A pleasant walk leads from the bridge along the bank of the river to Twyford--three miles distant--but I started in that direction through Southgate Street, which is part of the Southampton Road. After passing St. Cross and proceeding on for about a half-mile, I came to a bifurcation and a signpost, and took the lower road to the left, walking by grassy banks golden with fleabane. I crossed the Itchen, and soon a branch of that river--fringed with a line of wild foliage, purple willow-herb and hemp agrimony. Then I reached Twyford Lodge, the residence of Colonel Bates, and farther on took the right-hand turning to the church. It is modern except the window, but stands on a ring of prehistoric monoliths, preserving the old sanctity of the place. The graveyard is adorned with some magnificent coniferæ, specimens of the Wellingtonia, deodara, picea pinsapo, cypress, and cedar; but the pride of the whole is an immense yew-tree which rises in the centre in ancient majesty. It is of great girth, and withal as sound as a bell, and it is cut into the form of one--or, I might say, of Robinson Crusoe’s umbrella. Go beneath it and gaze up into its maze of branches--a wondrous sight! On leaving this shrubbery I turned round to the left, and, had I desired, I could have walked through “silken grass,” across a couple of fields, to the railway station, passing by the woods round Shawford Park (Sir Charles Frederick’s), and over the river, which is here divided into three parts.[105] But I sat down to rest upon a seat placed by some fairy godmother at the first bridge, and looked down into the Itchen, where the long green foliage was waving like the hair of water nymphs. Does not Tennyson speak of our life swaying “like those long mosses in the stream”? I seemed to be looking down into a clear agate and the liquid murmur was only broken at intervals by the jumping of a trout. Before me lay two elephantine blocks of stone, brought by some of our unknown predecessors. I amused myself with conjuring up pictures of the past, and thinking that here-- “Sage beneath the spreading oak, Sat the Druid hoary chief.” and while I fancied I could still hear his low chanting, my mind wandered off to reflect that this neighbourhood is sacred to a real modern “druid.” There was a celebrated school at Twyford and among its pupils was Pope. His satiric talent brought, as usual, disgrace, for he was sent away for writing a squib on the master, who had become a Roman Catholic. Returning to the church, I regained the high road, and immediately on my right saw a large red-brick house, which had an air of old-fashioned importance. I was anxious to find Shipley House, where Franklin, as a guest of Bishop Shipley, wrote his life. I could find no one to inquire from, but soon a labouring man came along, and I asked him if this was Shipley House. “No, sir,” he replied, “this is Twyford House. Shipley House is nearly a mile further on.” I was surprised to hear this.