The International Monthly Magazine | Page 5

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 the left, you pass through a
sort of wicket gate on the right, and follow a foot-path to where two
magnificent trees crown the hill; it is wisest to wait until passing along
the level ridge you arrive at the "view point," and there, spread around
you in such a panorama as England only can show, and show against
the world for its extreme richness. On the left is Cooper's Hill, which
Denham, that high-priest of "Local poetry," long ago made famous; in
the bend just where it meets the plain, you see the towers of Windsor
Castle; there is Harrow Hill, the sun shining brightly on its tall church;
a deep pall hovers over London, but you can see the dome of St. Paul's
looming through the mist; nay, we have heard of those who have told
the hour of the day upon its broad-faced clock, with the assistance of a
good glass. How beautifully the Thames winds! Ay! there is the grand
stand at Epsom, and there Twickenham, delicious, soft, balmy

Twickenham; and Richmond Hill--a very queen of beauty!
[Illustration: REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.]
REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.
Yonder, beyond the valley, are Foxes Hills crowned with lofty
pines--and that is the church at Staines, and as you turn, there again is
Cooper's Hill; Laleham seems spread as a tribute at your feet, and there
is no end to the villages and mansions--the parks, and cottages like
snow-drops in a parterre, and church spires more than we can number;
while close behind us are the stones piled thickly one on the other--the
only relics of the holy Chapel of St. Anne.
How grandly the promontory of St. George's Hill stands out--sheltering
Weybridge, and forming a beautiful back-ground to Byfleet and the
banks of the Way; not forgetting its ruins--a Roman encampment of
two thousand years age, and its modern ornaments of rare trees, of
which a generous nobleman has made common property, to be enjoyed
daily by all who choose. At the foot of this richly planted hill, is the
beautiful park of Oatlands--on the eve of becoming an assemblage of
villa-grounds. How pleasant to feel that we can account, by our own
knowledge of that glowing mount, for all the shades formed by the hills
and hollows, and different growths of trees in the depths or heights of
"the encampment," which forms the delight of many a toilsome
antiquary. Beyond are the more distant eminences of the North Downs,
and a tract of country extending into Kent. But we have not yet
explored the beauties of this our own hill of Chertsey; truly, to do so,
would take a day as long as that of its own black cherry fair.
A path to the left, among the fern and heather, leads to a well, famed
for its healing properties--it is called the Nun's Well; even now, the
peasants believe that its waters are a cure for diseases of the eye; the
path is steep and dangerous, and it is far pleasanter to walk round the
brow of the hill and overlook the dense wood which conceals the well,
fringing the meadows of Thorpe, than to seek its tangled hiding-place
in the dell. The monks of old would be sorely perplexed if they could
arise, to account for the long line of smoke which marks the passage of

the different trains along their railroads. But we turn from them to
enjoy a ramble round the brow of St. Anne's Hill; the coppice which
clothes the descent into the valley, is so thick, that though it is
intersected by many paths, you might lose yourself half-a-dozen times
within an hour; if it be evening, the nightingales in the thickets of
Monksgrove have commenced their chorus, and the town of Chertsey,
down below, is seen to its full extent, its church tower toned into
beauty by the rich light of the setting sun, while through the trees and
holly thickets you obtain glimpses of the Guildford and Leatherhead
hills, so softly blue, that they meet and mingle with the sky.
[Illustration: GATE OF FOX'S HOUSE.]
GATE OF FOX'S