appearance was most venerable. It is still an interesting structure.

After leaving Bow our river flows past Bromley, whose church, situated at a very short distance from that of Bow, was, before the recent alterations and repairs, a little countrified building. But by this time our river has ceased to be either picturesque or interesting: lime-kilns, calicoprinting and chemical works, and distilleries are the most prominent objects along its banks; and however useful these may be, they are not agreeable to either nose or eye. The walk, indeed, after passing Bromley-mills is pretty-the Thames with its shipping, and Shooters' Hill as a background, serving to produce some rather striking pictures. But we must pass onwards; our river is crossed near Blackwall by an excellent iron bridge; and, leaving the East India Docks a little on its right, it soon unites with the Thames-having, however, first lost its name, which it has changed for that of Bow Creek. It enters the Thames somewhat below the terminus of the Blackwall Railway, and opposite the Greenwich marshes.

Here then we part with the LEA; and though we have perhaps found nought in it to arouse our minds to feelings of grandeur, we have not wanted for that which has served to excite pleasurable sentiments, and to call up many agreeable associations. We almost, indeed, feel tempted in quitting it to apostrophize it as did Moses Browne in his 'Piscatory Eclogues :'

"Sweet stream,

Whose scenes to solemn thoughts invite,
May our calm life resemble thee,

Such pleasure give, so useful be!"

THE DOVE.

Nor more indissolubly, and hardly more pleasantly, is the name of Izaak Walton wedded to that of the Lea, than is Charles Cotton's to that of his "beloved nymph, fair Dove!" and as his 'Second Part' was intended to complete the 'Complete Angler,' so may we offer a Ramble by the Dove as a compliment to our previous Ramble by the Lea would that we could render our notices of these streams as bright and clear, as sparkling and as pleasant, as are theirs! How Walton loved his Lea we have already seen, and indeed it is well known; yet he loved her not better than did Cotton his Dove; repeatedly does he in his poems declare her to be without a rival:

"Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po:

The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine

Are puddle-water all, compared with thine:
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are,
With thine, much purer, to compare:
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine
Are both too mean,

Beloved Dove, with thee

To vie priority;

Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit,
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet."

There is a little hyperbole here, perhaps, yet what he says of her elsewhere is so near the truth, and expressed so happily, that we may start with it as our motto:

"Of all fair Thetis' daughters none so bright,

So pleasant none to taste, none to the sight,
None yield the patient angler such delight."

The Dove is indeed a pleasant river. Its name, pleasant in itself,* starts at its sound a crowd of pleasant associations, that flit before us in gay and brilliant or more sombre colours. We do not, however, intend to pursue them as we have done those we met along some other of our rivers. We mean to keep close beside our Dove, and not to be led astray by anything, however enticing,

From its source to its union with the Trent the Dove serves as a boundary to the counties of Staffordshire and Derbyshire; its whole length is about forty-five miles. It rises on the side of the huge hill called Axe-edge, and not far from its summit. Two streams which issue from the slope of Axe-edge, and unite near its base, contend for the honour of the parentage of our river. The eastward one is said to afford the larger quantity of water, and is by some termed the main stream; but it is from the source of the other that the separation of the counties is marked, and not far below it, and on the stream that flows from it, and a long way from the first stream, is the little village of Dove-head moreover, common fame assigns to this the pre-eminence, and common fame we shall, in this instance, follow. This then we shall consider the source of the Dove. The water bubbles

:

"The silver Dove, how pleasant is the name !"- Cotton.

K

up through a little well, whose sides are protected by a couple of flag-stones, with a larger one for a covering, and a little sill-stone over which the water trickles and runs merrily down the deep channel it has scooped out of the old hill. The little well serves to supply water to a cottage by the road side, a few yards above it; and many a traveller turns aside to partake of its ever-flowing bounty. A graceful poem has been written by the Rev. J. Edwards, called The Tour of the Dove:' he did not, as we intend, pursue the stream from its source, but upwards to it. As we, perchance, may not again refer to his poem, we will here quote his notice of the spot we are at:

"At length 't is gain'd, the heathy cloud-capt mountain : Not at the hamlet of Dove-head I rest,

But higher up, beside a bubbling fountain,

That makes within a little well its nest.

Here springs the Dove! and with a grateful zest
I drink its waters."

Axe-edge is a large and lofty hill; its edgehardly axe-like-is a long waste, and affords a magnificent range of prospects. In one direction a wide stretch of the wild Peak district is seen; in another the eye ranges for an immense distance over the more cultivated lands of Staffordshire; while farther to the right the mountains of North Wales may be discerned like a faint line of cloud hanging over the horizon. When the Ordnance

Survey was made in these parts a few years back, the summit of Axe-edge was fixed on as a principal station; and some idea of the extent of country embraced from it may be formed from the fact that powerful reflectors which were placed on one of the highest hills in Nottinghamshire, on the top of Lincoln cathedral, and on the summit of Snowdon, could be distinctly seen from it in clear weather: Lincoln being upwards of sixty, and Snowdon ninety miles distant. Besides the Dove, three other rivers, the Wye, the Goyte, and the Dane, rise on the slopes of Axe-edge.

In many a little sparkling water-break does the Dove make its way down the hill side, twisting too with strange perversity as it forces itself through and around every obstacle. Every yard of its early course affords a something worth noticing, yet not such as we can stop to describe. Dovehead, which is about a quarter of a mile down the stream from its source, need not detain us; it consists of but three or four houses; but somewhat lower, where it is crossed by a rustic bridge, is a small cottage farm-house, a rude, rough stone building in a strange wild spot, a sort of break in the mountain-it is a striking picture, aided not a little in effect by the rushing sound of the water