ONE of the famous books of the last generation was that of _Dr. Syntax in Search of the Picturesque_. If the Doctor had extended his journey as far as Maldon, in Essex, he would have been well rewarded for his pains. Essex can boast of two towns set upon a hill. One is Colchester, the other is Maldon; but as regards picturesqueness, Maldon bears away the palm. Everywhere you have a fine view of the country—on one side the Chelmer reaching away to Chelmsford, on the other the Blackwater making its winding way to the German Ocean. At one time this Blackwater was a source of trouble, as by means of it the Danes used to sail up, as it were, into the very bowels of the land, murdering, and plundering, and ravishing, and pillaging everywhere. There is no fear of that now; it is a thing of the past. Said a friend of mine the other day, as we stood admiring the peaceful prospect lying at our feet, “from my bedroom window I can see eight churches,” and, strict Noncon. as he is, I fancy the sight is pleasanter to him than that of Danish pirates landing from their ships to carry terror and devastation all over the land. Maldon claims to be the oldest borough in Essex, and to have a history, if rather a dull one. Up to the time of the last Reform Bill it returned two members, and as a matter of fact, the candidate who bribed most freely was the winning man. Now-a-days it is only at an election that the passions of the people are aroused. There is a rector who preaches in an ancient church, there is a Congregational chapel, which I am told is in a flourishing condition; there are Baptists and Wesleyans, and all work together pleasantly excepting when an election ensues. Then the people are aroused, and bad passions come into play, and friends quarrel never to be friendly again, although the cynical observer might exclaim— Strange such difference there should be ’Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee.