98 By Stream and Sea. 



fringed everywhere with rushes, flags, and with willows that 

 whiten, and aspens that quiver, while, to pursue Tennyson's 

 imagery, 



" On either side the river lie 

 Long fields of barley and of rye 

 That clothe the wold and meet the sky." 



A quiet day by Walton's river seemed to me a heaven- 

 sent inspiration when in a restless mood I put back the 

 books that would not seize my attention and took down the 

 fly-rod that has so often tempted and bidden me come forth. 

 Yes, a quiet day on the Lea was the recipe for cobwebs on 

 the brain. The day was favourable — cloudy, warm, breezy 

 — in a word, the very day for a saunter by a stream which 

 might be easily whipped. Rye House suggested itself; Rye 

 House, therefore, should it be. 



At Bishopsgate Street Station, after I had taken my seat 

 in the train, I remembered that it was Saint Monday. The 

 carriages were crammed with excursionists, in which women 

 and babies at the breast largely preponderated. Accordions 

 squeaked and fiddles brayed in, as it seemed, every com- 

 partment. There were negro melodists by the dozen. A 

 fat young woman, a thin old woman, and two children who 

 were regaling themselves on saveloy primitively conveyed to 

 the mouth, were thrust at the last moment into our carriage, 

 which had already received its regulation number of inmates. 

 The children pelted each other with morsels of their dainty 

 food, hit a High Church clergyman in the eye with a piece 

 of yellow fat, were cuffed by their protectors, howled like 

 jackals on the prowl, and finally went from passenger to 

 passenger examining their garments, buttons, and watch- 

 chains, and asking the company generally for toffy. The 

 old woman insisted upon having the window up ; the young 

 woman drank gin from a flat bottle. Then the young 



