THE quaint, quiet old hostelries of Izaak Walton's time are very few and far between nowadays. I know but one which would have delighted the Father of Anglers. It stands on the margin of one of England's chiefest rivers. Down the eastern bank of the river for a couple of miles are cliffs of red sandstone rising abruptly from the water, and trailed and trellised all over with vegetation-creepers and ferns, whose bright green shines in delicious contrast to the warm hue of the rock. At regular intervals the cliffs descend, and a charming well-wooded valley is disclosed to the view of him who journeys by the river. In one of these valleys, within twenty yards of the river bank, stands a large old-fashioned inn. It is low-only two stories in height and the roof is thatched with straw, on

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which the moss grows, and clusters of houseleek, the juice of which is so good for warts. The bay windows are made of the very smallest diamond panes, and the window-seat inside is large enough for a bed to be made upon it if need be. The bedroom windows have a little roof of their own projecting from the main roof. The chimneys are in all sorts of picturesque and irregular clusters. On one side of the porch a rose bush is trained up to the eaves, and on the other side a clematis bush grows luxuriantly. The porch and door pillars are clothed with honeysuckle, on which the bees gather in too great numbers for timid people to sit comfortably on the bench outside. On a bracket overhead swings the sign, on which is written “The Angler's Rest." There is no garden in front of the house, but, except a narrow pathway to and around the house, the green turf bank slopes away to the water, where there is a sort of staithe at which boats can be moored.

The river is wide here, but is beautifully clear, and runs by over its pebbly bed with a swift current. You would have to go down it a score of miles ere you found it fouled by passing through a town. The pretty little villages it so far passes by leave it unsullied.

Inside the house is as charming as the outside. Everything is spotlessly clean. The bedrooms have

an indescribably fresh and snug look about them. Although the chief articles of food are eggs and bacon, yet the eggs are new-laid, and the bacon is home-fed and home-cured.

'The Angler's Rest" has only lost one charm of late years. Formerly the landlord used to brew his own ale, and grand old ale it was-brewed in October and not allowed to be drunk for at least six months. Now the former owner has sold the "Rest" to a brewer, and honest old Parker has to buy all his ale and liquors of his new landlord. The consequence is, you do not get anything fit to drink in the house. Brewers nowadays brew good ale enough for those who can pay for it, but the country " publics" are supplied with the greatest and most undrinkable rubbish out. I have invariably found this to be the case in all parts of the country. Pure ale you cannot get out of the towns. Whether the fault lies with the brewers in general or with the publicans I am unable to say. Parker would not adulterate his beer, so in his case the fault lay with the brewer. I should like to see a law passed prohibiting a brewer to be the owner of a public-house, or at least to prevent the introduction into the tenants' leases of a clause compelling them to buy their liquors of the landlords. This may be thought a digression ; but I have so often had my meals in the country

spoiled by the filthy stuffs I have been obliged to drink, that I must ventilate my grievance.

The "Rest" is two miles away from any village proper, and it is a matter of wonder how any one came to think of establishing an inn there, or how, being established, it supported itself until it became known. Now, however, anglers from all parts of the kingdom come and stay there for days at a time. Artists come to paint and sketch, and literary men sometimes, to write. Very occasionally young men go there to read, which they do furiously for two or three days, then less and less attentively, until all pretence of studying is cast aside, and they very sensibly take to enjoying themselves while they may. In the summer panting canoeists stop for a refresher, and ask how far it is on to the next stage, receiving the answer as a rule with little pleasure, for it is wonderful how distance seems to multiply itself on the water. You are told a place is ten miles off. After paddling or rowing what you imagine to be about six miles, you inquire again, and are told your destination is about seven miles still. Sometimes, too, an eight-oar or a four-oar comes up the stream with long mechanical strokes of the oars, and after its crew have consumed a large quantity of beer and tobacco, starts off again. The only other visitors are the bargees, who navigate barges laden

with fragrant hay or corn up the stream and return with ore from the iron country.

In the winter “The Angler's Rest" is of course very quiet and dull. They have no one there then but the bargees, who are not the best company in the world; though, rough as these fellows are, if you don't meddle with them, they won't meddle with you. I have boated a great many miles over different rivers and canals of England, and I have never met with any discourtesy.

Considering that the river is not preserved, there is fine sport to be had here. In every bend of the stream there is a fine chub hole. In the still deep below the house there is many a fine pike. On the fords trout (and large ones), grayling, dace, roach, gudgeon, and bleak are in plenty. Here and there perch are numerous. But my favourite spot was a tributary of the river, which ran into it about half a mile above the house. It was not large, but the very beau-ideal of a trout stream. It ran down a narrow valley where the oak woods grew thickly. It danced and bubbled over slabs of grey and brown rocks, it splashed and eddied around the roots of giant trees, it laved clusters of fern and mossy ledges; it flowed quietly through shady glades where the grass was long and soft and green, and it spread out into clear and open pools, which