be out of the reach of Father Thames his floods. But here is a return fly to the station that will ferry us across dryshod; and so adieu to a bright and sunny, albeit watery, scene. LIVING IN BOXES. THERE is a proverbial saying, which always seems to bear with it a certain smack of constitutional law, to the effect that an Englishman's house is his castle. Castles in the good old days were—or at least were reputed to be-hard to get into, a characteristic which the house of the contemporary Englishman, according to the reports from the suburbs which alarm us every year at the beginning of the burglary season, does not share. On the other hand, it is sometimes rather difficult to get out of, that is, if the luckless tenant has been weak enough to sign or store their furniture, and make trial of a spell of life in boxes. The trunks are packed and off they go. As it has been before remarked, it is not every family that is able, or unanimous enough in its desires to embark upon an experiment of this sort. The family most prone to it will be found to be the widow lady with two or more mature daughters, or unmarried sisters who have hitherto kept house together. Where there is a male head of the family the business is not so easily arranged. He is very likely to revolt at the prospect of a couple of years of table d'hôte dinners, and of public drawing-room conversation. He has a notion, moreover, that the men he will meet will be few, and of a not very satisfactory class; that his newspaper will be at least a day old when he gets it; and that, however obnoxious any particular place may prove to his taste, or his temper, or his health, he will be bound to stop on there, otherwise there will be an end of the economy which was to be the leading advantage of the new system. He is slow to recognise its much vaunted excellencies; but for this there is a reason. He knows nothing of that half-hour's interview every morning with the cook, of her utter want of original ideas in the matter of soup, and of the daily perplexity as to what the pudding shall be. These details, and the thousand and one other petty cares which the management of the simplest household involves, fall heavily upon his wife; therefore, to her the prospect of deliverance shines more seductively than it does to him. This fact, no doubt, goes far to explain how it is that, of the people one meets living in boxes, ladies form such a large majority. an agreement, judiciously worded from the landlord's point of view, in the matter of structural repairs and drainage. However well an Englishman's house may have Buited him, the approaching expiration of the lease always has a tendency to make him restless. Sometimes it happens to coincide with the exodus of old friends from the neighbourhood, or with the opening of a new tramway line, with its everlasting tinkling bells down the road; or of a Salvation Army barracks round the corner. Then doubts arise as to whether it will be wise to sign a new agreement, and more often than not a move is decided upon, in spite of the legendary horrors of such an incident. But if, in addition to the above-named mischances, there should have supervened a period of chronic unrest in the kitchen, alcoholic outbreaks and superfluous and distasteful "sauce" on the part of the cook, and flat rebellion from the kitchen-maid with regard to bell-answering and coal-carrying, coupled with the discovery of overcharge and underweight in the system of business pursued by the local purveyors, there will very likely be manifested a disposition to break for a time with housekeeping altogether; supposing, of course, that the particular family with which we are concerned is so circumstanced that it is free to go whithersoever it may elect, that the exigencies of bread-winning do not demand that paterfamilias should every morning eat his breakfast within an hour's journey of his place of business. In spite of the traditional attachment of English people to their homes, the prospect of a spell of life unfettered by household cares, is to many very alluring. With some, pleasant memories of the "Beau Rivage" here, and of the "Belle Vue" there, accumulated during divers summer The first half-year generally finds the trips on the Continent, arise and plead adventurers well satisfied with the new powerfully for a repetition of the experi- order of things. The freedom from daily ence. Others, who have never seen these duty never seems so sweet as in that early glories, have read much about them, and time. The worries of home are yet fresh have listened with envy to the accounts in mind, and serve to heighten the enjoytold by their more fortunate friends; and ment of a life in which breakfast, lunch, when the time comes when they are free and dinner come round every day without to go where they list, they determine to taking thought of them, like the quails follow suit. They have been told by their and manna in the wilderness. Our trafriends of the ridiculously cheap rate at vellers have not yet learnt that weariwhich one may live during the off season some iteration is possible in the longest at palatial establishments on the marge of menu, and the days of distasteful dishes some Swiss or Italian lake-half what it come round just as surely as the resurreccosts them in their stuffy suburban street, tion-pie days and the rice-pudding days and no trouble-so, wearied by the cares recurred at school. The society of the of unsatisfactory tradesmen and the deceit drawing-room is also an agreeable change fulness of servants, they determine to sell at first-by reason of the contrast it presents to the society of a London suburb, or a small country town. It is true the clique flourishes, and bores abound, but the phase of life free from these delights is yet to be discovered. There are the people who fancy themselves and the people-a little less attractive, as a rule, these latter who fancy you, and life is saved from anything like stagnation through the never-ceasing struggle to be taken up by the former, and to avoid taking up the latter. The talk is invariably of the most trivial character, and rarely errs through an excess of charity; but it is not on this account always distasteful to the neophyte. But there will almost certainly come a day when a feeling of weariness will set in, which the perusal of the most pompously worded menu, and the discourse of the lady with the rasping voice there is always one of this sort in the drawingroom-will only serve to deepen. The peculiarities of this and that fellow wanderer, which at first served to amuse, now become insupportable. Relations with the manager become strained on account of his omission to give a sunny room at the first opportunity, and his persistent overcharge for certain items which were to have been comprised in the pension, till at last, after much calculation, it is decided to ignore economy for a bit, and move on to some other haunt of the same kind offering superior advantages. The first few weeks of the change are almost invariably grateful; but the new installation will know nothing of the rapture of deliverance from the burden of housekeeping which marked the original one. Day follows day, the weak points of the new resting-place gradually come to light; the discovery is made that, after all, it strongly resembles the last one, and at last, in its turn, it is forsaken, and the camp again struck for reasons as before stated. With every fresh move our adventurers bring into play the growing experience which they have accumulated during their nomad life. They know the earliest date at which summer hotels will take them in on winter terms, and swoop down accordingly, so as to enjoy a little bit of the fag end of the season, and then before the luggage is taken up the rooms are always inspected, and, as a rule, the price is knocked down. The pruning-knife is applied to the question of lights and service, and a bottle of ordinaire per diem is sometimes squeezed into the arrangement. The landlord, as he concludes the bargain, is apt to wonder what can have become of all the rich money-scattering English who used to range the Continent in his grandfather's time. Old campaigners keep a sharp look-out for the opening of new hotels and pensions. They have a fancy for testing the excellencies of these while the bloom is still on the furniture and appointments, while the table is kept at that preliminary standard of perfection which will so surely wane as soon as ever the house shall be full, and while the new broom generally is in going order. They also carefully catalogue merits and shortcomings of all the landlords and hotel managers of whom they have experience, and no small part of their drawing-room conversation with others in similar case is made up of imparting this experience of their own, and imbibing fresh facts concerning fields yet untried in return. And the landlords no doubt keep a sort of character register of their guests, in which such entries as the following might very well be found: "General and Mrs. MacNab.-Large appetites; have a way of abusing the hotel to new-comers, and carrying off the English newspapers to their bedroom. Good pay, but give a lot of trouble and do not fee the servants. Mrs. and the Misses Percy Robinson.-Rather_quarrelsome with the other guests, and always want to sing hymns in the public drawingroom on Sunday evenings. Don't take wine, but seem to drink whisky-which they buy of the English grocer in their bedrooms." The end of the second year's wandering usually brings a crisis. Either the spirit of citizenship reasserts itself, and the vagrants return to British respectability and the ownership of a houseful of furniture and the payment of rates and taxes, having found as much loss as profit in their new scheme of life, or the Bohemian tendency gets permanently the upper hand, and the horde of vagabond English is recruited by another family. With regard to the saving of money, and making a limited income do its utmost, no doubt the Bohemian has the best of it; but there are heavy items to be written on the other side of the account. The adoption of this easy-going, unfettered line of life means the shirking of many obligations which, though they may seem commonplace and trivial enough at a first glance, are of no mean importance as a |