ich is of considerable length and breadth; but the water
rises so high in it (except after a long continuance of dry weather has
sealed the land springs) that it is impossible to get to the end without
wading. An enormous quantity of richly-colored and decorated encaustic
tiles have been found here; some are preserved in our local museum. But
the most interesting remains in this place are the "stews," or fish-ponds,
which run parallel to each other like the bars of a gridiron; these ponds
do not communicate one with the other, nor has the water any outlet: a
little care and attention might make them valuable for their old purposes;
but they are deplorably neglected. Occasionally you see the fin of some
huge fish, whose slow movement partakes of the character of the stagnant
water he has inhabited for years;--who can tall how many?

[Illustration: "THE GOLDEN GROVE."]

"THE GOLDEN GROVE."

"The Abbey River," as it is still called, travels slowly along its way,
fertilizing the meadows and imparting life and freshness to the placid
scene. The denizens of Chertsey have planted orchards, and in a few
instances gardens on its banks. One, the garden of Mr. Herring, is a model
of neatness, almost concealed by its roses and carefully tended shrubs. We
wandered from orchard to orchard, amid the trees and over the uneven
ground; all was so still and lonely that it required the suggestions of an
active imagination to believe it had ever been the scene of contention by
flood and field. From the Abbey Bridge the richness of the meadow scenery
is exceedingly refreshing, the grass is deep and verdant, as it cannot
fail to be, lying so low, and fertilized by perpetual moisture.

During their wide-spreading magnificence, the abbots of Chertsey erected a
picturesque chapel on the lovely hill of St. Anne: this was done somewhat
about the year 1334. Orleton, Bishop of Winchester, granted an indulgence
of forty days to such persons as should repair to, and contribute to the
fabric and its ornaments.

There is nowhere a more delightful road, than that which leads from the
"Golden Grove," rendered picturesque by its old tree, the plantations of
Monksgrove on one side, and those of the once residence of Charles James
Fox on the other. The road is perfectly embowered, and so close is the
foliage that you have no idea of the beautiful view which awaits you,
until leaving the statesman's house to