A LONDONER'S love for London may be tested by his regard for the river. If he remark that he has seen rivers wider, and that he cannot discover any beauty " in all that rubbish," indicating the wharves and chimneys of the Surrey side, give him up; he is hopeless, and time will only be wasted on him. You might take him to at night, when the river is full to the brim, flooding up to the Embankment in great swirling pools, and the three-quarter moon hangs low in the sky, making a clear pathway of silver down the water; beyond which in the uncertain light the houses on the farther shore are transformed into shadowy castles. You might point out the spires and pinnacles -of the Houses of Parliament rising against an indigo sky, and the solemn yellow light of Big Ben hanging midway in air; you might show him the ripples of gold starting from the reflections of the lamps on the bridge, and lapping against the sides of the ebony barges, and he will turn away and light a cigarette and say, "It's a jolly night certainly."

For those who love the river there is ever something new, something wonderful, and for the first time disclosed, whenever they see her. They never noticed before just that point of view, or just that effect; the whole course of the river may be likened to a gorgeous picture-book, of which each leaf in turning displays itself in familiar outlines but with new colouring, a fairy book indeed.

The Mall on the north side was once a very fashionable place, where Catherine of Braganza came when a widow; and where a celebrated court physician lived in the days of Queen Anne. It is still desirable, and has some fine old houses and two elms of respectable antiquity. The river takes a great turn below Hammersmith, sweeping round on one side past Barn Elms, a favourite place for picnics in the days of the

Putney Bridge is, like , of white stone, with wide arches,-a fine bridge. At either end the square towers of the neighbouring churches stare at each other with a half-defiant, half-subdued expression, and on Sunday mornings, when the congregations are dispersing, there is a double stream of people coming and going, and not one passes without a look up or down the stretch of shining water. It may be merely a personal idiosyncrasy, but to the writer the atmosphere always seems to be clear at Putney, clear though soft. The lines of the wall embanking Bishop's Park stand out distinctly ; every rope and stick on the barges lying by the Putney side is clearly noticeable; even far up the river a boat with its rhythmic sweep of oars can be distinguished. There is a wide stretch of clear grey water, sometimes even blue in the summer sun; the air is fresh, clean, and invigorating, with no smoke hanging in it, and the wind blows free at Putney Bridge.

The green banks of Hurlingham come next and the gas-works and wharves of Wandsworth on the other side; it is a dull bit of water until we reach the dullest of

Just above Battersea Bridge, where the river makes a little bay, is a small house, sunk below the level of the ground and dingy in appearance. Here Turner came, under an assumed name, to revel in the sunsets and their reflections on the river. But the scene does not always show a smiling face at ; there are days when a thick haze obscures all but objects that are very near; when the river itself is flat and discoloured like a bad looking-glass, with scarcely a ripple on its oily surface; when the sun, a pale golden globe, shifts

The quaint old church with its brown brick tower --and white clock is a well-known object. The tower was built in the latter part of the seventeenth century, so Sir Thomas, who added a chapel to the building, would hardly know it again were he to return. The green trees of the gardens in Cheyne Walk hide the narrow Row where Carlyle lived. The high, light suspension bridge called Albert Bridge reminds us of that at Hammersmith. The long green line of Battersea Park is on the south, and the trees on the side rise above the solid granite, giving only glimpses of the charming houses of red brick in ancient style already toned by age that are behind them. At this part we may see in mid-stream a string of barges with burntsienna sails and hulls painted Noah's Ark greens and reds, laden perhaps with piles of hay, floating lazily, or it may be dragged by a fussy little black steam-tug, and so low in the water that the wash laps over at every yard. We used to see the pleasure-steamers with their cargoes of people making black their decks, but now these are no more a familiar sight. Bridge also is a suspension bridge, a fine piece of work, and as we near it we catch a glimpse of the old men's hospital standing back behind a long expanse of grass, and bearing in every line its date of the reigns of William and Anne. Scarlet-coated pensioners may linger to watch us pass, and the traffic of the 'buses flows unendingly across the bridge.

I have seen Reach bathed in the misty light of a summer evening, when the rough-hewn barges are softened by the opalescence of the atmosphere, and again on a baking day of midsummer, when everything is hard and staring. By the side of a hideous iron railing and glaring footway is a clay-coloured working-man, with his loose voluminous clothes lying on him in disorder, and the red handkerchief falling from his furrowed, sun-baked neck, sleeping a dead sleep of drink or exhaustion, and down below on the foreshore, uncovered by the receding tide, children paddle and bathe, shrieking with delight at the feeling of the slimy ooze, from which, so tradition goes, the lowest kind of margarine is made!

Water-works, gas-works, and chimneys line the next part of the river, and, pity that it is, the Embankment ceases, the road running inland not to emerge again, with the exception of a strip near Lambeth Bridge, until is passed. If the Embankment stretched along the whole of the river's length we should have a promenade unrivalled in Europe.

The less said of Lambeth Bridge the better. As we

The long range of the upper storey of Somerset House looks as if it were covered by hoar-frost; and a medley of smoke-coloured stone, red brick, and green leaves carries us onward to Blackfriars, where the London that most people know ceases, and the sternly work-a-day commercial line of wharves begins. Poor Thames Street, how hast thou fallen from the days when princes of the blood, royal dukes, and mighty men walked thy stones! From the days of palace and fortress and noble tower and turret! Thames Street can still show some beautiful peeps, -note that at Queenhithe, with St. Michael's spire behind,-but it is overweighted, crushed, by the huge monster of Cannon Street station, which lies behind Southwark Bridge.

With Southwark Bridge we are reminded of the London over the water, of which so far, since Lambeth, there has been little or nothing to say. Now we are passing Bankside, where stood some of the earliest theatres in London, also bear-baiting and bull-baiting gardens. The Southwark side was the resort of numbers of the citizens, who very commonly employed

Of all the reaches we have passed, the next, between London and the Tower Bridges, is the noblest; for, see them at what point of view we may, under any conditions, at any hour of the day, these two, the ancient Tower and the modern bridge are picturesque and satisfying to the eye of man. The great gateway of the bridge guarding the entrance to the river, the fortress that so long was stronghold, palace, and prison, each in its way is symbolic of the sovereignty of the great city.

Below the bridge we are in the Pool, which has been always a favourite subject with artists. Here are the colours of the river in abundance, her beautiful livery of olive-green and silver-grey, with its facings of russet and drab. Steamers and barges, boats and wharves are all alike clad in these tones, and all alike softened and refined by the atmosphere. Fussing steam tugs, clumsy leviathan dredgers, stupid slowmoving barges, busy industrious steamers, make a