Title: The Thames
Author: Mitton, G. E. (Geraldine Edith)
Language: English
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[Illustration: AT HAMPTON COURT]



  THE THAMES


  DESCRIBED BY G. E. MITTON
  PICTURED BY E. W. HASLEHUST


  BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
  LONDON AND GLASGOW



Beautiful England

  BATH AND WELLS
  CANTERBURY
  DARTMOOR
  DICKENS-LAND
  EXETER
  FOLKESTONE AND DOVER
  HAMPTON COURT
  HASTINGS AND NEIGHBOURHOOD
  NORWICH AND THE BROADS
  OXFORD
  THE PEAK DISTRICT
  RIPON AND HARROGATE
  SHAKESPEARE-LAND
  THE THAMES
  WINCHESTER
  YORK

London

  THE HEART OF LONDON
  THROUGH LONDON'S HIGHWAYS
  IN LONDON'S BY-WAYS
  RAMBLES IN GREATER LONDON


Beautiful Scotland

  EDINBURGH
  THE SCOTT COUNTRY
  LOCH LOMOND, LOCH KATRINE, AND THE TROSSACHS


Beautiful Switzerland

  CHAMONIX
  LAUSANNE
  VILLARS AND CHAMPERY


BLACKIE & SON LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, LONDON, AND 17 STANHOPE STREET GLASGOW

BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LTD. BOMBAY; BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LTD., TORONTO

_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  Facing Page

  At Hampton Court      _Frontispiece_

  Windsor                            5

  Richmond                          12

  Marlow Lock                       16

  Maidenhead Bridge                 21

  Cookham Church                    28

  Henley                            33

  Sonning                           37

  Pangbourne                        44

  Folly Bridge, Oxford              48

  Streatley Hills                   51

  Wallingford                       54



[Illustration: WINDSOR]



THE THAMES


When the American wondered what all the fuss was about, and "guessed" that
any one of his home rivers could swallow the Thames and never know it, the
Englishman replied, he "guessed" it depended at which end the process
began; if at the mouth, the American river would probably get no farther
than the "greatest city the world has ever known" before succumbing to
indigestion!

With rivers as with men, size is not an element in greatness, and for no
other reason than that it carries London on its banks the Thames would be
the most famous river in the world. It has other claims too, claims which
are here set forth with pen and pencil; for at present we are not dealing
with London at all, but with that river of pleasure of which Spenser
wrote:--

  Along the shores of silver-streaming Themmes;
  Whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes,
  Was paynted all with variable flowers,
  And all the meades adorned with dainty gemmes,
  Fit to deck mayden bowres and crowne their paramoures,
  Against the brydale day which is not long,
  Sweet Thames! runne softly till I end my song.

Oddly enough, this is one of the comparatively few allusions to the Thames
in literature, and there is no single striking ode in its honour. It is
perhaps too much to expect the present Poet Laureate to fill the gap, but
certainly the poet of the Thames has yet to arise.

Besides Spenser, Drayton makes allusion to the Thames in his _Polyolbion_,
using as an allegory the wedding of Thame and Isis, from which union is
born the Thames; and in this he is correct, for where Thame and Isis unite
at Dorchester there begins the Thames, and all that is usually counted
Thames, up to Oxford and beyond, is, as Oxford men correctly say, the
Isis. Yet by custom now the river which flows past Oxford is treated as
the Thames, and when we speak of our national river we count its source as
being in the Cotswold Hills.

Other poets who refer to the Thames are Denham, Cowley, Milton, and Pope.
In modern times Matthew Arnold's tender descriptions of the river about
and below Oxford have been many times quoted. Gray wrote an _Ode on a
Distant Prospect of Eton College_, in which he refers to the "hoary
Thames", but the lines apostrophizing the "little victims" at play are
more often quoted than those regarding the river.

The influence of the Thames on the countless sons of England who have
passed through Eton and Oxford must be incalculable. It is impossible to
mention Eton without thinking of Windsor, the one royal castle which
really impresses foreigners in England. Buckingham Palace is a palace in
name only, its ugly, stiff, stuccoed walls might belong to a gigantic box,
but Windsor, with its massive towers and its splendid situation, is castle
and palace both. Well may the German Emperor envy it! It carries in it
something of the character of that other William, the first of the Norman
Kings of England, who saw the possibilities of the situation, though
little of the castle as we see it is due to him. The mass of it is of the
time of Edward III, and much of it was altered in that worst era of taste,
the reign of George IV. Windsor has come scatheless out of the ordeal; the
fine masses of masonry already existing have carried off the alterations
in their own grandeur, and the result is harmonious.

Many and many a tale might be quoted of Windsor, but these are amply told
in _Windsor Castle_ by Edward Thomas, the volume which follows this in
the same series. Here we must be content with quoting only four lines from
_The Kingis Quhair_, the great poem of King James I of Scotland, who spent
part of his long captivity at Windsor. By reason of this poem James I
ranks as high among poets as among kings; in it he speaks of the Thames
as--

            A river pleasant to behold,
  Embroidered all with fresh flowers gay,
  Where, through the gravel, bright as any gold,
  The crystal water ran so clear and cold.

Windsor is the only royal palace, still used as such, which remains out of
the seven once standing on the banks of the Thames. Few people indeed
would be able to recite offhand the names of the others. They are all
below Windsor. The nearest to it is Hampton Court, chiefly associated with
William III, though it was originally founded by the tactless Wolsey, who
dared so to adorn it that it attracted the unenviable notice of Henry
VIII. Little was it to be wondered at, since the Court was described by
Skelton as--

  With turrettes and with toures,
  With halls and with boures,
  Stretching to the starres,
  With glass windows and barres;
  Hanginge about their walles,
  Clothes of gold and palles
  Fresh as floures in May.

Skelton also wrote a satire beginning:--

  Why come ye not to court?
        To whyche court?
  To the Kynge's Court
  Or Hampton Court?
  The Kynge's Court
  Should have the excellence,
  But Hampton Court
  Hath the pre-eminence
  And Yorkes Place,

which was like pouring vitriol into the mind of such a man as Henry. When
Wolsey entertained the French ambassadors at Hampton, "every chamber had a
bason and a ewer of silver, some gilt and some parcel gilt, and some two
great pots of silver, in like manner, and one pot at the least with wine
or beer, a bowl or goblet, and a silver pot to drink beer in; a silver
candlestick or two, with both white lights and yellow lights of three
sizes of wax; and a staff torch; a fine manchet, and a cheat loaf of
bread". No wonder the King's cupidity was aroused. It was not long before
the great Cardinal was forced to make a "voluntary" gift of his beloved
toy, as he had also to do with another noble mansion which he "made" by
Thames side--Whitehall, formerly known as York Place, because held by the
Archbishops of York. When Wolsey was told the King required this, he said
with truth: "I know that the King of his own nature is of a royal
stomach!"

On leaving Hampton the great prelate was allowed to go to the palace at
Richmond. One wonders if he rode from Hampton to Richmond, only a mile or
two by the river bank, on that "mule trapped altogether in crimson velvet
and gilt stirrups". Of the thousands who use that popular towpath does one
ever give a thought to the Cardinal thus setting his first step on his
tremendous downward descent?

It was while he was at Hampton that the news was brought to Henry of the
death of his old favourite at Leicester Abbey. Henry, standing in a
"nightgown of russet velvet furred with sables", heard the news callously,
and only demanded an account of some money paid to the cardinal before his
death; not a qualm disturbed his self-satisfaction. Such is the most
picturesque reminiscence of Hampton, and others must stand aside with a
mere reference; such events as the birth of Edward VI, which occurred
here; the "honeymoon" of bitter, loveless Mary and her Spanish husband;
the imprisonment of Charles I for three months. Melancholy ghosts these;
but they do not haunt the main part of the palace, for that was built
later by Wren, acting under orders from William III, to imitate
Versailles. This incongruity of style must have sorely puzzled the
much-tried architect, who has, however, succeeded admirably in his bizarre
task.

But of all the picturesque and romantic associations with palaces, those
connected with Richmond are the most interesting. Only a fragment of the
building now remains. After many vicissitudes, including destruction by
fire at the hands of Richard II--who, like a child rending a toy which has
hurt him, had it destroyed because the death of his wife occurred here--it
was rebuilt by Henry VII, the first to call it Richmond, whereas before it
had been Sheen. It is much associated with the eccentric and forceful
Tudors, who, whatever their faults, had plenty of ability, and of that
most valuable of all nature's gifts, originality. It is said that in a
room over the gateway took place the death of the miserable Countess of
Nottingham, who confessed at last that she had failed to give to Elizabeth
the ring which the Earl of Essex had sent to her in his extremity;
whereupon the miserable queen exclaimed: "May God forgive you, for I never
can". The unhappy Katherine of Aragon, and still more unhappy Queen Mary,
spent bitter days at Richmond.

How different is Kew, a palace in name only, a snug red-brick villa in
appearance, where the most homely of the Hanoverian kings played at being
a private gentleman! The other royal palaces--Westminster, Whitehall and
the Tower--belong to the London zone, a thing apart, just as London is now
itself a county, an entity, and not merely a city overflowing into
neighbouring counties.

Not only for its palaces is the Thames famous, the monks made excuse that
Friday's fish necessitated the vicinity of a river, but in reality they
knew better than their neighbours how to choose the most desirable
localities. Note any exceptionally beautiful situation, any celebrated
house, and ten times to one you will find its origin in a monastery. The
monasteries which dotted the shores of Thames were frequent and lordly. To
mention a few of the most important, we have Reading, Dorchester,
Chertsey, Abingdon, and an incomparable relic remaining in the magnificent
abbey church at Dorchester, with its "Jesse" window, which draws strangers
from all parts to see the tree of David arising from Jesse and culminating
in the Christ.

[Illustration: RICHMOND]

Nowadays many besides monks have discovered the desirability of a river
residence; too many, in fact, for a house with the lawn of that unrivalled
turf, smooth as velvet, bright as emerald, which grows only by Thames
side, commands a rent out of reach of all but the well-to-do. How
beautiful such river lawns may be can be judged only at the time when
the crimson rambler is in its glory, flinging its rose-red masses over
rustic supports, and finding an extraordinary counterblast of colour in
the striking vermilion of the geraniums which line the roofs of the
prettily painted houseboats anchored near. A houseboat is not exactly a
marvel either of comfort or cheapness, but as a joyous experience it is
worth the money. You see them lying up in lines by Molesey and Richmond
out of the season, dead lifeless things, with weather-stained paint and
tightly shut casements. How different are they in the summer, resplendent
in blue and white, lined by flowers and vivified by men in flannels and
girls in muslin frocks, with parasols like flowers themselves; then the
very houseboat seems alive.

Of all the notable houses which are passed in following "the
silver-winding" way of the Thames two cannot be overlooked, because, being
perched in lordly situations, they command great vistas of the river. The
first is Cliveden, standing high above the woods and facing down the river
to Maidenhead. The present house dates only from the middle of the
nineteenth century. It has had two predecessors, both destroyed by fire.
The first one was built by "Steenie", first Duke of Buckingham, Charles
I's favourite. His gay, arrogant life, which came to a fitting end by the
assassin's knife, was carried on at Cliveden with unbridled licence and
extravagance. His wardrobe for the journey to Spain with Charles, when
Prince of Wales, consisted of "twenty-seven rich suits, embroidered and
laced with silk and silver plushes, besides one rich satten incut velvet
suit, set all over, both suit and cloak, of diamonds, the value whereof is
thought to be about one thousand pounds". It was to Cliveden the duke
brought the Countess of Shrewsbury after he had killed her husband by
mortally wounding him in a duel, while she stood by disguised as a page
and held his horse.

There is nothing more curious than to discover how young were the
principal actors in the dramas of history. After a life full of action, of
intrigue, of excitement, the first Duke of Buckingham's career was ended
at the early age of thirty-six. He left a son and daughter, and another
son, Francis, was born shortly after. This boy is described as having been
singularly lovable and handsome. He fought gallantly for his King in the
civil wars, and was killed when only nineteen at Kingston-on-Thames,
thereby, giving us another riverside association. He stood with his back
against an oak tree, scorning to ask quarter from his enemies, and fell
covered with wounds.

It was an age of masques and dramas, and Buckingham was the patron of many
a poet. Ben Jonson's masques, performed in costumes designed by Inigo
Jones, were popular both with him and the King. In later days Cliveden was
the scene of another masque, _Alfred_, written by James Thomson, who was
staying in the house as a guest of Frederick, Prince of Wales, then the
lessee. This masque itself is long forgotten, but it contained "Rule,
Britannia!" the national song which thus first made the walls of Cliveden
echo, before it echoed round the Empire. The masque was performed at a
fête given in the garden, Aug. 1 and 2, 1740. Thomson's connection with
the Thames does not end here. It was at the Mall, Hammersmith, that he had
previously written _The Seasons_.

Enough has been said of Cliveden to show that not only in situation but in
interesting association it takes high rank among river mansions. The other
pronouncedly notable high-standing river mansion is Danesfield, above
Hurley, built of chalk, and reared upon the great chalk cliffs that here
line the river's flood. On the slopes near, in crocus time, the hills
shine purple and gold with blossom, resembling a royal carpet spread by
someone's lavish hand. The place derives its name from having been the
site of a Danish encampment.

But Cliveden and Danesfield do not exhaust the list of fine riverside
mansions, though, as they stand so high, they are more conspicuous than
most. One of the most delightful and desirable of all the old houses is
Bisham Abbey, not far from Marlow, picturesque in itself and redolent of
old associations. There is the Bisham ghost, which spreads itself across
the river in a thin, white mist which means death to those who try to
penetrate it. But the most touching and pitiful tale is of a certain Lady
Hoby, one of the family who held the mansion from the time of Edward VI to
1780. She is represented as wandering about in a never-ending purgatory,
wringing her hands and trying to cleanse them from indelible inkstains.
The story goes that she was condemned thus for her cruelty to her little
son, whom, perhaps in mistaken severity, she beat so much for failure to
write in his copybooks without blots that the poor child died. It was an
age of sternness toward children. We know how Lady Jane Grey suffered, and
thought herself "in hell" while with her parents. There were no Froebel
schools or Kindergartens then; and it may be the wretched mother was
trying to do her duty as she knew it. A curious confirmation of the story
was found in the discovery of a number of copybooks behind a shutter
during some repairs. The books were of the Tudor period and were deluged
in every line with blots!

[Illustration: MARLOW LOCK]

Several of the Hobys are buried in the pretty little church, near to which
the river laps the very edge of the churchyard. One monument is to two
brothers, Sir Philip and Sir Thomas Hoby, and the epitaph on the latter,
put up by his sorrowing widow, concludes with the lines:--

  Give me, oh God, a husband like unto Thomas,
  Or else restore me to my husband Thomas.

Like many another disconsolate widow she married again in a few years, so
she had presumably found someone who could rank with Thomas! Leland in his
_Itinerary_ mentions the Abbey as "a very pleasant delightsome place as
most in England", and, indeed, so it is, with its grey stone walls,
mullioned windows, and high tower rising amid the trees.

Bisham at one time belonged to the Knights Templars, and in 1388 the Earl
of Salisbury established here a monastery for Augustinian monks. It was
twice surrendered at the dissolution, and the prior, William Barlow, had
five daughters, who all married bishops! It seems that the worthy cleric
had readily taken advantage of the change which abolished celibacy for the
clergy!

Poor Anne of Cleves lived here in retirement, whilst her stepson was on
the throne, but she perhaps found the place too quiet after the fierce
excitement of being wife to such a monarch as Henry, because it was she
who exchanged it with the Hoby family, and went elsewhere. Edward VI seems
to have had a liking for sending his relatives here, for he next committed
his sister Elizabeth to the care of Sir Thomas, who seems to have treated
her well, though she was in fact a prisoner. That she appreciated the
beauty of the river scenery is shown by her revisiting the place when she
was queen. The great square hall is said with much probability to have
been the abbey church, and if so three Earls of Salisbury, the
"King-maker" Warwick, and the unhappy Edward Plantagenet, son of the Duke
of Clarence, lie beneath the stones. We have lingered a little about
Bisham, but few places are so well worth it.

Temple Lock, near by, recalls the Templars, and just above it is another
grand old house, Lady Place, also on the site of an abbey. Sir Richard
Lovelace, created Baron by Charles I, built here a magnificent mansion,
described by Macaulay in his usual rolling style, in his _History of
England_. The house, therefore, is younger than Bisham, but the abbey was
older, having been founded as far back as 1086. A part of the crypt
remains. Here in the dim depths was signed that document which changed the
whole course of English history, the invitation to William of Orange to
come over and take the throne. The chief conspirator was the second Baron
Lovelace, who thus repaid the Stuarts who had ennobled his father!

At Greenlands also, about three miles above Lady Place and Hurley as the
crow flies, but more by the winding river, we get another echo of the
Civil Wars. We are told that "for a little fort it was made very strong
for the King". It belonged at that time to Sir Cope D'Oyley, a stanch
Royalist, and when he died his eldest son followed in his steps, and held
out even when the Parliamentarians planted their cannon in the meadows
opposite and fired across the river. The marks of their balls are said to
be still visible on the old walls. Greenlands now belongs to the Hon. W.
F. D. Smith, heir to his mother, Viscountess Hambleden. An altogether
peculiar case in the peerage this! When the Right Hon. W. H. Smith, First
Lord of the Treasury, died, in October, 1891, he just missed the peerage
destined for him. A month later it was conferred upon his widow with
remainder to her son.

So much for a few of the interesting and romantic associations of the
river. But it is not thus the holiday crowds regard it. They seek no
meaning in place-names, no historical associations in the grand old
mansions passed; to them the river is a playground merely, where every
yard of a particular backwater is known, where a favourite boatman
reserves a special boat or punt, and where crowds of fellow creatures may
be sought or shunned as individual fancy prompts. We might paraphrase
Wordsworth and say:

  A place-name on the river's brim,
  A simple name it was to him,
          And it was nothing more.

One might wander from subject to subject while treating of the Thames,
finding in each matter enough for a book, indeed the variety of the
subjects rivals in scope that famous conversation which ranged "from
sealing-wax to Kings". Romance, history, boating, flowers, regattas, and
fish are but a few out of the vast number lying ready for choice, and
space is limited.

[Illustration: MAIDENHEAD BRIDGE]

The Thames swans are a feature to be by no means overlooked. They belong
to the Crown, the Vintners' and Dyers' Companies, and so ancient are the
rights of the companies in this matter that their origin is lost in the
mist of antiquity. The annual stock-taking and marking of the swans gives
occasion for a pleasant holiday every year about the middle of July; but
though the privileged members of the companies and their friends are no
longer conveyed in "gaily decorated barges", they no doubt enjoy their
excursion by steam launch just as much. "Swan-hopping", as it is usually
called, is really a corruption of "swan-upping", meaning the process of
taking up the swans to mark them according to their ownership. The
Vintners used to mark their swans with a large V across the mandible, but
this custom, having been protested against in the new spirit of tenderness
which has swept over the country, they now give two nicks only, one on
each side. The well-known tavern sign "The Swan with Two Necks" is really
a corruption of this much-used mark of identification, and should be "The
Swan with Two Nicks".

The King is by far the largest owner, and as he has discontinued the
custom of having a number of swans and cygnets taken for the royal table,
it is probable that swans will increase on the river very rapidly. The
swan has always been a royal bird, and in the time of Edward IV no one was
permitted to keep swans unless he had a freehold of at least five marks
annually. The order for the regulation of the Thames swans, in which this
clause appears, runs to thirty clauses, and is a very quaint document. One
sentence is as follows: "It is ordained that every owner that hath any
swans shall pay every year ... fourpence to the Master of the Game for
his fee, and his dinner and supper free on the Upping Days".

These regulations show that the institution of swans on the Thames is a
very ancient one, and the graceful, bad-tempered birds themselves add much
to the beauty of the river.

            The swan with arched neck
  Between her white wings mantling, proudly rows
  Her state with oary feet.
                                --_Milton._

To light upon another subject. There is in the boating alone enough to
occupy many volumes. We might start from the solid punt, furnished with
chairs, and shoved out into midstream by three sober snuff-coloured
gentlemen; there anchored by its own poles, while the three sit on their
chairs in midstream, regardless of the obstruction they form to quicker
nimbler mortals, fishing, or rather holding rods, as immovable as
themselves, the livelong day. The punt plays such a small part in the
whole proceeding, it might well fall outside the boating classification
altogether--a mud island would do as well. It has not even the dignity of
a ferry boat. From here, through all varieties of broad-beamed,
blunt-nosed family boats, to the long slender racing skiffs or the canoe
light as a dragon-fly on the wing, we could run the gamut in the Book of
the Boat.

The distance between Hammersmith Bridge and Folly Bridge, Oxford, is 103
miles, and the extent and variety of boating on this stretch, to go no
lower, is unequalled on any other river in England. The first weir is to
be found below Richmond, and the first lock at Teddington. In 1578 there
were 23 locks, 16 mills, 16 floodgates, and 7 weirs on the river between
Maidenhead and Oxford. Thirty more locks and weirs were added in the next
six years. When we find that "the locks were machines of wood placed
across the river, and so contrived to hold the water as long as
convenient, that is, till the water rises to such a height as to allow of
depth enough for the barge to pass over the shallows", we are not
surprised to learn that exception was taken to the building of more locks,
because so many people had been drowned! The barges were not charged for
going up, but only for coming down, which seems a little unreasonable when
we realize that "the going up of the locks was so steep that every year
cables had been broken that cost £400".

It is curious how easily the river may be divided into "zones", each with
its usual habitués quite distinct from those of other zones. Taking it
generally, it may be said that the farther from London the more exclusive
is the crowd, and this is perhaps because a very large number of Thames
lovers live in London, and the accessibility and expense of the outing
tend to thin out the number as the distance lengthens. The influence of
London is felt all the way to Hampton, linked up as it now is by trams
with the metropolis. Putney and Hammersmith are part of London; Chiswick
and Brentford run on continuously, and are only excluded by an arbitrary
line. Kew and Richmond and Hampton are the favourite playgrounds of the
Londoner, and may be reckoned as much among the "sights" as the Tower or
the Zoo.

The river between Putney and Barnes is associated with the greatest event
of the boating year, the University Boat Race. It is the day of the year
to many a quiet country clergyman, who comes up from his rural parish for
the great event, even if it takes place at some impossible hour in the
early morning. The hour varies according to the tide, for the race is
rowed at its height, and, in spite of inconvenience or discomfort, there
is always a company of enthusiasts to line the banks. On a really
favourable day, when the chances are even, the route about Mortlake is
alive with people on both sides of the river. Every vantage point is
occupied, and trains arriving slowly on the railway bridge deposit their
freights and withdraw every few minutes. Carts are drawn up on the
roadway, and filled with people, happy to get a seat at a reasonable
price, while the meadows on the northern shore afford room for hundreds.

The launch of the Thames conservators comes to clear the course, hustling
aside the small steamers and boats. A murmur begins and grows in intensity
until the rival boats are seen rounding the corner from Hammersmith. There
is a moment of intense anxiety until the rival crews are distinguished,
and then a roar goes up from impulsive partisans. Close behind the boats
comes the umpire's launch, and half a dozen others, including press boats.
The crew which gets first under Barnes railway bridge is generally
considered to have the race in hand, but if the two boats are close this
is by no means sure. The crowd prefers the slice of river between
Hammersmith and Barnes Bridge, because from first to last so much can be
seen of the race, but the curve hides the winning-post. Some few moments
after the disappearance of the boats a rumour as to the winner comes
swiftly back; but it is not till the umpire's launch returns, and glides
smoothly down the course with the flag of the victors streaming out
gallantly, that the result is known with certainty.

The next zone, including Sunbury, Walton, Weybridge, right on to Windsor,
is a quiet one. It has its own charm, but lacks any exceptional features
of striking interest. Placid green meadows, feathery willows, peaceful
cows, and sunny little unpretentious houses are the chief components of
almost every view. Weybridge is perhaps the prettiest place, because of
the many turnings and windings of the river near it, but Penton Hook,
Laleham, Shepperton, and Walton can all claim a quiet prettiness of their
own.

Windsor stands by itself, and the influence of Eton is paramount. Then
from Bray right on to Marlow we get what must be by far the most popular
bit of the whole river.

Bray itself is particularly pleasant, and is associated for all time with
the worthy vicar, who was content to turn his coat at the bidding of the
party in power sooner than lose his beloved parish. The original vicar
lived in the reigns of Henry VIII and his immediate successor, and his
mental somersaults were from the Catholic to Reformed Church, and back
once more; but the ballad makes him live in the days of Charles II, James
II, William, Anne, and George I, a period of over fifty years. As it is
rather difficult to get hold of, we may quote part of it here. It runs
through all the variations from--

  In good King Charles's golden days,
  When loyalty no harm meant,
  A zealous High Churchman was I,
  And so I got preferment.
  To teach my flock I never missed,
  Kings were by God appointed,
  And damn'd are those that do resist
  Or touch the Lord's anointed.

  When royal James obtained the crown
  And Popery came in fashion,
  The Penal laws I hooted down
  And read the Declaration.
  The Church of Rome I found would fit
  Full well my constitution,
  And had become a Jesuit
  But for the Revolution.

      *       *       *       *

  When George in pudding-time came o'er,
  And moderate men looked big, sir,
  I turned a cat-in-a-pan once more
  And so became a whig, sir.
  And thus preferment I secured
  From our new faith's defender,
  And almost every day abjured
  The Pope and the Pretender.

      *       *       *       *

  For this is law I will maintain
  Until my dying day, sir.
  Whatever king in England reign
  I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir.

Maidenhead bridges, rail and road, span the river above Bray. Maidenhead
is easily accessible by the Great Western Railway main line, and, with
Taplow, which comes down to the river on the opposite bank, counts its
devotees in thousands. Taplow village is a little distance away, but
Skindle's Hotel on that side counts largely in itself as representing
Taplow. Not even the sacred Ganges itself could show a crowd more ardent
or more gaily clad than this stretch of the river on a fine summer day.
The rich ochres and purples of the East are outshone by the soft
brilliancy of blues and pinks, the rose-reds and yellows of the gayer sex
both in their garments and sunshades. And if the great day, the Sunday
after Ascot, be in any way tolerable, Boulter's Lock, all the more sought
apparently because of its congestion, is a sight indeed. People come in
crowds to stand on the banks and view it as a show.

But all the year round, even in winter, a few visitors may be found in the
reach above Boulter's, under the magnificent amphitheatre-like sweeps of
the Cliveden woods. The cliff itself rises to a height of 140 feet and is
clothed to the very summit. Oak, beech, ash, and chestnut show up against
clumps of dark evergreen. The bosky masses are broken here and there by a
Lombardy poplar pointing upward, and the whole is wreathed and swathed in
shawls of the wild clematis, the woodbine of the older poets, otherwise
traveller's joy. Beyond the Cliveden reach is Cookham, beloved of many,
with its pretty little church tower peeping over the trees, and opposite
is Bourne End, near which is a wide, open reach used as a course for
sailing boats. The only woods that can rival those of Cliveden are the
Quarry Woods, opposite Great Marlow, and they lose in effect from not
coming right down to the water but sweeping away inland. The Quarry Woods
are largely beech and evergreen, and in the autumn the stems, owing to the
damp atmosphere, are covered with a vivid green lichen, the thick leaves,
turning the burnt red colour peculiar to beeches, not only shine overhead,
but make a rich carpet for the ground. Then the woods might well be the
enchanted woods of a child's fairy tale, so glorious is their aspect.
Between Marlow and Henley, as we have seen, most of the ancient historical
associations cluster; within that short space are Bisham, Lady Place,
Medmenham, and Greenlands, and the reach of the river is quite pretty
enough to tempt people without the added glamour.

[Illustration: COOKHAM CHURCH]

Medmenham Abbey is now a carefully composed ruin, with a most
attractive-looking cloister close to the river. So well has art aped
reality, that it is regarded with much more reverence than many genuinely
old buildings which make less display. It is at present a private house,
but began its career in the orthodox way as an abbey, being founded about
1200 for Cistercian monks. Few of the thirteenth-century stones can now
remain, unless it be as foundations.

A weird and ghostly flavour was imparted to the place by its being chosen
as headquarters by the roistering crew of the eighteenth century who
called themselves "The Hell-Fire Club", and professed to worship Satan.
The leader of the revellers was Sir Francis Dashwood, who succeeded his
uncle in the title of Baron le Despencer in 1763. The club motto was _Fay
ce que voudras_, and each member tried to outdo the rest in eccentricity.
Though they gloried in their wild doings and set afloat many tales which
made quieter folk catch their breath in horror, it is probable that, apart
from open blasphemy, their proceedings were more foolish than horrible.
Once, as a joke, someone sent an ape down the chimney while they were
gathered together, and the frightened gibbering creature, soot-begrimed,
was mistaken by the terror-stricken revellers for Satan himself.

Not far off is the old Abbey Hotel, beloved of artists, and farther on up
the green lane is a curious old house which once belonged to Sir John
Borlase, friend of King Charles II, who was visited here by His Majesty on
horseback, often accompanied, so tradition goes, by Nelly Gwynne.

Henley, of course, boasts the regatta of the Thames; other regattas there
are in plenty, but none can compare with Henley in importance. Its heats
are telegraphed abroad, and as a sporting event it ranks only second to
the boat race. The regatta is held the first week in July. The course is
lined by booms, within the shelter of which every variety of craft is seen
wedged together so tightly as to make upsetting a sheer impossibility.
Punts worked with canoe paddles are perhaps the most popular, but skiffs
and frail Canadian canoes, as well as the solid hired craft of the boat
builders may be seen. Gondolas regularly make their appearance, and seem
to vanish in between from year to year. It used to be fashionable to wear
simple muslins and straws at Henley, but year by year fashion has screwed
up things to a higher pitch, until nowadays gowns which, in their
elaborate affectation of simplicity, would not disgrace Ascot itself, are
to be seen everywhere, especially on the lawns of the clubs which run down
to the water behind the waiting craft. The scene is a gay one, and for
days before every available room is taken, every available boat hired. The
Red Lion--and Henley would hardly be Henley without the Red Lion--could be
filled several times over. It was of this inn Shenstone wrote:--

  Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
  Whate'er his stages may have been,
  May sigh to think he still has found
  The warmest welcome at an inn.

The whole poem, of which this is a verse, was written on a window of the
inn, and though the window was broken the relic is preserved. Charles I
stayed at the Red Lion in 1632, on his way from London to Oxford, and a
large fresco painting of the Royal Arms, done in commemoration of this
visit, was discovered over a fireplace during alterations. Doubtless it
had been purposely hidden in the days when Henley was hotly
Parliamentarian and striving vainly to subdue poor little Greenlands.

Owing to its position as a sort of halfway house between London and
Oxford, Henley enjoys a good deal of society. The great Duke of
Marlborough actually furnished a room at the inn that he might frequently
occupy it. It is at Henley that the daily steamer stops when running
between Kingston and Oxford in the summer months.

Between Henley and Sonning lies the most intricate part of the river bed,
and here are the most bewitching reaches. The numerous islets, the
backwaters and sheltered nooks, make it a favourite part with boating men.

Wargrave backwater, indeed, is the most famous on the river, and is in
summer simply a fairyland of greenery. The entrance, behind a
willow-covered island, conveys something of mystery, and as one floats
gently along a waterway so narrow that one could almost touch the banks
on either side, with the sun showering down between the meshes of the
delicate veil of leaves, one might be sailing into the palace where lies
the sleeping princess. Fiddler's Bridge is so low that it is necessary to
lie down full length in the boat in passing under it, and two boats
meeting must certainly make some arrangement for mutual safety, even if it
be not exactly that of the goats in the fable.

[Illustration: HENLEY]

Wargrave itself might be taken as a typical Thames-side village. Here we
have collected together many of the features to be found singly in other
river villages, notably the weather-worn look about the small irregular
houses, probably due to the damp atmosphere, and, though not exactly an
attraction from the house-hunter's point of view, yet a most desirable
feature in the eyes of artists. No crudity can long exist by Thames side;
with gentle fingers the soft atmosphere caresses the hard red brick and
adds a touch of lichen here and there, and straightway the wall becomes a
thing of beauty. Added to this, this same atmosphere, aided by the rich
soil, possibly at one time part of the river bed, produces creepers in
profusion in every nook and corner; and those asperities which will not
yield to gentler methods are veiled by climbing clematis, by masses of
wistaria, or by the stretching withy branches of rose bushes. The result
is a sweet vista of glory in flower-time, a glory out of which peep
casement windows, gable ends, and irregular angles. Roses and sweetbrier,
purple clematis and starry jasmine, tall garden plants, and delicate
overhanging mauve blooms of wistaria, looking like rare coloured bunches
of grapes, mingle with or succeed one another from spring to autumn. The
prolific growth in Thames village gardens is one source of beauty to the
river. In autumn no strip of a few square yards but has its tall
hollyhocks, its royal sunflowers, and, in gay carpets, its scented stocks.
The gardens of the lock-keepers, often situated on small islands, are
among the gayest on the river; a prize is offered every year for the best
of them, a prize which, I believe, Goring has carried off frequently.
Matthew Arnold must have had some of these cottage gardens in his mind,
when he wrote:

  Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
  Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
  Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell,
  And stocks in fragrant blow;
  Roses, that down the alleys shine afar,
  And open jasmine-muffled lattices.

Besides its flowers and its general architecture, Wargrave has other
claims to rank as a typical Thames-side village. The old inn, The George,
whose lawn runs down to the water, is just the kind of hostelry one
expects to find. Its signboard, indeed, was painted by two R.A.s, a fact
eloquent of the kind of "wild-fowl" which forgathers at Wargrave. This
unique sign is preserved indoors, while an understudy swings out over the
village street.

Wargrave church, too, is no whit behind expectation. It is of flint, as
are the most part of the Thames-side churches, and has a square tower with
pinnacles, half ivycovered; so it acts up to all that is required of it.
Thomas Day, the author of _Sandford and Merton_, which so delighted the
last generation of children, is buried in the church; he was killed by a
fall from his horse. To add to the list of its self-respecting virtues,
the tower of Wargrave church can be seen from the river, peeping out from
among the tall trees that surround it.

Above Wargrave is Shiplake, between which and Sonning is the curious
channel known as the Loddon and St. Patrick's stream. These two, making a
loop by which the lock may be avoided, are tempting to boatmen, for
nowhere else on the river may such a feat be performed. Yet if the boatman
try the passage up-stream it is likely he will regret it and wish he had
favoured the lock, with all its bother and its unwelcome toll instead; for
St. Patrick's Stream has a swift current.

Of Sonning who can write with sufficient inspiration? The wonderful old
red-brick bridge has drawn artists by the score, whereupon they have drawn
it in retaliation! The hotel rose garden, famous for the variety and
beauty of the blooms, is an attraction only second, and the hotel itself
is second to none on the river.

The mills on the Thames might well have a book to themselves; they are so
ancient and so picturesque. Several, including the one at Sonning, are
actually mentioned in _Domesday Book_. They are more ancient in their
establishment even than the records of the monasteries, and so can claim
to be the oldest things on the river, though some of the bridges might run
them close. In the hot summer days the backwater of a mill is a place
beloved of many. There, beneath the shelter of a broad-leaved
horse-chestnut, so thick and rich of growth it makes the water almost
black, one may lie in still content, hearing the splash of the falling
water, and perhaps seeing it dashing from the mighty flaps of the wheel in
glittering cascades. The very sight helps to keep one cool.

[Illustration: SONNING]

Of bridges, too, much might be said, and yet records are hard to find.
Sonning bridge must rank high in age, as also that at Abingdon, of which
we read:

  King Herry the Fyft in his fourthe yere,
  He hath i-founde for his folke a brige in Berkschire
  For cartes with cariage may go and come clere,
  That many wynters afore were mareed in the myre.
  Culham hythe hath caused many a curse,
  I-blessed be our helpers we have a better waye,
  Without any peny for cart or for horse.
                                --_Geoffrey Barbour._

The building of bridges was in old days considered an act of charity, in
the same way as the founding of almshouses and "hospitals". People left
bequests with this object.

Between Reading and Wallingford are two other noted beauty bits, which
could not be omitted in any book on the Thames, however limited the space.
Mapledurham, with its beautiful little church, its fine old Elizabethan
house near by, and its most delightful mill, is visited by everyone who
can make the pilgrimage. It is, however, rather spoilt by the near
neighbourhood of Reading, which is the only town which can be called such,
in the real "towny" sense, between London and Oxford. Yet Reading is not
exactly on the riverside, but has a river suburb at Caversham. Henley,
Wallingford, Abingdon, and the rest are so thoroughly in accordance with
the spirit of the river, so charming in themselves, and above all so
comparatively limited in extent, they add to rather than detract from the
Thames scenery. Reading, in spite of its undoubted features of interest,
in spite of its ancient history, is still a manufacturing town, and as
such spreads around an atmosphere which is uncongenial to true Thames
lovers, who regard it as a blot.

The abbot of Reading was mitred, and ruled with a powerful hand; indeed,
the abbey over which he held sway was third in England, and had the
privilege of coining, a royal prerogative. Adela, second queen of King
Henry I, is buried here, also his daughter the Empress Maude. When the
Dissolution came, the abbot in office, Hugh Farringford, thirty-first of
his line, nourished on the proud traditions of his predecessors, refused
to yield to Henry VIII, and was in consequence hanged, drawn, and
quartered in front of his own gate.

There was a castle in Reading as well as an abbey, though the only
reminiscence of it left is in the name of Castle Street. From the time of
the Danes the castle played its part in history; in the Civil Wars it was
at first a stronghold for the King and later for the Parliamentarians. St.
Giles's Church still bears the marks of the artillery from which it
suffered. Archbishop Laud was born at Reading and educated at the Free
School there. At present, as everyone knows, Reading is renowned for its
biscuits and seeds.

Farther up we have a repetition of twin villages, linked by a bridge,
veritable Siamese twins, a fact which is interesting and curious.
Pangbourne and Whitchurch dwell in the same sort of amicable rivalry as do
Streatley and Goring. They may be at war between themselves but they hold
together against the world.

Streatley certainly cannot fail to yield the palm to Goring for beauty.
For Goring is considered by many critics to be the very prettiest village
on the river, a claim which its quaint main street, falling down the
hillside to the river at right angles, does much to establish. But the
surroundings of Streatley, the splendid sweep of heights, which back it
up, cannot be rivalled by Goring. The road running through both crosses
the river, and it is ancient in very truth. It was used by the Romans and
formed part of the famous Icknield Way, but was made long before their
time. For generations before history begins bands of furtive men, ready
for surprise, and as suspicious as wild animals, must have padded on bare
feet down one line of hills, across the river ford, and mounted the
heights again, keenly scanning the country for possible enemies. No neat
creeper-covered red brick cottages then, no church even, though Goring
church is very old, dating back to Norman times, and having been the
church of an Augustinian priory. No mills even, not the most primitive,
and though neither village can be accused of ruining its beauty in a
frantic search after modernism--the mill at Goring, in spite of its mossy
roof, gleaming green and russet, frequented by the flocks of white
pigeons, has adopted an electric generating station! From the
electric-power methods to the Ancient Britons is indeed a far cry!

Pangbourne and Whitchurch, taken as a couple, cannot vie with Goring and
Streatley; though Pangbourne is pretty enough, and the river near it is
island-broken, and particularly attractive. The reach succeeding Goring
and Streatley is dull right up to Wallingford. In some points Wallingford
and Abingdon may claim brotherhood, they are of the same size and about
them hangs the same atmosphere, but the river at Abingdon is incomparably
more interesting. Of Wallingford something more must be said in the
historical reminiscences, and for the time we may leave it, and, skipping
Dorchester, already mentioned, and Sutton-Courtney, another beauty spot,
with an incomparable "pool", go on to Abingdon.

Of the bridge we have already spoken--there it stands, Burford Bridge, old
and irregular, with straggling arches, some round, some pointed. The
bridge is long and rests partly on an island on which is built the Nag's
Head Inn, whose garden occupies the island. The abbey buildings, still
partly standing, founded by Cissa in 675, is one of the most interesting
features of the town. The long range of wall, and the mighty exterior
chimney, probably built about the fourteenth century, show up in season
amid masses of horse-chestnut blossom, for which the town is famous. Henry
I, the learned Beauclerc, was here educated from his twelfth year.

Christ's Hospital, as it is called, with a hall dating from 1400, is one
of the sights of Abingdon, and the day to see it is that on which eighty
loaves of bread are distributed to the poor people of the town. This
occurs once a week.

With Abingdon we get within range of Oxford, and what remains is
distinctly in the Oxford zone, just as all the river below Hampton is
London in character. The famous Oxford meadows, with their range of wild
flowers, rival the Swiss meadows.

The profusion of flowers in the riverside gardens has already been noted,
but these differ little, except in richness of growth, from those usually
found in cottage gardens. More interesting to those studying the Thames as
a theme are the flowers growing wild along the banks, which are native to
the river. Among these may be reckoned the purple loosestrife, with its
tapering gaily coloured spikes standing often four feet high, and at times
mistaken for a foxglove; also the pink-flowering willow-herb, the wild
mustard with its raw tone of yellow, the buckbean growing in low-lying
stagnant places, and the tall yellow iris, clear-cut and soldierly, with
its broad-bladed leaves rustling along the margin of the banks. Not less
beautiful are the burr-reeds and flowering rushes, the marsh-mallows and
the cuckoo-flowers, found in many parts of the river; but the growth of
wild flowers, including these and others, is richest of all in the meadows
below Oxford. Here the fritillaries are especially noted:--

  I know what white, what purple fritillaries,
  The grassy harvest of the river fields
  Above by Ensham, down by Sandford yields.
                                --_Matthew Arnold._

Also the yellow iris, the cuckoo flower, the water villarsia, the purple
orchis, the willow-weed, and many another are here seen in full
perfection. The Nuneham woods rank with the Oxford meadows as an
attraction, and the inn at Sandford still holds its own, though
overshadowed by a paper mill.

There is one glorious gem by the river which is in a category by itself,
and is unapproached by rivals; this is the small church of Iffley. Its
architecture is not pure, but its claim to date from Norman times is
undisputed. No one passing along the meadows should fail to stop at Iffley
and see some genuine Norman mouldings and massive architecture.

After this we come to Oxford and may stand on Folly Bridge, and as we
watch the water flowing swiftly beneath our feet may run with it in
imagination past all the beauties and all the places of interest already
described, on by cool meadows and overshadowing trees until it meets the
flooding uptide below Richmond and mingling with it in the ebb is lost in
the "town" water of Brentford and Hammersmith, and so plunges into the
thick grey flood by London, and on by wharves and docks until--

  Stately prows are rising and bowing,
  Shouts of mariners winnow the air,
  And level banks for sands endowing
  The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.
                                --_Jean Ingelow._

No river in the world can show so wonderful a gallery of great names, or
so noted a collection of world's men, in connection with it. Perhaps the
two names which arise at once to everyone's mind are those of Pope and
Walpole, who lived so near one another at Twickenham. Pope was at
Twickenham from 1719-44, and produced here his most famous works,
including the last books of the _Odyssey_, the _Dunciad_, and the _Essay
on Man_, but he is not by these remembered on the river, his claim to
notice is that he made a curious underground grotto, of which he wrote:--

    From the River Thames you see through my arch up a walk of the
    wilderness to a kind of open temple, wholly composed of shells in the
    rustic manner, and from that distance under the temple, you look down
    through a sloping arcade of trees, and see the sails on the river,
    passing suddenly and vanishing as through a perspective glass. When
    you shut the doors of this grotto it becomes on the instant from a
    luminous room a camera obscura, on the walls of which all objects of
    the river, hills, woods, and boats, are forming a moving picture in
    their visible radiation.

Pope had known the river from his birth. His parents lived at Binfield,
about nine miles from Windsor. Part of Windsor Forest is still called
Pope's Wood, and his poem on Windsor Forest must contain some of his
earliest impressions. He was two years at Chiswick, after leaving
Binfield, and then bought the house at Twickenham with which his name is
chiefly associated. Long before this, however, he had been a popular
visitor at Mapledurham, where the glorious old Elizabethan mansion near
the church still shelters Blounts as it did in his day and long before.
Two pretty daughters of the house, described by Gay as--

  The fair-hair'd Martha and Teresa brown,

competed for the honour of Pope's attentions, even though he was "a little
miserable object, so weak that he could not hold himself upright
without stays, so sickly that his whole life was a continued illness"; his
genius, early recognized, concealed by its blaze such trifles. His poems
in many places keep alive the sisters' names, and in the Mapledurham MS
Collection much of his correspondence is preserved. There does not seem to
have been any question of his marriage with either of the girls, and it is
doubtful if his connection with them was altogether for their good; but at
any rate it has added lustre to the family records. Teresa once assured
him, he tells us, "that but for some whims of that kind (propriety) she
would go a-raking with me in man's clothes".

[Illustration: PANGBOURNE]

One detail of Pope's garden is so peculiarly associated with the river
that it must be mentioned. It is said that the weeping willow grown by him
was the parent of all the weeping willows in England, and if so many a
Thames vista owes an added touch of beauty to him.

Pope's grotto has taken so much hold on the popular imagination that it
ranks only second to his hideous and grotesque villa by the riverside,
which was recently occupied by Henry Labouchere, M.P. The real interest of
the place lies in the literary coteries which met in the house, including
such men as Swift and Gay, who helped by suggestions and designs during
the building of the famous Marble Hill for the Countess of Suffolk, friend
of George II. Gay in particular was a _persona grata_ with the countess,
and occupied a special suite of rooms set aside for him at Marble Hill.

It was three years after Pope's death that Walpole came to the
neighbourhood; he had the mania for fantastic building effects even more
strongly than the poet. Pope had made his villa peculiar enough in all
conscience, but Walpole's so-called Gothic in the rebuilding of Strawberry
Hill was a medley of every sort of architectural effect which could
conceivably be classed under that heading. "Not to mention minute
discordances, there are several parts of Strawberry Hill which belong to
the religious, and others to the castellated, form of Gothic
architecture." Walpole solemnly boasted that his "house will give a lesson
in taste to all who visit it". It might have done so, but not exactly in
the way he intended. He made the place a perfect museum, and it became the
fashion to visit Strawberry Hill. The Earl of Bath was so enchanted with
it that he wrote a ballad, which, in its own kind, might well take rank
with the architectural effort which inspired it. Every verse ended:

  But Strawberry Hill, but Strawberry Hill
      Must bear away the palm.

Walpole wrote of the place, soon after he had acquired it: "Two delightful
roads, which you would call dusty, supply me continually with coaches and
chaises, barges as solemn as barons of the exchequer move under my window.
Richmond Hill and Ham walks round my prospect; but, thank God! the Thames
is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry!"

He used to term the mansion his "paper house" because, the walls being
very slight, and the roof not very secure, in the heavy rains it was apt
to leak, "but," adds an enthusiastic writer of his own time, "in viewing
the apartments, particularly the magnificent gallery, all such ideas
vanished in admiration".

After his first visit to Paris, Walpole never wore a hat, and used to go
out walking over his soaking lawns in thin slippers. He sat much in the
breakfast-room, which gave a view toward the Thames, and his constant
companion was an inordinately fat little dog. He wrote the _Castle of
Otranto_ in eight days, or rather eight nights, for he says his "general
hours of composition are from ten o'clock at night till two in the
morning".

The squirrels at Strawberry Hill were a great feature; regularly after
breakfast Walpole used to mix a large basin of bread-and-milk and throw it
out to them. He was very fond of animals, he even used to cut up bread
and spread it on the dining-room mantelpiece, thus drawing a number of
expectant mice from their holes!

It troubled him greatly when he became Earl of Orford, at the advanced age
of seventy-four, on the death of his nephew. He could not see why, sitting
at home in his own room, he should be called by a new name!

The most notable fact connected with Strawberry Hill was the
printing-press Walpole there established, from which he issued many of his
own, and some of his friend, the poet Gray's, works.

Henry Fielding came to Twickenham, having first married, as his second
choice, his late wife's maid. He was only here about a year. Sir Godfrey
Kneller, too, was a resident; and Turner, having built here a summer
resort, and called it Sandycombe Lodge, used it from 1814-26. So that, all
things considered, Twickenham may boast a considerable galaxy of stars.

[Illustration: FOLLY BRIDGE, OXFORD]

Though the names of Pope and Walpole are best known from their long
association with the river, by far the noblest name that Thames can boast
is that of Milton. It was as a young man, fresh from the University, that
he came to live for five years with his parents at Horton, near Wraysbury.
Horton is not exactly on the river, but it is very near, and the
influence of the scenery must have been strong on the delicate youth
nicknamed "the lady", whose genius was already blossoming. He walked far
and wide over the rich, well-watered land, down to the river's banks with
its overhanging trees. In many of his stately poems little word pictures,
reminiscences of these quiet days, are found:

          By the rushy-fringed bank
  Where grows the willow and the osier dank.
                                --_Comus._

  Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
  Of shades and wanton winds and gushing brooks.
                                --_Lycidas._

The house in which Milton lived has vanished, in fact the only one of his
many residences remaining is that at Chalfont St. Giles, Bucks. But the
pretty little church at Horton, close by which the house was situated,
still stands. The poet's only sister was married, his younger brother an
occasional visitor, and, as his father was well on in years, the life must
have been singularly quiet. Milton was only in his twenty-fourth year when
he left the University, but already his poems had shown the bent of his
mind. He was at Horton from 1632-38, and he himself says he spent there "a
complete holiday in turning over the Greek and Latin writers". Hardly the
kind of holiday that would commend itself to the Etonians not so many
miles off. Yet this "holiday" was productive of _L'Allegro_, _Il
Penseroso_, _Arcades_, and _Comus_, all ranking among the greatest
classics in the English language.

It is in single lines the effect of the landscape he knew best is seen.

  By hedgerow elms on hillocks green.
  Meadows trim with daisies pied,

are redolent of the Thames country. Milton's mother died in 1637, and was
buried in Horton Church: soon after the poet went abroad.

Another poet of the first rank who may be claimed by the Thames is
Shelley, who was at Great Marlow when he wrote _The Revolt of Islam_ and
_Alastor_. The cottage is now divided into four and is easy to see, as
there is a long inscription, giving details about the poet's occupation,
upon the front of it. _The Revolt of Islam_ was written partly as he sat
in the Quarry Woods and partly in a boat; so it belongs peculiarly to the
river.

Matthew Arnold has already been mentioned, and many of his poems show
strong impressions of the river scenery. He was born and is buried at
Laleham, where his father, the afterwards famous Dr. Arnold of Rugby, had
settled down to take pupils for the Universities.

[Illustration: STREATLEY HILLS]

Another name the Thames can claim is that of Cowley. The house in which he
lived for two years before his death in 1665 is still standing, at
Chertsey.

It is easy to see, therefore, that the river can boast more poets of high
rank than any other celebrated men. This makes it the more peculiar that
there is no great poem on the subject.

Above Molesey Lock, at Hampton, stands the house bought by the great actor
Garrick in 1754. The place is known better by the little Shakespeare
Temple near the water than by the galaxy of great names drawn thither by
Garrick himself. We have in Fitzgerald's _Life of Garrick_ a living
picture of the daily comings and goings; we see Mrs. Garrick discussing
laurel cuttings with the Vicar, or eating figs in the garden with her
husband, who was dressed in dark-blue coat with gold-bound buttonholes. At
all sorts of odd hours Dr. Johnson burst into the family circle, and when
consulted as to how best the ridiculous little "Temple" could be reached
from the house, from which it was divided by a road, broke out in all
earnestness in favour of a tunnel, as against a bridge, in the words:
"David, David, what can't be over-done may be under-done!" One terrible
night, when the sensitive actor read aloud from Shakespeare, his guest,
Lord March, fell asleep. The sting was the deeper as "Davie" dearly loved
a lord! The river fêtes Garrick gave were renowned, and the fame of them
remains to this day; alas, the knack of river pageantry has long been
lost!

Carlyle, in later days a frequent visitor to the villa, once drove a golf
ball through the centre of a leafy archway clean into the river.

History is notoriously dull, except to those who have a taste for it, but
yet there are scenes in history which may stand out as brightly as any
pictures. Of such is the signing of Magna Charta, the greatest act
recorded in the whole of our English annals. Well might it be thought that
London, by means of the Tower or Westminster, would have claimed to be the
theatre of so epoch-making a scene; not at all; as the youngest child
knows, it was no building which witnessed the deed, but a Thames-side
meadow, which may be seen to-day all unchanged, and happily as yet unbuilt
on. The island, which goes by the name of Magna Charta Island, is now
generally supposed to have usurped a claim properly belonging to the
meadow by Thames side, and we confess to a certain pleasure that this
discovery has been made; for the island is altogether too trim, too neat,
and the house thereon too modern, to assort with thoughts of a mighty
past. No, we who love the river believe rather, and in our belief we are
backed by the latest research, that the flat land, encircled by the
heights of Cooper's Hill, as by the rising tiers of seats, was the
amphitheatre whereon the great scene was enacted. We can imagine it
crowded by mailed men who trampled under foot the mushy grass, mushy even
in the season of summer, an English June. The exact date, never to be
forgotten, is June 15, 1215.

The flowers grow well about here, the spotted knotweed, the common
forget-me-not, the pink willow-herb, the yellow iris, and purple
loosestrife may all be found in season, and the meadowsweet and dog-rose
scent the summer air.

Everyone knows about Magna Charta, but few perhaps realize that Kingston
has an older historical claim than Runnymeade, for it owes its name to
being the seat of government of our oldest kings. In the marketplace may
be seen the stone inscribed with the names of the seven Saxon kings here
crowned in turn; hence Kings' Stone. At that date Mercia and Wessex were
united under one king, and the boundaries of Mercia came down to the
Thames on the north side, while those of Wessex marched with them on the
south. London was unsafe because of the ravages of the Danes, and as at
Kingston from time immemorial there has been a ford, a thing of vast
importance in the absence of bridges, and a ford well known, it seemed
that Kingston had some claim to the ceremony. In 1224 a wooden bridge
replaced the ford, the oldest bridge, and the only one, between this and
London Bridge. The bridge itself has played a historic part. In 1554 Sir
Thomas Wyatt, marching to London, found London Bridge closed against him,
so he had to march as far as Kingston to reach the next crossing-place.
The fact seems incredible to us in the days of many bridges. But when Sir
Thomas arrived at the end of his tedious march he found he had been
forestalled, the bridge was broken down, and on the farther bank two
hundred soldiers stood ready for him should he dare to use the ford!
Therefore back went he to London Town.

Wallingford has a little bit of history of its own. It boasts the oldest
corporation in England, a hundred years prior to that of London. It also
disputes with Kingston the claim to the oldest bridge and ford above
Westminster. The town was "destroyed" by the Danes in 1006. At the time of
William the Conqueror's advance on London the castle was held by Wigod, a
Saxon, and from that time onward it was a notable fort, taking part in
many historical events. It boasted three moats, and a fragment of the old
wall remains in the pretty garden of the house now called the Castle.
In 1153 Prince Henry "lay" at Wallingford with 3000 men, and Stephen, with
another army, glared at him from the opposite bank; but like two
schoolboys, mutually unwilling, the rivals slipped away without encounter.
It was Cromwell who ordered the utter destruction of the castle in 1652.

[Illustration: WALLINGFORD]

The oldest historical incident of all in connection with the Thames is the
supposed crossing of Cæsar at Cowey Stakes, above Walton Bridge. Some
strong wooden stakes, black and tough with age, and metal-capped, were
found driven into the bed of the river at this point. They are supposed to
have been driven in by the Britons to hinder the crossing of Cæsar in B.C.
54. As it is known that Cæsar did cross the river some eighty miles above
the sea, and as a Roman camp was discovered in the neighbourhood, it is
quite possible that anyone standing on Walton Bridge, looking over the
wide peaceful stretch of river above, is really surveying the stage on
which one of the earliest acts in our great national drama was played.

The unhappy Henry VI, too weak to bear without misery to himself the
responsibility life thrust upon him, sleeps at Chertsey. His body, after
being exposed at Blackfriars, was brought here on a barge--a slow
procession and a sad one. In _Richard III_ Shakespeare makes the
hyprocritical Duke of Gloucester say:

          After I have solemnly interred
  At Chertsey monastery this noble king,
  And wet his grave with my repentant tears.

Not far from the resting-place of Henry VI, a great statesman, Charles
James Fox, was born. What a gap in time and manners and customs is here
suggested. To think of the two is to span the distance between generations
of growth and thought. Fox died at Chiswick House, so his life began and
ended by Thames side. In the same house, twenty years later, died another
great statesman, George Canning. Thus, even without reckoning London
itself, the centre of our national life and history, we find the Thames
can show names famous in literature, in history, and in politics. Its
banks are studded with memories as they are with flowers, and in
contemplation and reminiscence the annals of the centuries flow past us as
the water itself flows by, ever smoothly and unceasingly.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Thames" ***

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