The first is called Taplow, and
belongs to the Earl of Inchiquin; and a little farther Cliefden,
which also belongs to him.
These villas seem all to be surrounded with green meadows, lying
along thick woods, and, altogether, are most charming.
From this bridge it is not far to Maidenhead, near which, on the
left, is another prospect of a beautiful seat, belonging to
Pennyston Powney, Esq.
All this knowledge I have gained chiefly from my English guide;
which I have constantly in my hand; and in which everything most
worthy of notice in every mile is marked. These notices I get
confirmed or refuted by the people at whose houses I stop; who
wonder how I, who am a foreigner, have come to be so well acquainted
with their country.
Maidenhead is a place of little note; for some mulled ale, which I
desired them to make me, I was obliged to pay ninepence. I fancy
they did not take me to be either a great, or a very rich man, for I
heard them say, as I passed on, "A stout fellow!" This, though
perhaps not untrue, did not seem to sound in my ears as very
respectful.
At the end of the village was a shoemaker's shop, just as at the end
of Salthill there was a barber's shop.
From hence I went to Henley, which is eleven miles from Maidenhead,
and thirty-six from London.
Having walked pretty fast for six English miles together, and being
now only five miles from Henley, I came to a rising ground where
there just happened to be a milestone, near which I sat down, to
enjoy one of the most delightful prospects, the contemplation of
which I recommend to everyone who may ever happen to come to this
spot. Close before me rose a soft hill, full of green cornfields,
fenced with quick-hedges, and the top of it was encircled with a
wood.
At some little distance, in a large semicircle, one green hill rose
after another, all around me, gently raising themselves aloft from
the banks of the Thames, and on which woods, meadows, arable lands,
and villages were interspersed in the greatest and most beautiful
variety; whilst at their foot the Thames meandered, in most
picturesque windings, among villages, gentlemen's seats, and green
vales.
The banks of the Thames are everywhere beautiful, everywhere
charming; how delighted was I with the sight of it when, having lost
it for a short time, I suddenly and unexpectedly saw it again with
all its beautiful banks. In the vale below, flocks were feeding;
and from the hills I heard the sweet chimes of distant bells.
The circumstance that renders these English prospects so
enchantingly beautiful, is a concurrence and union of the tout
ensemble. Everything coincides and conspires to render them fine,
moving pictures. It is impossible to name, or find a spot, on which
the eye would not delight to dwell. Any of the least beautiful of
any of these views that I have seen in England would, anywhere in
Germany, be deemed a paradise.
Reinforced, as it were, by this gratifying prospect, to support
fresh fatigues, I now walked a quick pace, both up and down the
hills, the five remaining miles to Henley, where I arrived about
four in the afternoon.
To the left, just before I got to Henley, on this side of the
Thames, I saw on a hill a fine park and a magnificent country seat,
at present occupied by General Conway.
Just before my entrance into Henley, I walked a little directly on
the banks of the Thames; and sat myself down in the high grass,
whilst opposite to me, on the other side, lay the park on the hill.
As I was a little tired, I fell asleep, and when I awoke the last
rays of the setting sun just shone upon me.
Invigorated by this sweet, though short, slumber, I walked on and
entered the town. Its appearance, however, indicated that it was
too fine a place for me, and so I determined to stop at an inn on
the road-side, such a one as the Vicar of Wakefield well calls, "the
resort of indigence and frugality."
The worst of it was, no one, even in these places of refuge, would
take me in. Yet, on this road, I met two farmers, the first of whom
I asked whether he thought I could get a night's lodging at a house
which I saw at a distance, by the road side. "Yes, sir, I daresay
you may," he replied. But he was mistaken: when I came there, I
was accosted with that same harsh salutation, which though, alas, no
longer quite new to me, was still unpleasing to my ears; "We have
got no beds; you can't stay here to-night." It was the same at the
other inn on the road; I was therefore obliged to determine to walk
on as far as Nettlebed, which was five miles farther, where I
arrived rather late in the evening, when it was indeed quite dark.
Everything seemed to be all alive in this little village; there was
a party of militia soldiers who were dancing, singing, and making
merry. Immediately on my entrance into the village, the first house
that I saw, lying on my left, was an inn, from which, as usual in
England, a large beam extended across the street to the opposite
house, from which hung dangling an astonishing large sign, with the
name of the proprietor.
"May I stay here to-night?" I asked with eagerness. "Why, yes, you
may;" an answer which, however cold and surly, made me exceedingly
happy.
