Father Thames

by Walter Higgins

THE UPPER RIVER

CHAPTER ONE

Stripling Thames

Just where the Thames starts has always been a matter of argument, for several places have laid claim to the honour of holding the source of this great national possession.

About three miles south-west of Cirencester, and quite close to that ancient and famous highway the Ackman Street (or Bath fosseway), there is a meadow known as Trewsbury Mead, lying in a low part of the western Cotswolds, just where Wiltshire and Gloucestershire meet; and in this is situated what is commonly known as “Thames Head”—a spring which in winter bubbles forth from a hollow, but which in summer is so completely dried by the action of the Thames Head Pump, which drains the water from this and all other springs in the neighbourhood, that the cradle of the infant Thames is usually bone-dry for a couple of miles or more of its course. This spot is usually recognized as the beginning of the River.

Thames Head.

If, however, we consider that the source of a river is the point at greatest distance from the mouth we shall have to look elsewhere; for the famous “Seven Streams” at the foot of Leckhampton Hill, from which comes the brook later known as the River Churn, can claim the distinction of being a few more miles from the North Sea; and this distinction has frequently been recognized as sufficient to grant the claim to be the true commencement.

But the Churn has always been the Churn (indeed, the Romans named the neighbouring settlement from the stream—Churn-chester or Cirencester); and no one has ever thought of calling it the Thames. Whereas the stream beginning in Trewsbury Mead has from time immemorial been known as the Thames (Isis is only an alternative name, not greatly used in early days); and so the verdict of history seems to be on its side, whatever geography may have to say.

Nevertheless it matters little which can most successfully support its claim. What does matter is that Churn, and Isis, and Leach, and Ray, and Windrush, and the various other feeders, give of their waters in sufficient quantity to ensure a considerable river later on. From the point of view of their usefulness both the main stream and the tributaries are negligible till we come to Lechlade, for only there does navigation and consequently trade begin. But if the stream is not very useful, it is exceedingly pretty, with quaint rustic bridges spanning its narrow channel, and fine old-world mills and mansions and cottages and numbers of ancient churches on its banks.

Lechlade from the First Lock.

The first place of any size is the little town of Cricklade, which can even boast of two churches. Here the little brooks of infant Thames (or Isis) and Churn join forces, and yield quite a flowing stream. At Lechlade the rivulet is joined by the Colne, and its real life as a river commences. From now on to London there is a towing-path beside the river practically the whole of the way, for navigation by barges thus early becomes possible.

From Lechlade onwards to Old Windsor, a matter of about a hundred miles, the upper Thames has on its right bank the county of Berkshire, with its beautiful Vale of the White Horse, remembered, of course, by all readers of “Tom Brown’s Schooldays.” On the left bank is Oxfordshire as far as Henley, and Buckinghamshire afterwards.

In and out the “stripling Thames” winds its way, clear as crystal as it slips past green meadows and little copses. There is very little to note as we pass between Lechlade and Oxford, a matter of forty miles or so. Owing to the clay bed, not a town of any sort finds a place on or near the banks. Such villages as there are stand few and far between.

Just past Lechlade there is Kelmscott, where William Morris dwelt for some time in the Manor House; and the village will always be famous for that. There in the old-world place he wrote the fine poems and tales which later he printed in some of the most beautiful books ever made, and there he thought out his beautiful designs for wall-papers, carpets, curtains, etc. He was a wonderful man, was William Morris, a day-dreamer who was not content with his dreams until they had taken actual shape.

Kelmscott Manor.

On we go past New Bridge, which is one of the oldest, if not the very oldest, of the many bridges which cross the River. Close at hand the Windrush joins forces, and the River swells and grows wider as it sweeps off to the north. Away on the hill on the Berkshire side is a little village known as Cumnor, which is not of any importance in itself, but which is interesting because there once stood the famous Cumnor Hall, where the beautiful Amy Robsart met with her untimely death, as possibly some of you have read in Sir Walter Scott’s novel “Kenilworth.” Receiving the Evenlode, the River bends south again, and a little later we pass Godstow Lock, not far from which are the ruins of Godstow Nunnery, where Fair Rosamund lived and was afterwards buried. Between Godstow and Oxford is a huge, flat piece of meadowland, known as Port Meadow: this during the War formed one of our most important flying-grounds.

Henceforward the upper Thames is interrupted at fairly frequent intervals by those man-made contrivances known as locks—ingenious affairs which in recent years have taken the place of or rather supplemented the old-fashioned weirs. For any river which boasts of serious water traffic the chief difficulty, especially in summer-time, has always been that of holding back sufficient water to enable the boats to keep afloat. Naturally with a sloping bed the water runs rapidly seawards, and if the supply is not plentiful the river soon tends to become shallow or even dry. In very early days man noticed this, and, copying the beaver, he erected dams or weirs to hold back the water, and keep it at a reasonable depth. And down through the centuries until comparatively recent years these dams or weirs sufficed. As man progressed he fashioned his weirs with a number of “paddles” which lifted up and down to allow a boat to pass through. When the craft was moving downstream just one or two paddles were raised, and the boat shot through the narrow opening on the crest of the rapids thus formed; but when the boat was making its way upstream more paddles were raised so that the rush of water was not so great, and the boat was with difficulty hauled through the opening in face of the strong current. This very picturesque but primitive method lasted until comparatively recent years. Now the old paddle-locks have gone the way of all ancient and delightful things, and in their places we have the thoroughly effective “pound-locks”—affairs with double gates and a pool or dock in between—which in reality convert the river into a long series of water-terraces or steps, dropping lower and lower the nearer we approach the mouth.

CHAPTER TWO

Oxford

One hundred and twelve miles above London Bridge there is the second most celebrated city on the banks of the Thames—Oxford, the “city of spires,” as it has been called. By no means a big place, it is famous as the home of our oldest University.

Seen from a distance, Oxford is a place of great beauty, especially when the meadows round about are flooded. Then it seems to rise from the water like some English Venice. Nor does the beauty grow less as we approach closer, or when we view the city from some other point. Always we see the delicate spires of the Cathedral and the churches, the beautiful towers of the various colleges, the great dome of the Radcliffe Camera, all of them nestling among glorious gardens and fine old trees.

The question at once comes into our minds, Why is it that there is a famous city here? Why should such a place as this, right out in the country, away from what might be called the main arteries of the life of England, be one of the most important seats of learning?

To understand this we must go back a long way, and we must ask ourselves the question, Why was there ever anything—even a village—here at all? If we think a little we shall see that in the early days, when there were not very many good roads, and when there were still fewer bridges, the most important spots along a river were the places where people could cross: that is to say, the fords. To these spots came the merchants with their waggons and their trains of pack-horses, the generals with their armies, the drovers with their cattle, the pilgrims with their staves. All and sundry, journeying from place to place, made for the fords, while the long stretches of river bank between these places were never visited and seldom heard of.

Now, what made a ford? Shallow water, you say. Yes, that is true. But shallow water was not enough. It was necessary besides that the bed of the stream should be firm and hard, so that those who wished might find a safe crossing. And places where such a bottom could be found were few and far between along the course of the Thames. Practically everywhere it was soft clay in which the feet of the men and the animals and the wheels of the waggons sank deep if they tried to get from bank to bank.

But, just at the point where the Thames bends southwards, just before the Cherwell flows into it, there is a stretch of gravel which in years gone by made an excellent ford and provided a suitable spot on which some sort of a settlement might grow.

How old that settlement is no one knows. Legend tells us that a Mercian saint by the name of Frideswide, together with a dozen companions, founded a nunnery here somewhere about the year 700. Certainly the village is mentioned under the name of Oxenford (that is, the ford of the oxen) in the Saxon Chronicle, a book of ancient history written about a thousand years ago; and we know that Edward the Elder took possession of it, and, building a castle and walls, made a royal residence. So that it is a place of great antiquity.

Another question that comes into our minds is this, When did Oxford become the great home of learning which it has so long been? Here again the truth is difficult to ascertain. Legend tells us that King Alfred founded the schools, but that is rather more than doubtful. We do know that during the twelfth century there was a great growth in learning. Right throughout Europe great schools sprang into existence, one of the most important being that in Paris. Thither went numbers of Englishmen to learn, and they, returning to their own land, founded schools in different parts, usually in connection with the monasteries and the cathedrals. Such a school was one which grew into being at St. Frideswide’s monastery at Oxford. Also King Henry I. (Beauclerc—the fine scholar—as he was called) built a palace at Oxford, and there he gathered together many learned men, and from that time people gradually began to flock to Oxford for education. They tramped weary miles through the forest, across the hills and dales, and so came to the little town, only to find it crowded out with countless others as poor as themselves; but they were not disheartened. There being no proper places for teaching, they gathered with their masters, also equally poor, wherever they could find a quiet spot, in a porch, or a loft, or a stable; and so the torch was handed on. Gradually lecture-rooms, or schools as they were called, and lodging-houses or halls, were built, and life became more bearable. Then in 1229 came an accident which yet further established Oxford in its position. This accident took the form of a riot in the streets of Paris, during the course of which several scholars of Paris University were killed by the city archers. Serious trouble between the University folk and the Provost of Paris came of this; and, in the end, there was a very great migration of students from Paris to Oxford; and, a few years after, England could boast of Oxford as a famous centre of learning.

But it was not till the reign of Henry III. that a real college, as we understand it, came into being. Then, in the year 1264, one Walter de Merton gathered together in one house a number of students, and there they lived and were taught; and thus Merton, the oldest of the colleges, began. Others soon followed—Balliol, watched over by the royal Dervorguilla; University College, founded by William of Durham, who was one to come over after the Paris town and gown quarrel; New College; and so on, college after college, until now, as we wander about the streets of this charming old city, it seems almost as if every other building is a college. And magnificent buildings they are too, with their glorious towers and gateways, their beautiful stained-glass windows, their panelled walls. To wander round the city of Oxford is to step back seemingly into a forgotten age, so worn and ancient-looking are these piles of masonry. Modern clothes seem utterly out of place in such an antique spot.

Magdalen Tower from the Bridge.

Different folk, of course, will regard different colleges as holding pride of place; but, I am sure, all will agree that one of the finest is Magdalen College, a beautiful building standing amid cool, green meadows. Very fine indeed is the great tower, built in 1492, from the top of which every May morning the College choir sings a glad hymn of praise; and very fine too are the cloisters below, and the lovely leafy walks in whose shade many famous men have walked in their youthful days.

If we grant to Magdalen its claim to be the most beautiful of the colleges, we must undoubtedly recognize Christ Church as the most magnificent. We shall see something of the splendour of Cardinal Wolsey’s ideas with regard to building when we talk about his palace at Hampton Court, and we need feel no surprise at the grandeur of Christ Church. Unfortunately, Wolsey’s ideas were never carried out: his fall from favour put an end to the work when but three sides of the Great Quadrangle had been completed; and then for just on a century the fabric stood in its unfinished state—a monument to o’erleaping ambition. Nevertheless it was completed, and though it is not all that Wolsey intended it to be, it is still one of the glories of the city. Built round about the old Cathedral, it stands upon the site of the ancient St. Frideswide’s priory.

The famous “Tom Tower” which stands in the centre of the front of the building was not a part of the original idea: it was added in 1682 by Dr. Fell, according to the design of Sir Christopher Wren, the architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral. “Tom Tower” is so called because of its great bell, brought from Osney Abbey. “Great Tom,” which weighs no less than six tons, peals forth each night at nine o’clock a hundred and one strokes, and by the time of the last stroke all the College gates are supposed to be shut and all the undergraduates safely within the College buildings.

The most wonderful possession of Christ Church is its glorious “Early English” hall, in which the members of the College dine daily: 115 feet long, 40 feet broad, and 50 feet high, it is unrivalled in all England, with perhaps the exception of Westminster Hall. Here at the tables have sat many of England’s most famous men—courtiers, writers, politicians, soldiers, artists—and the portraits of a number of them, painted by famous painters, look down from the ancient walls.

But these are only two of the colleges. At every turn some other architectural beauty, some dream in stone, discloses itself, for the colleges are dotted about all over the centre of the town, and at every other corner there is some spot of great interest. To describe them all briefly would more than fill the pages of this book.

Nor are colleges the only delightful buildings in this city of beautiful places. There is the famous Sheldonian Theatre, built from Wren’s plans: this follows the model of an ancient Roman theatre, and will seat four thousand people. There is the celebrated Bodleian Library, founded as early as 1602, and containing a rich collection of rare Eastern and Greek and Latin books and manuscripts. The Bodleian, like the British Museum, has the right to call for a copy of every book published in the United Kingdom.

But Oxford has known a life other than that of a university town: it has been in its time a military centre of some importance. As we sweep round northwards in the train from London, just before we enter the city, the great square tower of the Castle stands out, one of the most prominent objects in the town. And it is really one of the most interesting too, though few find time to visit it. So absorbed are most folk in the churches and chapels, the libraries and college halls, with their exquisite carvings and ornamentations and their lovely gardens, that they forget this frowning relic of the Conqueror’s day—the most lasting monument of the city. Built in 1071 by Robert d’Oilly, boon companion of the Conqueror, it has stood the test of time through all these centuries. Like Windsor, that other Norman stronghold, it has seen little enough of actual fighting: in Oxford the pen has nearly always been mightier than the sword.

One brief episode of war it had when Stephen shut up his cousin, the Empress Maud, within its walls in the autumn of 1142. Then Oxford tasted siege if not assault, and the castle was locked up for three months. However, the River and the weather contrived to save Maud, for, just as provisions were giving out and surrender was only a matter of days, there came a severe frost and the waters were thickly covered. Then it was that the Empress with but two or three white-clad attendants escaped across the ice and made her way to Wallingford, while her opponents closely guarded the roads and bridges.

Nor in our consideration of the glories of this beloved old city must we forget the River—for no one in the place forgets it. Perhaps we should not speak of the River, for Oxford is the fortunate possessor of two, standing as it does in the fork created by the flowing together of the Thames and the Cherwell. The Thames, as we have already seen, flows thither from the west, while the Cherwell makes its way southwards from Edgehill; and, though we are accustomed to think of the Thames as the main stream, the geologists, whose business it is to make a close study of the earth’s surface, tell us that the Cherwell is in reality the more important of the two; that down its valley in the far-away past flowed a great river which with the Kennet was the ancestor of the present-day River; that the tributary Thames has grown so much that it has been able to capture and take over as its own the valley of the Cherwell from Oxford onwards to Reading. But that, of course, is a story of the very dim past, long before the days of history.

The Cherwell is a very pretty little stream, shaded by overhanging willows and other trees, so that it is usually the haunt of pleasure, the place where the undergraduate takes his own or somebody else’s sister for an afternoon’s excursion, or where he makes his craft fast in the shade in order that he may enjoy an afternoon’s quiet reading. A walk through the meadows on its banks is, indeed, something very pleasant, with the stream on one side of us and that most beautiful of colleges, Magdalen, on the other. Here as we proceed down the famous avenue of pollard willows, winding between two branches of the stream, we can hear almost continuously the singing of innumerable birds, for the Oxford gardens and meadows form a veritable sanctuary in which live feathered friends of every sort.

But the Thames (or Isis as it is invariably called in Oxford) is the place of more serious matters. To the rowing man “the River” means only one thing, and really only a very short space of that: he is accustomed to speak of “the River” and “the Cher,” and with him the latter does not count at all. Everybody in the valley, certainly every boy and girl, knows about the Oxford and Cambridge Boatrace, which is held annually on the Thames at Putney, when two selected crews from the rival universities race each other over a distance. Probably quite a few of us have witnessed the exciting event. Well, “Boatrace Day” is merely the final act of a long drama, nearly all the scenes of which take place, not at Putney, but on the river at the University town. For the Varsity “eight” are only chosen from the various college crews after long months of arduous preparation. Each of the colleges has its own rowing club, and the college crews race against each other in the summer term. A fine sight it is, too, to see the long thin “eights” passing at a great pace in front of the beautifully decorated “Barges,” which are to the college rowing clubs what pavilions are to the cricket clubs.

These “barges,” which stretch along the river front for some considerable distance, resemble nothing so much as the magnificent houseboats which we see lower down the river at Henley, Maidenhead, Molesey, etc. They are fitted up inside with bathrooms and dressing-rooms, and comfortable lounges and reading-rooms, while their flat tops are utilised by the rowing men for sitting at ease and chatting to their friends. Each college has its own “barge,” and it is a point of honour to make it and keep it a credit to the college. The long string of “barges” form a very beautiful picture, particularly when the river is quiet, and the finely decorated vessels with their background of green trees are reflected in the smooth waters.

May is the great time for the River at Oxford, for then are held the races of the senior “crews” or “eights.” Then for a week the place, both shore and stream, is gay with pretty dresses and merry laughter, for mothers and sisters, cousins and friends, flock to Oxford in their hundreds to see the fun. But to the rowing man it is a time of hard work—with more in prospect if he is lucky; for, just as the “eights” of this week have been selected from the crews of the February “torpids” or junior races, so from those doing well during “eights week” may be chosen the University crew—the “blues.”

Many have been the voices which have sung the praises of the “city of spires,” for many have loved her. None more so perhaps than Matthew Arnold, whose poem “The Scholar Gypsy”—the tale of a University lad who was by poverty forced to leave his studies and join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies, from whom he gained a knowledge beyond that of the scholars—is so well known. Says Arnold of the city: “And yet as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Ages, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection—to beauty, in a word?”

There are many interesting places within walking distance of Oxford, but perhaps few more delightful to the eye than old Iffley Church. This ancient building with its fine old Norman tower is a landmark of the countryside and well deserves the attention given to it.

CHAPTER THREE

Abingdon, Wallingford, and the Goring Gap

Between Oxford and Reading lies a land of shadows—a district dotted with towns which have shrunk to a mere vestige of their former greatness. To mention three names only—Abingdon, Dorchester, and Wallingford—is to conjure up a picture of departed glory.

Abingdon.

At Abingdon, centuries ago, was one of those great abbeys which stretched in a chain eastwards, and helped to ensure the prosperity of the valley; and the town sprang up and prospered, as was so often the case, under the shadow of the great ecclesiastical foundation. Unfortunately the monks and the citizens were constantly at loggerheads. The wealthy dwellers in the abbey, where the Conqueror’s own son, Henry Beauclerc, had been educated, and where the greatest in the land were wont to come, did not approve of tradesmen and other common folk congregating so near the sacred edifice. Thus in 1327 the proud mitred Abbot refused to allow the citizens to hold a market in the town, and a riot ensued, in which the folk of Abingdon were backed up by the Mayor of Oxford and a considerable crowd of the University students. A great part of the Abbey was burned down, many of its records were destroyed, and the monks were driven out. But the tradesmen’s triumph was short-lived, for the Abbot returned with powerful support, and certain of the ringleaders were hanged for their share in the disturbance.

However, the town grew despite the frowns of the Church, and it soon became a considerable centre for the cloth trade. Not only did it make cloth itself, but much of the traffic which there was between London and the western cloth-towns—Gloucester, Stroud, Cirencester, etc.—passed through Abingdon, particularly when its bridge had been built by John Huchyns and Geoffrey Barbur in 1416.

When, in 1538, the abbey was suppressed, the townsfolk rejoiced at the downfall of the rich and arrogant monks, and sought pleasure and revenge in the destruction of the former home of their enemies. So that in these days there is not a great deal remaining of the ancient fabric.

A few miles below Abingdon is Dorchester (not to be confused with the Dorset town of the same name), not exactly on the River, but about a mile up the tributary river, the Thame, which here comes wandering through the meadows to join the main stream. Like Abingdon, Dorchester has had its day, but its abbey church remains, built on the site of the ancient and extremely important Saxon cathedral; and, one must confess, it seems strangely out of place in such a sleepy little village.

Wallingford, even more than these, has lost its ancient prestige, for it was through several centuries a great stronghold and a royal residence. We have only to look at the map of the Thames Valley, and note how the various roads converge on this particularly useful ford, to see immediately Wallingford’s importance from a military and a commercial point of view. A powerful castle to guard such a valuable key to the midlands, or the south-west, was inevitable.

William the Conqueror, passing that way in order that he might discover a suitable crossing, and so get round to the north of London (p. 143), was shown the ford by one Wygod, the ruling thane of the district; and naturally William realized at once the possibilities of the place. A powerful castle soon arose in place of the old earthworks, and this castle lasted on till the Civil War, figuring frequently in the many struggles that occurred during the next three or four hundred years.

It played an important part in that prolonged and bitter struggle between Stephen and the Empress Maud, and suffered a very long siege. Again, in 1646, at the time of the Civil War, it was beset for sixty-five days by the Parliamentary armies; and, after a gallant stand by the Royalist garrison, was practically destroyed by Fairfax, who saw fit to blow it up. So that now very little stands: just a few crumbling walls and one window incorporated in the fabric of a private residence.

Between Wallingford and Reading lies what is, from the geographical point of view, one of the most interesting places in the whole length of the Thames Valley—Goring Gap.

You will see from a contour map that the Thames Basin, generally speaking, is a hill-encircled valley with gently undulating ground, except in the one place where the Marlborough-Chiltern range of chalk hills sweep right across the valley.

By the time the River reaches Goring Gap it has fallen from a height of about six hundred feet above sea-level to a height of about one hundred feet above sea-level; and there rises from the river on each side a steep slope four or five hundred feet high—Streatley Hill on the Berkshire side and Goring Heath on the Oxfordshire side.

The question arises, Why should these two ranges of hills, the Marlborough Downs and the Chiltern Hills, meet just at this point? Is it simply an accident of geography that their two ends stand exactly face to face on opposite sides of the Thames?

Now the geologists tell us that it is no coincidence. They have studied the strata—that is, the different layers of the materials forming the hills—and they find that the strata of the range on the Berkshire side compare exactly with the strata of the other; so that at some remote period the two must have been joined to form one unbroken range. How then did the gap come? Was it due to a cracking of the hill—a double crack with the earth slipping down in between, as has sometimes happened in the past? Here again the geologists tells us, No. Moreover they tell us that undoubtedly the River has cut its way right through the chalk hills.

“But how can that be possible?” someone says. “Here we have the Thames down in a low-lying plain on the north-west side of the hills, and down in the valley on the south-east side. How could a river flowing across a plain get up to the heights to commence the wearing away at the tops?” Here again the geologists must come to our aid. They tell us that back in that dim past, so interesting to picture yet so difficult to grasp, when the ancient, mighty River flowed (see Book I., Intro.), the chalk-lands extended from the Chilterns westwards, that there was no valley where now Oxford, Abingdon, and Lechlade lie, but that the River flowed across the top of a tableland of chalk from its sources in the higher grounds of the west to the brink at or near the eastern slope of the Chilterns; and that from this lofty position the River was able to wear its way down, and so make a V-shaped cutting in the end of the tableland. Afterwards there came an alteration in the surface. Some tremendous internal movement caused the land gradually to fold up, as it were; so that the tableland sagged down in the middle, leaving the Marlborough-Chiltern hills on the one side and the Cotswold-Edgehill range on the other, with the Oxford valley in between. But by this time the V-shaped gap had been cut sufficiently low to allow the River to flow through the hills, and to go on cutting its way still lower and lower.

CHAPTER FOUR

Reading

Reading is without doubt the most disappointing town in the whole of the Thames Valley. It has had such a full share of history, far more than other equally famous towns; has been favoured by the reigning monarch of the land through many centuries; has taken sides in internal strife and felt the tide of war surging round its gates; it has counted for so much in the life of England that one feels almost a sense of loss in finding it just a commonplace manufacturing town, with not a semblance of any of its former glory.

Like many other towns in England, it sprang up round a religious house—one of the string of important abbeys which stretched from Abingdon to Westminster. But before that it had been recognized as an important position.

We have seen that Oxford, Wallingford, and other places came into existence by reason of their important fords across the River. Reading arose into being because the long and narrow peninsula formed by the junction of the Kennet with the Thames was such a splendid spot for defensive purposes that right from early days there had been some sort of a stronghold there.

Here in this very safe place, then, the Conqueror’s son established his great foundation, the Cluniac Abbey of Reading, for the support of two hundred monks and for the refreshment of travellers. It was granted ample revenues, and given many valuable privileges, among them that of coining money. Its Abbot was a mitred Abbot, and had the right to sit with the lords spiritual in Parliament. From its very foundation it prospered, rising rapidly into a position of eminence; and, like the other abbeys, it did much towards the growth of the agricultural prosperity of the valley, encouraging the countryfolk to drain and cultivate their lands properly.

The Gatehouse Reading Abbey

Though we first hear of it as a fortified place, and though at different times in history it felt the shock of war, Reading was never an important military centre, for the simple reason that it did not guard a main road across or beside the River. Consequently the interruptions in its steady progress were few and far between, and the place was left to develop its civilian and religious strength. This it did so well that during the four hundred years of the life of the Abbey it always counted for much with the Sovereigns, who went there to be entertained, and even in time of pestilence brought thither their parliaments, whose bodies were in the end buried there. By the thirteenth century the Abbey had risen to such a position that only Westminster could vie with it in wealth and magnificence.

And now what remains of it all? Almost nothing. There is what is called the old Abbey gateway, but it is merely a reconstruction with some of the ancient materials. In the Forbury Gardens lie all that is left, just one or two ivy-grown fragments of massive masonry, outlining perhaps the Chapter House, in which the parliaments were held, and the great Abbey Church, dedicated to St. Thomas Becket, where were the royal tombs and where in 1339 John of Gaunt was married. For the rest, the ruins have served all and sundry as a quarry for ready-prepared building stone during several centuries. Much of it was used to make St. Mary’s Church and the Hospital of the Poor Knights of Windsor; while still more was commandeered by General Conway for the construction of the bridge between Henley and Wargrave.

How did the Abbey come to such a state of dilapidation? Largely as a result of the Civil War. The Abbey was dissolved in 1539, and the Abbot actually hung, drawn, and quartered, because of his defiance. The royal tombs, where were buried Henry I., the Empress Maud, and others, were destroyed and the bones scattered; and from that time onwards things went from bad to worse. Henry VII. converted parts of it into a palace for himself and used it for a time, but in Elizabethan days it had got into such a very bad state that the Queen, who stayed there half-a-dozen times, gave permission for the rotting timbers and many cartloads of stone to be removed. But it remained a dwelling till the eventual destruction during the Rebellion.

During the war which proved so disastrous for the great Abbey, Reading was decidedly Royalist, but the fortunes of war brought several changes for it. It withstood for some time during 1643 a severe siege by the Earl of Essex, and, just as relief was at hand, it surrendered. Then Royalists and Parliamentarians in turn held the town; and naturally with these changes and the fighting involved the place suffered greatly, especially the outstanding building, the Abbey. St. Giles’ Church, which escaped destruction, still bears the marks of the bombardment.

But the town refused to die with the Abbey. The Abbey had done much to establish and vitalize the town. In its encouragement of the agriculture of the districts it had created the necessity for a central market-town, and Reading had grown and flourished accordingly. Thus, when the Abbey came to an end, the town was so firmly established that it was enabled to live on and prosper exceedingly.

Now Reading passes its days independent, almost unconscious, of the past, with its glory and its tragedy. Nor does the River any more enter into its calculations. To Reading has come the railway; and the railway has made the modern town what it is—an increasingly important manufacturing town and railway junction, and a ready centre for the rich agricultural land round about it; a hive of industry, with foundries, workshops, big commercial buildings, and a University College; with churches, chapels, picture-palaces, and fast-moving electric-tramcars, clanging their way along streets thronged with busy, hurrying people—in short, a typical, clean, modern industrial town, with nothing very attractive about it, but on the other hand nothing to repel or disgust.

Reading’s most famous industries are biscuit-making and seed-growing. Messrs. Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits, in the making of which four or five thousand people are employed, are known the world over; and so are Messrs. Sutton’s seeds, grown in, and advertised by, many acres of beautiful gardens.

The Kennet, on which the town really stands, is a river which has lost its ancient power, for the geologists tell us that along its valley the real mighty river once ran, receiving the considerable Cherwell-Thames tributary at this point. Now, whereas the tributary has grown in importance if not in size, the main stream has shrunk to such an enormous extent that the tributary has become the river, and the river the tributary. Of course, passing through Reading the little river loses its beauty, but the Kennet which comes down from the western end of the Marlborough Downs and flows through the Berkshire meadows is a delightful little stream.

CHAPTER FIVE

Holiday Thames—Henley to Maidenhead

The western half of that portion of the River which has for its bank the county of Buckinghamshire might well be spoken of as “holiday Thames,” for it is on this lovely stretch that a great part of the more important river pleasure-making is done. Certainly we get boating at Richmond, Kingston, Molesey, etc., nearer the metropolis, but it is of the Saturday or Sunday afternoon sort, where Londoners, weary from the week’s labours, find rest and solace in a few brief hours of leisurely punting or rowing. But, between Maidenhead and Henley, at places like Sonning, Pangbourne, and Cookham, folk live on or by the River, either in houseboats or waterside cottages, and the River is not just a diversion, but is for the time being the all-important thing.

Sonning.

Nor is this difficult to understand, for the River here is extraordinarily beautiful—a place to linger in and dream away the hours. Henley, which commences the stretch, lies just within the borders of Oxfordshire, and here is celebrated what is, next to the Boatrace at Putney, the most famous of all Thames festivals—for Henley Regatta draws rowing men (and women) from all parts, and crews come from both the Old World and the New to compete in the open races. The River then is almost covered with craft of all sorts moored closely together, with just a narrow water-lane down the centre for the passage of the competing boats; and the bright dresses and gay parasols of the ladies, with the background of green trees, all reflected in the water, make a brilliant and pleasing spectacle.

Henley.

A few miles below Henley is Great Marlow, a clean and compact little riverside town, whose chief interest lies, perhaps, in the fact that here the poet Shelley lived for a time, writing some of his wonderful poems. Shelley spent much of his time on the River, and learned to love it very much, so that in after years we find him writing from Italy: “My thoughts for ever cling to Windsor Forest and the copses of Marlow.”

The seven miles between Marlow and Maidenhead contain the most glorious scenery in the whole valley, for the River here for a considerable distance flows between gently rising hills whose slopes are richly wooded, the trees in many places coming right down to the water’s edge. Alike in spring, when the fresh young green is spreading over the hillsides, and in autumn, when the woods are afire with every tint of gold and brown, the Cliveden Woods and the Quarry Woods of Marlow, with their mirrored reflections in the placid waters below, are indescribably beautiful. Above the woods, high on the Buckingham bank, stands Cliveden House, magnificently situated. In the old mansion which formerly stood on the spot was first performed Thomson’s masque “Alfred.” This is very interesting, for the masque contained “Rule, Britannia,” composed by Dr. Arne; so here the tune was sung in public for the first time.

At various spots along the stretch we can see quite clearly the terraces which indicate the alteration in the position of the river-bed. High up towards the tops, sometimes actually at the tops of the hillsides, are the shallow, widespread gravel beds which show where in the dim past the original great Thames flowed (see Book I., Intro.). Then lower down come other terraces, with more gravel beds, to show a second position of the River, when, after centuries, it had cut its way lower and diminished in volume. Thus:

Diagram of the Thames Valley Terraces.

Well-marked terraces can be found on the Berkshire side of the River between Maidenhead and Cookham, also at Remenham not far from Henley. They are visible on both sides of the River at Reading. Above Reading similar terraces, with their beds of river gravel, may be seen at Culham and Cholsey, between Radley and Abingdon, and also at Oxford.

CHAPTER SIX

Windsor

Windsor Castle, seen from the River at Clewer as we make our way downstream, provides us with one of the most magnificent views in the whole valley. Standing there, high on its solitary chalk hill, with the glowing red roofs of the town beneath and the rich green of the numerous trees clustering all round its base, the whole bathed in summer sunshine, it is a superb illustration of what a castle should be—ever-present, magnificent, defiant.

Yet, despite its wonderful situation, the finest without doubt in all the south of England, Windsor has had little or no history, has rarely beaten off marauding foes, and seldom taken any part in great national struggles. Built for a fortress, it has been through the centuries nothing more than a palace.

Erected by the builder of the Tower, William of Normandy, and probably for the same purpose, it has passed in many ways through a parallel existence, has been just what the Tower has been—an intended stronghold, a prison, and a royal residence. Yet, whereas the Tower has been intimately bound up with the life of England through many centuries, Windsor has, with just one or two brief exceptions, been a thing apart, something living its life in the quiet backwaters of history.

Windsor Castle.

The Windsor district was always a favourite one with the rulers of the land even before the existence of the Castle. Tradition speaks of a hunting lodge, deep in the glades of the Old Windsor Forest, close by the river, as belonging to the redoubtable King Arthur, and declares that here he and his Knights of the Round Table stayed when they hunted in the greenwood or sallied forth on those quests of adventure with which we are all familiar. What is more certain, owing to the bringing to light of actual remains, is that Old Windsor was a Roman station. Certainly it was a favourite haunt of the Saxon kings, who in all probability had a palace of some sort there, close to the Roman road which passed by way of Staines to the camp at Silchester; and its value must have been thoroughly recognized. Edward the Confessor in particular was especially fond of the place, and when he founded and suitably endowed his wonderful Abbey at Westminster he included “Windsor and Staines and all that thereto belongs” among his valuable grants to the foundation over which his friend Edwin presided.

In those days the Castle Hill was not even named. True, its possibilities as a strategic point were recognized, by Harold if by no other, for we read in the ancient records that Harold held on that spot four-and-a-half hides of land for defensive purposes.

But it remained for William the Conqueror, that splendid soldier and mighty hunter, to recognize the double possibilities of Windsor. Naturally, following his victory, he made himself familiar with Harold’s possessions, and, coming shortly to Windsor, saw therein the means of gratifying two of his main interests. He inspected the ancient Saxon royal dwelling and saw at once its suitability as a retiring place for the King, surrounded by the great forest and quite close to that most convenient of highways, the River. And at the same time, warrior as he was, he understood the value of the little chalk hill which stood out from the encompassing clay.

Certainly it belonged to the Abbey as a “perpetual inheritance,” but to such as William that was not likely to matter much. All England was his: he could offer what he liked. So he chose for exchange two fat manors in Essex—Wokendune and Feringes—fine, prosperous agricultural places, totally different from the unproductive wastelands of Windsor Hill; and the Abbot, wise man that he was, jumped at the exchange. Thus the Church was satisfied, no violence was done, and William secured both the Forest and the magnificent little hill commanding then, as it does now, many miles of the Thames Valley.

Why did he want it? For two reasons. In the first place, he wanted an impregnable fortress within striking distance of London. True, under his orders Gundulf had built the Tower, frowning down on the city of London; but a fortress which is almost a part of the city, even though it be built with the one idea of striking awe into the citizens, is really too close at hand to be secure. A fortress slightly aloof, and therefore not quite so liable to sudden surprise, yet within a threatening distance, had vastly greater possibilities.

William’s other great passion was “the chase.” Listen to what the ancient chronicler said about him: “He made many deer-parks; and he established laws therewith; so that whosoever slew a hart or a hind should be deprived of his eyesight. He loved the tall deer as if he were their father. Hares he decreed should go free. His rich men bemoaned it; and the poor men shuddered at it. But he was so stern, that he recked not the hatred of them all; for they must follow withal the King’s will if they would live, or have land, or possessions, or even his peace.” For this the surrounding forests rendered the position of Windsor a delightful one.

Thus came into existence the Norman Keep of Windsor Hill, and beneath it shortly after the little settlement of New Windsor. When Domesday Book was prepared the little place had reached the number of one hundred houses, and thenceforward its progress was steady. By the time of Edward I. it had developed to such an extent that it was granted a charter—which document may still be seen in the Bodleian Library at Oxford.

With the Kings that came after the Conqueror Windsor soon became a favourite residence. Henry I., marrying a Saxon Princess, Edith, niece of the Confessor, lived there and built a fine dwelling-place with a Chapel dedicated to the Confessor and a wall surrounding everything.

During the reign of John, Windsor was besieged on more than one occasion, and it was from its fastness that the most wretched King who ever ruled—or misruled—England crept out to meet the Barons near Runnymede, just over the Surrey border.

Henry III., finding the old fabric seriously damaged by the sieges, determined to rebuild on a grander scale, and he restored the walls, raised the first Round Tower, the Lower and Middle Wards, and a Chapel; but, save one or two fragments, all these have perished.

However, it is to Edward of Windsor—the third King of that name—that we must look as the real founder of the Windsor of to-day. He rebuilt the Chapel and practically all the structures of Henry III., and added the Upper Ward.

In connection with this last a very interesting story is told. Edward had on the spot two very distinguished prisoners—King David of Scotland and King John of France—rather more like unwilling guests than prisoners, since they had plenty of liberty and shared in the amusements of the Court. One day the two were strolling with Edward in the Lower Ward, taking stock of the new erections, when King John made some such remark as this: “Your Grace’s castle would be better on the higher ground up yonder. You yourself would be able to see more, and the castle would be visible a greater way off.” In which opinion he was backed by the King of Scotland. Edward’s reply must have surprised the pair of them, for he said: “It shall be as you say. I will enlarge the Castle by adding another ward, and your ransoms shall pay the bill.” But Edward’s threat was never carried out. King David’s ransom was paid in 1337, but it only amounted to 100,000 marks; while that of King John, a matter of a million and a half of our money, was never paid, and John returned to England to die in the year 1363 in the Palace of the Savoy.

In the building of Windsor, Edward had for his architect, or superintendent, a very famous man, William Wykeham, the founder and builder of Winchester School and New College, Oxford. Wykeham’s salary was fixed at one shilling a day while at Windsor, and two shillings while travelling on business connected with the Castle. Wykeham’s chief work was the erection of the Great Quadrangle, a task which took him ten years to complete. While there at work, he had a stone engraved with the Latin words, Hoc fecit Wykeham, which translated means “Wykeham made this.” Edward was enraged when he saw this inscription, for he wanted no man to share with him the glory of rebuilding Windsor; and he called his servant to account for his unwise action. Wykeham’s reply was very ingenious, for he declared that he had meant the motto to read: “This made Wykeham” (for the words can be translated thus). The ready answer appeased the King’s wrath.

The method by which the building was done was that of forced labour—a mild form of slavery. Edward, instead of engaging workmen in the ordinary way, demanded from each county in England so many masons, so many carpenters, so many tilers, after the fashion of the feudal method of obtaining an army. There were 360 of them, and they did not all come willingly, for certain of them were thrown into prison in London for running away. Slowly the work proceeded, but in 1361 the plague carried off many of the craftsmen, and new demands were made on Yorkshire, Shropshire, and Devon, to provide sixty more stone-workers each. When at length the structure was completed in 1369, it included most of the best parts of Windsor Castle—the Great Quadrangle, the Round Tower, St. George’s Hall and Chapel, and the outer walls with their gates and turrets.

The Chapel was repaired later on, under the direction of another distinguished Englishman, Geoffrey Chaucer, the father of English poetry, who for over a year was “master of the King’s works” at Windsor. In 1473 the Chapel had become so dilapidated that it was necessary to pull it down, and Edward IV. erected in its place an exceedingly beautiful St. George’s Chapel, as an act of atonement for all the shed blood through which he had wallowed his way to the throne.

Queen Elizabeth was very fond indeed of Windsor, and frequently came thither in her great barge. She built a banqueting hall and a gallery, and formed the fine terrace which bears her name. This terrace, on the north side, above the steep, tree-planted scarp which falls away to the river valley, is an ideal place. Behind rise the State Apartments: in front stretches a magnificent panorama across Eton and the plain. On this terrace the two Charleses loved to stroll; and George III. was accustomed to walk every day with his family, just an ordinary country gentleman rubbing shoulders with his neighbours.

It is a wonderful place, is Windsor Castle—very impressive and in places very beautiful; but there is so much to write about that one scarcely knows where to begin. Going up Castle Hill, we turn sharp to the left, and, passing through the Gateway of Henry VIII., we are in the Lower Ward, with St. George’s Chapel facing us in all its beauty.

This fine perpendicular Chapel is, indeed, worthy of the illustrious order, the Knights of the Garter, for whom it is a place both of worship and of ceremonial.

The Order of the Knights of the Garter was founded by Edward III. in the year 1349, and there were great doings at Windsor on the appointed day—St. George’s Day. Splendid pageants, grand tournaments, and magnificent feasts, with knights in bright armour and their ladies in the gayest of colours, were by no means uncommon in those days; but on this occasion the spectacle was without parallel for brilliance, for Edward had summoned to the great tournament all the bravest and most famous knights in Christendom, and all had come save those of Spain, forbidden by their suspicious King. From their number twenty-six were chosen to found the Order, with the King at their head.

St. George’s Chapel has some very beautiful stained-glass windows, some fine tracery in its roof, and a number of very interesting monuments. The carved stalls in the choir, with the banners of the knights drooping overhead, remind us certainly of the Henry VII. Chapel at Westminster. Within the Chapel walls have been enacted some wonderful scenes—scenes pleasing, and scenes memorable for their sorrow. Here have been brought, at the close of their busy lives, many of England’s sovereigns, and here some of them—Henry VI. and Edward IV. among them—rest from their labours. Queen Victoria, who loved Windsor, lies with her husband in the Royal Tomb at Frogmore, not far away.

The Round Tower, which stands practically in the centre of the clustered buildings and surmounts everything, is always one of the most interesting places. From its battlements may be seen on a clear day no less than twelve counties. We can trace the River for miles and miles as it comes winding down the valley from Clewer and Boveney, to pass away into the distance where we can just faintly discern the dome of St. Paul’s.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eton College

Standing on the north terrace, or on the hundred steps which ascend from Thames Street, with behind us the fabric which William Wykeham did so much to fashion, we gaze out to yet another place which Wykeham made possible—the famous College of Eton.

True, he had nothing whatever to do with the building of Eton itself, but he founded Winchester School, which is commonly spoken of as England’s oldest public school; and this served the boy-king, Henry VI., as a model for his new foundation, so that Eton is in many respects, both as regards buildings and management, a copy of the older place.

The first charter is dated 1441. Henry was then only nineteen years old, yet he says that “from the very foundation of his riper age” he dreamed of “a solemn school at Eton where a great number of children should be freely taught the rules of grammar.” The school was to be called “The Kynges College of oure Ladye of Eton, beside Wyndesore.”

Eton College

Henry, in order that he might be certain he and his assistants were following the excellent Winchester model, paid a number of visits to that school, and made a close study of its ways. There he was brought much into contact with William Waynflete, who had become master of Winchester in 1429 and done much to keep the school at its high level; and the result was that in 1442 Henry persuaded him to become the first master of Eton, whither he came, bringing with him from the older foundation half-a-dozen favourite scholars to be a model for all newcomers. Eton began with “twenty-five poor scholars” to be educated at the King’s cost, but this number was soon increased to seventy.

Henry did not live to see his splendid scheme in being. In fact, the beautiful chapel which he had designed was never completed at all; moreover, the fabric itself, which he had desired to be made of “the hard stone of Kent,” was very largely built of brick. Nor did the College as a whole rise into being in one great effort. Like most historic buildings, it grew little by little into its present self, with just a bit added here and a bit renovated there, so that the whole thing is a medley of styles.

In these days Eton, like most of the big public schools, is far from being what its founder intended it to be—a school for the instruction of deserving poor boys. Instead it has become a very exclusive college for the education of the sons of the rich.

There are usually just over eleven hundred boys in residence, seventy of whom are known as “collegers,” while the other thousand odd are called “oppidans.” For the old statute which decided on the number of “collegers” as seventy is still obeyed, and Henry’s wish is kept in the letter, if not in the spirit. The “collegers” live in the actual College buildings, have their meals in the College Hall; and they wear cloth gowns to distinguish them from the rest of the scholars. These other thousand odd boys, the sons of gentlemen and other folk who can afford to pay the great sum of money necessary, live in the various masters’ houses, which are built close at hand.

The “collegers,” who win their positions as the result of a stiff examination, are practically the holders of very valuable scholarships, for they pay only small sums towards their expenses. And, generally speaking, they have a better time of it, even though they may be looked down on and called “tugs” by some of the more snobbish “oppidans”; for the College buildings are better than most of the houses. Moreover, the “collegers” have two large playing fields of their own, so that they can avoid the crush in the school fields.

Just when the “oppidans” began to take their place is by no means certain; but it could not have been very long after the foundation, for there is actually in existence the letter of an “oppidan” written in the year 1467, forty years after the opening. It is a very interesting letter, written to the boy’s elder brother, and enclosing for his inspection a specimen of the writer’s Latin verses (the making of Latin verse has always been a speciality at Eton). The letter also suggests the forwarding of “12 lbs. of figgs and 8 lbs. of raisins,” so, you see, boys were boys even in those far-off days.

Many of Eton’s most picturesque customs have either died out or been suppressed by the authorities. One of the more famous of these was “Montem,” given up in 1847. On a certain day, once every three years, the scholars marched in procession to Salt Hill—that is, to “the mountain” (ad montem means “to the mountain”); and there certain of their number made a collection of money from all and sundry, giving little pieces of salt in exchange. Usually royalty from Windsor met them there, and contributed generously to the fund. “Montem” was a gay festival, for fancy-dress was the order of the day, and there was plenty of noise and colour as the merry procession made its way up the hill to the music of several bands, followed by a crowd of visitors. In 1846 the authorities decided to put an end to the celebration, because with the coming of the railway to Windsor an unwelcome crowd of excursionists presented itself each year, and the picturesque gathering degenerated into a vulgar rabble. One old custom which still survives is “Threepenny Day.” On the 27th day of February each year, the anniversary of the death of a Provost named Lupton, builder of the picturesque gateway, each of the “collegers” receives a bright new threepenny-bit, provision for which is made in a sum of money left by Lupton and another Provost.

Eton, like that other and older seat of learning to which many Etonians make the journey up the valley, gains much from its nearness to the River, for swimming and rowing are two favourite pastimes with the boys of this school. The latter pastime reaches its zenith on the “fourth of June”—the great day which Eton keeps in honour of George III.’s birthday. Then the College is besieged by hundreds of relatives and friends, and there is a fine water-carnival on the River.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hampton Court

Nearly twenty miles below Windsor we come upon the ancient palace of Hampton, better known in these days as Hampton Court, beautifully situated among tall trees not far from the river bank. It is a wonderful old place—one of the nation’s priceless possessions—and once inside we are loth to leave it, for there is something attractive about its quaint old courtyards and its restful, bird-haunted gardens.

Certainly it is the largest royal palace in England, and in some respects it is the finest. Yet, strangely enough, it was not built for a King, nor has any sovereign lived in it since the days of George II. Wolsey, the proud Cardinal of Henry VIII.’s days, erected it for his own private mansion, and it is still the Cardinal’s fabric which we look upon as we pass through the older portions of the great pile of buildings.

Hampton Court, Garden Front.

Wolsey was, as you probably know, the son of a comparatively poor man, yet he was possessed of great gifts, and when he left Oxford he soon rose to a position of eminence. The Kings, first of all Henry VII., then “bluff King Hal,” showered honours and gifts on him. The Pope created him a Cardinal, and Henry VIII. gave him the powerful position of Lord Chancellor of England. Wolsey, as befitted his high station, lived a life of great splendour, the pomp and show of his household rivalling even that of the King. Naturally such a man would have the best, even of palaces.

As we pass through the wonderful old courts of the Cardinal’s dwelling we can imagine the vast amount of money which it must have cost to build, for it was magnificent in those days quite beyond parallel; and we cannot wonder that King Henry thought that such a building ought to be nothing less than a royal residence.

Little differences soon arose. Wolsey, indeed, had not lived long at Hampton Court when there came an open breach between the King and himself. The trouble increased, and he fell from his high place very rapidly. When in 1526 he presented Hampton Court Palace to the King something other than generosity must have prompted the gift.

Henry VIII. at once proceeded to make the palace more magnificent still. He pulled down the Cardinal’s banqueting hall and erected a more sumptuous one in its place; and this we can see to-day. Built in the style known to architects as Tudor, it is one of the finest halls in the whole of our land. Many huge beams of oak, beautifully fitted, carved, and ornamented, support a magnificent panelled and decorated roof, while glorious stained-glass windows (copies of the original ones fitted under Henry VIII.’s directions) fill the place with subdued light. The Great Gatehouse also belongs to Henry’s additions, and, with its octagonal towers and great pointed arch, has a very royal and imposing appearance.

Though no sovereign has dwelt in the palace for a century or more, it was for nearly two hundred years a favourite residence of our Kings and Queens, and many famous events have taken place within its walls. Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth were both very partial to the palace and its delightful gardens, and they spent much time there. Indeed, it is said that the latter was dining at Hampton when the glorious news of Drake’s defeat of the Spanish Armada was carried to her. James I. resided at the palace after his succession to the throne, and there, in addition to selling quite openly any number of knighthoods and peerages in order that he might add to his scanty means, he held the famous conference which decided that a uniform and authorized translation of the Bible should be made. In the great hall countless plays and masques were performed, and probably the mighty Shakespeare himself visited the place. King Charles I. spent many days at the Court, some of them as a prisoner of the Parliamentary soldiers; and here too Cromwell made a home until shortly before the time of his death. After the Restoration Charles II. and his Court settled at the palace, and in the surrounding parks indulged their fondness for the chase.

Immediately Mary and her husband, William of Orange, came to the throne they commenced the alterations which have largely given us the palace of to-day. The old State apartments were pulled down and, under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, larger and more magnificent ones were erected, something on the lines of the famous French royal palace at Versailles. At the same time William ordered the grounds to be laid out in the style of the famous Dutch gardens. The next three sovereigns, Anne, and the first and second Georges, all lived at the Court; but from that time onwards it ceased to be a royal residence. George III. would not go near the place. The story is told that on one occasion at Hampton Court his grandfather boxed his ears soundly, and he vowed never again to live on the scene of such an indignity. At any rate, he divided up its thousand rooms into private suites of apartments, which were given as residences to persons of high social position whose incomes were not large enough to keep them. And to this day a very considerable portion of the palace is shut off from public view for the same purpose.

However, the parts which we can visit are extremely interesting. Entering at the main gate by Molesey Bridge, we cross the outer Green Court and come to the Moat. In Wolsey’s time this was crossed by a drawbridge of the sort in use when palaces were fortresses as well as dwelling-places. We now pass into the buildings over a fine old battlemented Tudor bridge.

This was built by Henry VIII. in honour of Anne Boleyn; but for centuries it lay buried and forgotten. Then one day, just before the War, workmen came upon it quite accidentally as they were cleaning out the old Moat.

Once through the gateway we come straight into the first of the old-world courtyards—the Base Court—and we feel almost as if we had stepped back several hundred years into a bygone age. The deep red brickwork of the battlements and the walls, the quaint chimneys, doorways, windows, and turrets, all belong to the distant past; they make on us an impression which not even the splendour of Wren’s additions can remove. Passing through another gateway—Anne Boleyn’s—we come into the Clock Court, so called because of the curious old timepiece above the archway. This clock was specially constructed for Henry VIII., and for centuries it has gone on telling the minute of the hour, the hour of the day, the day of the month, and the month of the year.

The Great Hall, which we may approach by a stairway leading up from Anne Boleyn’s Gateway is, as we have already said, a magnificent apartment. The glory of its elaborate roof can never be forgotten. Hanging on its walls are some very famous tapestries which have been at Hampton Court since the days of Henry VIII. Among these are “tenne pieces of new arras of the Historie of Abraham,” made in Brussels—some of the richest and most beautiful examples of the art of weaving ever produced. From the Great Hall we pass into what is known as the Watching Chamber or the Great Guard Room—the apartment in which the guards assembled when the monarch was at dinner, and through which passed all who desired audience of their sovereign. On its walls are wonderful old Flemish tapestries which once belonged to Wolsey himself. From the Watching Chamber we pass to another chamber through which the dishes were taken to the tables which stood on the dais at the end of the Hall.

Returning once more to the ground floor we go through a hall and find ourselves in Fountain Court. Here we enter another world entirely. Behind us are the quaint, old-fashioned courtyards, and the beautiful, restful Tudor buildings. The sudden change to Wren’s architecture has an effect almost startling. Yet when once we have forgotten the older buildings and become used to the very different style we see that Wren’s work has a beauty of its own. The newer buildings are very extensive, and the State apartments are filled with pictures and furniture of great interest. Entrance is obtained by what is called the King’s Great Staircase. The first room, entered by a fine doorway, is the Guard Room, a fine, lofty chamber with the upper part of its wall decorated with thousands of old weapons—guns, bayonets, pistols, swords, etc. From thence we pass to the round of the magnificent royal apartments—King’s rooms, Queen’s rooms, and so on, some thirty or more of them—all filled with priceless treasures—beautiful and rare paintings, delightful carvings from the master hand of Grinling Gibbons, so delicate and natural that it is difficult to believe they are made of wood, furniture of great historical interest and beauty. Here are the famous pictures—the “Triumph of Julius Cæsar,” nine large canvases showing the Roman emperor returning in triumph from one of his many wars. These were painted by Mantegna, the celebrated Italian artist, and originally formed part of the great collection brought together at Hampton Court by Charles I. They are a priceless possession. Here, too, are the famous “Hampton Court Beauties” and “Windsor Beauties,” the first painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller, the second by Sir Peter Lely, each portraying a number of famous beauties of the Court. Walking leisurely round these apartments we can obtain an excellent idea of the elaborate style of furnishing which was fashionable two or three centuries ago.

Yet, despite all these most valuable relics of the past, which many people come half across the world to view, for some folk the supreme attraction of Hampton Court will always be the gardens. Very beautiful they are too—the result of centuries of loving care by those, Kings and commoners, who had time and inclination to think of garden making. Perhaps to William of Orange must be given greatest credit in the matter, for it was he who ordered the setting-out of the long, shady avenues and alleys, and the velvety lawns and orderly paths. But we must not forget our debt of gratitude to Henry for the wonderful little sunken garden on the south side of the palace, perhaps one of the finest little old English gardens still in existence; and to Charles I. for the Canal, over a mile long, with its shady walk, and its birds and fishes, and its air of dreamy contentment.

Tens of thousands visit these grounds in the summer months, and the old grape-vine is always one of the chief attractions. Planted as long ago as 1768, it still flourishes and bears an abundant crop each year, sometimes as many as 2,500 bunches, all of fine quality. Its main stem is now over four feet in circumference, and its longest branch about one hundred and twenty feet in length. On the east front, stretching in one unbroken line across the Home Park for three-quarters of a mile towards Kingston, is the Long Water, an ornamental lake made by Charles II. North of the buildings is another garden, known as the Wilderness, and here we may find the celebrated Maze, constructed in the time of William and Mary. This consists of a great number of winding and zig-zag paths, hedged on each side with yew and other shrubs; and the puzzle is to find the way into the little open space in the centre. On almost any day in the summer can be heard the merry laughter of visitors who have lost their way in the labyrinth of paths.

Still farther north lies Bushey Park, with its famous Chestnut Avenue, stretching over a mile in the direction of Teddington. Here are more than a thousand acres of the finest English parkland; and this, together with the large riverside stretch known as the Home Park, formed the royal demesne in which the monarchs and their followers hunted the deer.

As was said at the beginning of the chapter, only with reluctance do we leave Hampton Court, partly because of its very great beauty, partly because of its enthralling historical associations. As we turn our backs on the great Chancellor’s memorial, we think perhaps a trifle sadly of all that the place must have meant to Wolsey, and there come to mind those resounding words which Shakespeare put into his mouth—“Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness.”

CHAPTER NINE

Kingston

Already we have seen that in many cases, if not in most, the River has founded the towns on its banks. These have sprung up originally to guard either an important crossing or the junction of a tributary with the main stream or a “gate” where the River has found a way through the hills; and then, outliving the period of their military usefulness, they have developed later into centres of some commercial importance. Thus it has been with Kingston-upon-Thames, a place of ancient fame, for, according to the geology of the district, there must have been at this spot one of the lowest fords of the River.

That there was on Kingston Hill a Roman station guarding that ford there can be very little doubt; and there are evidences that a considerable Roman town was situated here, for the Roman remains brought to light have been fairly abundant.

Workmen digging or ploughing on the hillside up towards Coombe Warren have, at various times in the past, discovered the foundations of Roman villas, with gold, silver, and bronze coins of the fourth century, and numerous household goods, and in one place a cemetery full of funeral urns.

But it was not till Saxon times that Kingston came to the heyday of its existence. Then it was a place of the greatest possible importance, for here England was united into one country under one King. Prior to the union England was divided off into a number of states, which found amusement in fighting each other when they were not fighting the ancient Britons in their western fastnesses. These states were Northumbria, in the north; Mercia in the Midlands; Wessex in the south-west; and, in addition, the smaller areas of East Anglia, Essex, and Kent. When any one chieftain or king was sufficiently strong to defeat the others, and make them do his will, he became for the time being the “bretwalda,” or overlord; but it was a very precarious honour. The kings in turn won the distinction, but the greater ones emerged from the struggle, and in the end Egbert, king of Wessex, by subduing the Mercians, became so powerful that all the other kings submitted to him. Thus Egbert became the first king or overlord of all the English (827), and picked on Kingston as the place for his great council or witenagemot.

Then followed the terrible years of the Danish invasions, and England was once more split up into sections; but the trouble passed, and Edward the Elder, elected and crowned king of Wessex at Kingston, eventually became the real King of England, the first to be addressed in those terms by the Pope of Rome.

Thence onward Kingston was the recognized place of coronation for the English Kings, till Edward the Confessor allotted that distinction to his new Abbey at Westminster. In addition, it was one of the royal residences and the home of the Bishops of Winchester, whose palace was situated where now a narrow street, called Bishop’s Hall, runs down from Thames Street to the River. So that Kingston’s position as one of the chief towns of Wessex was acknowledged.

The stone on which the Saxon Kings were crowned stands now quite close to the market-place, jealously guarded by proper railings, as such a treasure should be. Originally it was housed in a little chapel, called the Chapel of St. Mary, close to the Parish Church, and with it were preserved effigies of the sovereigns crowned; but unfortunately in the year 1730 the chapel collapsed, killing the foolish sexton who had been digging too close to the foundations. Then for years the stone was left out in the market-place, unhonoured and almost unrecognized, till in the year 1850 it was rescued and mounted in its present position. According to the inscription round the base, the English Kings crowned at Kingston included Edward the Elder (902), Athelstan (924), Edmund I. (940), Edred (946), Edwy the Fair (955), Edward the Martyr (975), and Ethelred II. (979).

That most wretched of monarchs, King John, gave the town its first charter, and for a time at least resided here. In the High Street there is now shown a quaint old building to which the title of “King John’s Dairy” has been given, and this possibly marks the situation of the King’s dwelling-place.

There was a castle here from quite early days, for we read that in 1263, when Henry III. was fighting against his barons, Kingston Castle fell into the hands of de Montfort’s colleagues, who captured and held the young Prince Edward; and that Henry returned in the following year and won the castle back again. At the spot where Eden Street joins the London Road were found the remains of walls of great thickness, and these, which are still to be seen in the cellars of houses there, are commonly supposed to be the foundations of a castle held by the Earls of Warwick at the time of the Wars of the Roses, and possibly of an even earlier structure.

Right down through history Kingston, probably by reason of its important river crossing, has had its peaceful life disturbed at intervals by the various national struggles. Armies have descended on it suddenly, stayed the night, taken their fill, and gone on their way; a few have come and stayed. Monarchs have broken their journeys at this convenient spot, or have dined here in state to show their favour. For Kingston, as the King’s “tun” or town should, has always been a distinctly Royalist town, has invariably declared for the sovereign—right or wrong.

Kingston.

Thus in 1554, when young Sir Thomas Wyatt raised his army of ten thousand to attack London, and found the Bridge too strong to force, he made his way westwards to the convenient crossing at Kingston; but the inhabitants broke down their bridge to delay his progress, and so enabled Mary to get together a force; for which act of devotion the citizens were rewarded with a free charter by Queen Mary.

Similarly, in the Civil War the town stood firmly by Charles, despite the fact that the town was occupied by cavaliers and roundheads in turn. Thus in October, 1642, the Earl of Essex settled down with several thousand men; while in November Sir Richard Onslow came to defend the crossing. But the inhabitants showed themselves extremely “malignant”; though when, just after, the King came to the town with his army he was greeted with every sign of joyous welcome.

Also at Kingston occurred one of the numerous risings which happened during the year 1648. All over the land the Royalists gathered men and raised the King’s standard, hoping that Parliament would not be able to cope with so many simultaneous insurrections. In July the Earl of Holland, High Steward of Kingston, the Duke of Buckingham, and his brother Lord Francis Villiers, got together a force of several hundred horsemen, but they were heavily defeated by a force of Parliamentarians, and Lord Villiers was killed.

Teddington Weir

Nowadays, despite the fact that the town has held its own through a thousand years, neither losing in fame a great deal nor gaining, Kingston does not give one any impression of age. True, it has some ancient dwellings here and there, but for the most part they are hidden away behind unsightly commercial frontages.

Between Kingston and Richmond the River sweeps round in an inverted S-bend, passing on the way Teddington and Twickenham, formerly two very pretty riverside villages. The former possess the lowest pound-lock on the River (with the exception of that of the half-tide lock at Richmond), and also a considerable weir. It is the point at which the tide reaches its limit, and thereby gets its name Teddington, or Tide-ending-town.

CHAPTER TEN

Richmond

Richmond is an old place with a new name, for though its history goes back to Saxon times, it did not get its present name till the reign of Henry VII., when “Harry of Richmond” rechristened it in allusion to the title which he received from the Yorkshire town. Prior to that it had always been called Sheen, and the name still survives in an outlying part of the town.

Sheen Manor House had been right from Saxon days a hunting lodge and an occasional dwelling for the Sovereigns, but Edward III. built a substantial palace, and, absolutely deserted by all his friends, died in it in the year 1377. He was succeeded by his young grandson, the Black Prince’s child Richard, who spent most of his childhood with his mother Joan at Kingston Castle, just a mile or two higher upstream. Richard’s wife, Queen Anne of Bohemia, died in Sheen Palace in the year 1394, and Richard was so upset that he had the palace pulled down, and never visited Sheen again.

Richmond Hill from Petersham Meadows

This, however, by no means ended the life of Sheen as a royal residence, for Henry V. built a new house, and when, in 1498, this was burned down, Henry VII. built a new palace on a much grander scale, and at the same time gave it the name which it still bears. With the Tudor kings and queens Richmond was a very great favourite. “Bluff King Hal” loved to hunt in its woodland, and here, in 1603, “good Queen Bess” died, after forty-five years of a troublous but prosperous and progressive reign. Charles I. spent much of his time here, and he it was who added Richmond Park to the royal domain in the year 1637.

After the Civil War the palace was set aside for the use of the widowed Queen Henrietta Maria, but by that time it had got into a very dilapidated condition; and little or nothing was done to improve it. So that before long this once stately palace fell to pieces and was removed piecemeal. Now all that remains of it is a gateway by Richmond Green.

Richmond to-day is merely a suburb of London, one of the pleasure grounds of the city’s countless workers, who come hither on Saturdays and Sundays either to find exercise and enjoyment on the River, or to breathe the pure air of the park. This New Park, so called to distinguish it from the Old Deer Park, which lies at the other end of the town, is a very fine place indeed. Surrounded by a wall about eleven miles long, it covers 2,250 acres of splendid park and woodland, with glorious views in all directions. In it are to be found numerous deer which spend their young days here, and later are transferred to Windsor Park. The Old Deer Park, of which about a hundred acres are open to the public for football, golf, tennis, and other pastimes, lies by the riverside between the town and Kew Gardens.

From the Terrace Richmond

The view of the River Thames from the Terrace on Richmond Hill is world-famous. Countless artists have painted it, and many writers have described it; and probably it has deserved all the good things said about it, for even now, spoiled as it is by odd factory chimneys and unsightly buildings dotted about, it still remains one of the most delightful vistas of the silvery, winding River. Those of you who have read Scott’s “Heart of Midlothian” will probably remember the passage (chapter xxxvi.) which describes it: “The equipage stopped on a commanding eminence, where the beauty of English landscape was displayed in its utmost luxuriance. Here the Duke alighted and desired Jeanie to follow him. They paused for a moment on the brow of a hill, to gaze on the unrivalled landscape which it presented. A huge sea of verdure, with crossing and intersecting promontories of massive and tufted groves, was tenanted by numberless flocks and herds, which seemed to wander unrestrained and unbounded through the rich pastures. The Thames, here turreted with villas and there garlanded with forests, moved on slowly and placidly, like the mighty monarch of the scene, to whom all its other beauties were but accessories, and bore on its bosom a hundred barks and skiffs, whose white sails and gaily fluttering pennons gave life to the whole. The Duke was, of course, familiar with this scene; but to a man of taste it must be always new.”

Nor have the poets been behindhand with their appreciation, as the following extract from James Thomson’s “Seasons” shows:

“Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around,

Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,

And glittering towers, and gilded streams, till all

The stretching landscape into smoke decays.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Richmond to Westminster

Just below Richmond, on the borders of the Middlesex village of Isleworth, there is a foot-passenger toll-bridge, with what is known as a half-tide lock. The arches of this bridge are open to river traffic during the first half of the ebb-tide and the second half of the flow, but the River is dammed for the remainder of the day in order that sufficient water may be kept in the stretch immediately above. This, for the present, is the last obstruction on the journey seawards.

Isleworth, with its riverside church, its ancient inn, “The London Apprentice,” and its great flour-mill, is a typical riverside village which has lived on out of the past. Between it and Brentford lies the magnificent seat of the Dukes of Northumberland—Sion House—a fine dwelling situated in a delightful expanse of parkland facing Kew Gardens on the Surrey shore.

Of Kew Gardens, which stretch beside the River from the Old Deer Park almost to Kew Bridge, it is difficult for one who loves nature to speak in moderate terms, for it is one of the most delightful places in the whole of our land. At every season of the year, almost every day, there is some fresh enchantment, some glory of tree or flower unfolding itself, so that one can go there year after year, week in and week out, without exhausting its treasure-house of wonders, even though there is only a matter of 350 acres to explore.

Kew Palace and Kew Gardens.

The Royal Botanical Gardens, as their proper name is, were first laid out by George III. in the year 1760, and were presented to the nation by Queen Victoria in the year 1840. Since then the authorities have planned and worked assiduously and wisely to bring together a botanical collection of such scope and admirable arrangement that it is practically without rival in the world. Here may be seen, flourishing in various huge glasshouses, the most beautiful of tropical and semi-tropical plants—palms, ferns, cacti, orchids, giant lilies, etc.; while in the magnificently laid out grounds are to be found flowers, trees, and shrubs of all kinds growing in a delightful profusion. There is not a dull spot anywhere; while the rhododendron dell, the azalea garden, the rock garden, and the rose walks are indescribably beautiful. Nor is beauty the only consideration, for the carefully planned gardens, with their splendid museum, are of untold value to the gardener and the botanist.

Nor must we forget that Kew had its palace. Frederick, Prince of Wales, father of George III. and great patron of Surrey cricket, resided at Kew House, as did his son after him. The son pulled down the mansion in 1803 and erected another in its place; and, not to be outdone, George IV. in turn demolished this. The smaller dwelling-house—dignified now by the title of palace—a homely red-brick building, known in Queen Anne’s time as the “Dutch House,” was built in the reign of James I. In it died Queen Charlotte.

If we speak with unstinting praise of Kew, what shall we say of Brentford, opposite it on the Middlesex side of the stream? Surely no county in England has a more untidy and squalid little county town. Its long main street is narrow to the point of danger, so that it has been necessary to construct at great cost a new arterial road which will avoid Brentford altogether; while many of its byways can be dignified by no better word than slums. Yet Brentford in the past was a place of some note in Middlesex, and had its share of history. Indeed, in recent times it has laid claim to be the “ford” where Julius Cæsar crossed on his way to Verulam, a claim which for years was held undisputedly by Cowey Stakes, near Walton.

Now the Great Western Railway Company’s extensive docks, where numerous barges discharge and receive their cargoes, and the incidental sidings and warehouses, the gas-works, the various factories and commercial buildings, make riverside Brentford a thing of positive ugliness.

On the bank above the ferry, close to the spot where the little Brent River joins the main stream, the inhabitants, proud of their share in the nation’s struggles, have erected a granite pillar with the following brief recital of the town’s claims to notoriety:

54 b.c.—At this ancient fortified ford the British tribesmen, under Cassivelaunus, bravely opposed Julius Cæsar on his march to Verulamium.

a.d. 780-1.—Near by Offa, King of Mercia, with his Queen, the bishops, and principal officers, held a Council of the Church.

a.d. 1016.—Here Edmund Ironside, King of England, drove Cnut and his defeated Danes across the Thames.

a.d. 1640.—Close by was fought the Battle of Brentford between the forces of King Charles I. and the Parliament.

From Kew Bridge onwards the River loses steadily in charm if it gains somewhat in importance. The beauty which has clung to it practically all the way from the Cotswolds now almost entirely disappears, giving place to a generally depressing aspect, relieved here and there with just faint suggestions of the receding charm.

A short distance downstream is Mortlake, once a pretty little riverside village, now almost a suburb of London, and quite uninteresting save that it marks the finish of the University Boatrace. This, as all folk in the Thames Valley (and many out of it) are aware, is rowed each year upstream from Putney to Mortlake, usually on the flood-tide.

Putney to Mortlake Championship Course

Barnes, on the Surrey shore, is a very ancient place. The Manor of Barn Elmes was presented by Athelstan (925-940) to the canons of St. Paul’s, and by them it has been held ever since. The name possibly came from the great barn or spicarium, which the canons had on the spot. The place is now the home of the Ranelagh Club—a famous club for outdoor pursuits, notably polo, golf, and tennis.

Fulham Palace, on the Middlesex bank, not far from Putney Bridge, is the “country residence” of the Bishops of London. For nine centuries the Bishops have held the manor of Fulham, and during most of the time have had their domicile in the village. In these days, when Fulham is one of the utterly dreary districts of London, with acres and acres of dull, commonplace streets, it is hard indeed to think of it as a fresh riverside village with fine old mansions and a wide expanse of market-gardens and a moat-surrounded palace hidden among the tall trees.

Fulham Palace The Quadrangle

Fitz James Gateway.

The River now begins to run through London proper, and from its banks rise wharves, warehouses, factories, and numerous other indications of its manifold commercial activities. Thus it continues on past Wandsworth, where the tiny river Wandle joins forces and where there is talk of erecting another half-tide lock, past Fulham, Chelsea, Battersea, Pimlico, Vauxhall, and Lambeth, on to Westminster.

Ranelagh.

At Chelsea and Vauxhall were situated those famous pleasure-gardens—the Ranelagh and Cremorne Gardens at the former, and the Spring Gardens at the latter—which during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries provided London with so much in the way of entertainment. Vauxhall Gardens were opened to the public some time after the Restoration, and at once became popular, so that folk of all sorts, rich and poor alike, came to pass a pleasant evening. An account written in 1751 speaks of the gardens as “laid out in so grand a taste that they are frequented in the three summer months by most of the nobility and gentry then in or near London.” The following passage from Smollett’s “Humphrey Clinker” aptly describes the dazzling scene: “A spacious garden, part laid out in delightful walks, bounded with high hedges and trees, and paved with gravel; part exhibiting a wonderful assemblage of the most picturesque and striking objects, pavilions, lodges, graves, grottos, lawns, temples, and cascades; porticoes, colonnades, rotundas; adorned with pillars, statues, and paintings; the whole illuminated with an infinite number of lamps, disposed in different figures of suns, stars, and constellations; the place crowded with the gayest company, ranging through those blissful shades, and supping in different lodges on cold collations, enlivened with mirth, freedom, and good humour, and animated by an excellent band of music.”

In the early days most of the folk came by water, and the river was gay with boatloads of revellers Barges and boats waited each evening at Westminster and Whitehall Stairs in readiness for passengers; and similarly at various places along the city front craft plied for hire to convey the citizens, their wives and daughters, and even their apprentices.

Ranelagh was not quite so ancient, and it encouraged a slightly better class of visitor: otherwise it was the counterpart of Vauxhall, as was Cremorne. It was famous, among other things, for its regatta. In 1775 this was a tremendous water-carnival. The River from London Bridge westwards was covered with boats of all sorts, and stands were erected on the banks for the convenience of spectators.

Ranelagh was demolished in 1805, but Vauxhall persisted right on till 1859, when it too came under the auctioneer’s hammer. Where Cremorne once stood is now the huge power-station so prominent in this stretch of the river; and the famous coffee-house kept by “Don Saltero” in the early eighteenth century was in Cheyne Walk.

Chelsea in its day has achieved fame in quite a variety of ways. Apart from its pleasure gardens it has come to be well-known for its beautiful old physic-garden; its hospital for aged soldiers, part of the gardens of which were included in Ranelagh; its bun-house; its pottery; and last, but by no means least, for its association with literary celebrities. Here have lived, and worked, and, in some cases, died, writers of such different types as Sir Thomas More, whose headless body was buried in the church, John Locke, Addison, Swift, Smollett, Carlyle—the “sage of Chelsea”—Leigh Hunt, Rossetti, Swinburne, and Kingsley. Artists, too, have congregated in these quiet streets, and the names of Turner and Whistler will never be forgotten.

The Power-Station, Chelsea.

At Lambeth may still be seen the famous palace of the Archbishops of Canterbury, a beautiful building of red-brick and stone, standing in an old-world garden. Some parts of it are very old: one, the Lollards’ Tower, is an exceedingly fine relic of medieval building. Close at hand stands the huge pile of buildings which house the pottery works of Messrs. Doulton. For some reason or other Lambeth has long been associated with this industry.

The Lollards’ Tower, Lambeth Palace.

As early as 1670 one Edward Warner sold potters’ clay here, and exported it in huge quantities to Holland and other countries, and various potters, some Dutch, settled in the district. All this stretch of the River seems to have been famous for its china-works in the past, for there were celebrated potteries at Fulham, Chelsea, and Battersea as well. Of these Battersea has passed away, and its productions are eagerly sought after by collectors, but Fulham and Lambeth remain, while Chelsea, after a long interval, is reviving this ancient craft.

Thus we have traversed in fancy the whole of this wonderful River—so fascinating to both young and old, to both studious and pleasure-seeking. The more we learn of it the more we are enthralled by its story, by the immense share it has had in the shaping of England’s destinies.

We started with a consideration of what those wonderful people the geologists could tell us of the River in dim, prehistoric days; and we feel inclined to turn once more to them in conclusion. For they tell us now that the Thames is growing less; that, just as in times past it captured the waters of other streams and reduced them to trickling nothings, so in turn it is succumbing day by day to the depredations of the River Ouse, which is slowly cutting off its head. Some day, perhaps, the Thames will be just a tiny rivulet, and the Port of London will be no more; but I think the tides will ebb and flow under London Bridge many times before it comes to pass.