Source of the Ravensbourne.
Source of the Ravensbourne.
On Keston Heath wells up the Ravensbourne,
A crystal rillet, scarce a palm in width,
Till creeping to a bed, outspread by art,
It sheets itself across, reposing there:
Thence, through a thicket, sinuous it flows,
And crossing meads, and footpaths, gath’ring tribute.
Due to its elder birth, from younger branches,
Wanders, in Hayes and Bromley, Beckenham vale,
And straggling Lewisham, to where Deptford Bridge
Uprises in obeisance to its flood,
Whence, with large increase it rolls on, to swell
The master current of the “mighty heart”
Of England.
*
Before I had seen Keston I heard, at West Wickham, that it had been the site of a Roman camp, and that a Roman bath was still there. It was from curiosity towards this piece of antiquity that I first visited the spot, in company with my friend W——. The country people, whom we met on our way, spoke of it as the “Old Bath,” and the “Cold Bath,” and as a water of great virtue, formerly bathed in, and still resorted to, by persons afflicted with weak or sprained limbs, which by dipping in this bath became cured.
Our walk from Wickham was remarkably pleasant; we passed noble oaks of many centuries’ growth, and descended from the broad open highway into an old road on our left, a ravine, or intrenchment perchance, clothed with tendril plants and blossoming briars, festooning and arching over wild flowers growing amid the verdure of its high banks. Here we paced up hill, till we reached an open, lofty tract of heathland, in a rude, uncultivated, picturesque state, with a few houses in distant parts, surrounded by thriving plantations. On our left were the woodlands of the pleasant village of Hayes, remarkable for having been the seat of the great earl of Chatham, and the birthplace of his well-remembered son. On our right were the heights of Holwood, and fine forest scenery. Near a cluster of cottages immediately before us there was a mill, with its sails going; these we scarcely glanced at, but made our way to an old alehouse, the sign of the Fox, where an ancient labourer, sitting at the door, directed us to “the Bath.” We found it in a romantic little bottom, immediately under the gates of Holwood.
The delightful landscape, from the opening of this dell towards London and beyond it, so much engaged our attention, that for a while we forgot the “Bath,” on the brink of which we were standing. There is no appearance of its having been a bathing-place, and certainly it has not the least character of a Roman bath. It is simply a well of fine pellucid water, which gently overflowing threads a small winding channel in the herbage, and suddenly expands, till it seems bounded by an embankment and line of trees. This is the road to the pleasant inn “Keston Cross.” In the distance are the Kentish and Essex hills, with the dome of the metropolitan cathedral. Presuming that information respecting the spring might be obtained at Holwood we reascended, and inquired of several labourers employed in levelling and gravelling the avenue; but we derived nothing satisfactory till a Keston man, working at a distance, came up, and told us that it was the source of the Ravensbourne.
I had formerly heard and read of a tradition respecting this spring, and now that I unexpectedly found myself upon its margin, recollection of the story heightened the interest of the scene. The legend runs, that when Cæsar was encamped here his troops were in great need of water, and none could be found in the vicinity. Observing, however, that a raven frequently alighted near the camp, and conjecturing that it was for the purpose of quenching its thirst, he ordered the coming of the bird to be watched for, and the spot to be particularly noted; this was done, and the result was as he anticipated. The object of the raven’s resort was this little spring; from thence Cæsar derived a supply of water for the Roman legions, and from the circumstance of its discovery the spring was called the Raven’s bourne, or the Raven’s brook. From the lodge at Holwood, W. obtained the loan of a chair, and taking his seat on the brink of the well, sketched the view represented in his [engraving] of it above.
If the account of Holwood[465] in 1792 be correct, this spring, there called “Cæsar’s Spring,” was then a public cold bath, ornamented with trees, and a dressing-house on the brink. Hasted, in 1778,[466] gives a view of the Roman intrenchments on Holwood Hill, and figures the ancient road to the spring of the Ravensbourne, as running down to it from where Holwood gates now stand: he also figures the spring with twelve trees planted round it. Now, however, there is not a vestige of tree or building, but there are in the ground the stumps of a poled fencing, which was standing within recollection. On further examination I found the well bricked round, but the bricks at the top edge had decayed, or been thrown in; and the interior brickwork is lined with hair moss and other water-weeds. On the side opposite to that whereon a man is represented in the engraving. I traced the remains of steps for descending into the well as a bath. Its circle is about nine feet in diameter. At what time it commenced, or ceased, to be used as a bath, is uncertain.
Here, then, about twelve miles from London, in a delightful country, is a spring, rendered venerable by immemorial tradition and our ancient annals; and which, during eighteen centuries, from the time of its alleged discovery by Cæsar, has remained open to general use. Sorry therefore am I to add, that there are rumours of a wish to enclose this public relic of bygone ages. I invite public attention to the place and to the report. Even at this season the lover of natural scenery will find charms at the source of the Ravensbourne, and be able to imagine the beauty of the surrounding country in summer. Had I a right of common on Keston Heath, rather than assist in a base “homage,” to colourably admit the enclosure of “Cæsar’s Spring,” I would surrender my own right, and renounce community and neighbourhood with the heartless hirelings, who would defraud themselves and the public of the chief attraction to Keston Common. At so small a distance from London I know of nothing so remarkable in history as this spring. On no pretence ought the public to be deprived of it. There are rights of nature as well as of property: when the claims of the latter are urged too pertinaciously against the former, it is time to cry out; and if middle men do not interfere to prevent the oppression, they will, in their turn, cry aloud when there will be none to help them.
[465] In [col. 626].
[466] History of Kent, folio, vol. i. 129.
Garrick Plays.
No. XLII.
[From “Thyestes,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1681.]
Atreus, having recovered his Wife, and Kingdom, from his brother Thyestes, who had usurped both, and sent him into banishment, describes his offending Queen.
Atreus (solus). ——— still she lives;
’Tis true, in heavy sorrow: so she ought,
If she offended as I fear she has.
Her hardships, though, she owes to her own choice.
I have often offer’d her my useless couch;
For what is it to me? I never sleep:
But for her bed she uses the hard floor.
My table is spread for her; I never eat:
And she’ll take nothing but what feeds her grief.
Philisthenes, the Son of Thyestes, at a stolen interview with Antigone, the daughter of Atreus, is surprised by the King’s Spies: upon which misfortune Antigone swooning, is found by Peneus.
Antigone. Peneus, an ancient retainer to the Court of Mycenæ.
Peneus. Ha! what is she that sleeps in open air?
Indeed the place is far from any path,
But what conducts to melancholy thoughts;
But those are beaten roads about this Court.
Her habit calls her, Noble Grecian Maid;
But her sleep says, she is a stranger here.
All birds of night build in this Court, but Sleep;
And Sleep is here made wild with loud complaints,
And flies away from all. I wonder how
This maid has brought it to her lure so tame.
Antigone, (waking from her swoon). Oh my Philisthenes!
Peneus. She wakes to moan;
Aye, that’s the proper language of this place!
Antigone. My dear, my poor Philisthenes!
I know ’tis so! oh horror! death! hell! oh—
Peneus. I know her now; ’tis fair Antigone,
The daughter and the darling of the King.
This is the lot of all this family.[467]
Beauteous Antigone, thou know’st me well;
I am old Peneus, one who threescore years
Has loved and serv’d thy wretched family.
Impart thy sorrows to me; I perhaps
In my wide circle of experience
May find some counsel that may do thee good.
Antigone. O good old man! how long have you been here?
Peneus. I came but now.
Antigone. O did you see this way
Poor young Philisthenes? you know him well.
Peneus. Thy uncle’s son, Thyestes’ eldest son—
Antigone. The same, the same—
Peneus. No; all the Gods forbid
I should meet him so near thy father’s Court.
Antigone. O he was here one cursed minute past.
Peneus. What brought him hither?
Antigone. Love to wretched me.
Our warring fathers never ventured more
For bitter hate than we for innocent love.
Here but a minute past the dear youth lay,
Here in this brambly cave lay in my arms;
And now he is seized! O miserable me—(tears her hair.)
Peneus. Why dost thou rend that beauteous ornament?
In what has it offended? hold thy hands.
Antigone. O father, go and plead for the poor youth;
No one dares speak to the fierce King but you—
Peneus. And no one near speaks more in vain than I;
He spurns me from his presence like a dog.
Antigone. Oh, then—
Peneus. She faints, she swoons, I frighten’d her,
Oh I spake indiscretely. Daughter, child,
Antigone, I’ll go, indeed I’ll go.
Antigone. There is no help for me in heav’n or earth.
Peneus. There is, there is; despair not, sorrowful maid.
All will be well. I’m going to the King,
And will with pow’rful reasons bind his hands;
And something in me says I shall prevail.
But to whose care shall I leave thee the while?—
For oh! I dare not trust thee to thy grief.
Antigone. I’ll be disposed of, father, as you please,
Till I receive the blest or dreadful doom.
Peneus. Then come, dear daughter, lean upon my arm,
Which old and weak is stronger yet than thine;
Thy youth hath known more sorrow than my age.
I never hear of grief, but when I’m here;
But one day’s diet here of sighs and tears
Returns me elder home by many years.
Atreus, to entrap his brother Thyestes; who has lived a concealed life, lurking in woods, to elude his vengeance; sends Philisthenes and old Peneus to him with offers of reconciliation, and an invitation to Court, to be present at the nuptials of Antigone with Philisthenes.
Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus.
Thy. Welcome to my arms,
My hope, my comfort! Time has roll’d about
Several months since I have seen thy face,
And in its progress has done wond’rous things.
Phil. Strange things indeed to chase you to this sad
Dismal abode; nay, and to age, I think:
I see that winter thrusting itself forth
Long, long before its time, in silver hairs.
Thy. My fault, my son; I would be great and high,
Snow lies in summer on some mountain tops.
Ah, Son! I’m sorry for thy noble youth,
Thou hast so bad a father; I’m afraid,
Fortune will quarrel with thee for my sake.
Thou wilt derive unhappiness from me,
Like an hereditary ill disease.
Phil. Sir, I was born, when you were innocent;
And all the ill you have contracted since,
You have wrought out by painful penitence;
For healthy joy returns to us again;
Nay, a more vigorous joy than e’er we had.
Like one recover’d from a sad disease,
Nature for damage pays him double cost,
And gives him fairer flesh than e’er he had.
Thyestes is won from his retirement by the joint representations of Philisthenes and Peneus, of the apparent good faith, and returning kindness of his brother; and visits Mycenæ:—his confidence; his returning misgivings.
Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus.
Thy. O wondrous pleasure to a banish’d man,
I feel my loved long look’d-for native soil!
And oh! my weary eyes, that all the day
Had from some mountain travell’d toward this place,
Now rest themselves upon the royal towers
Of that great palace where I had my birth.
O sacred towers, sacred in your height,
Mingling with clouds, the villas of the Gods
Whither for sacred pleasures they retire;
Sacred because you are the work of Gods;
Your lofty looks boast your divine descent:
And the proud city which lies at your feet,
And would give place to nothing but to you,
Owns her original is short of yours.
And now a thousand objects more ride fast
On morning beams, and meet my eyes in throngs;
And see, all Argos meets me with loud shouts!
Phil. O joyful sound!
Thy. But with them Atreus too—
Phil. What ails my father, that he stops, and shakes,
And now retires?
Thy. Return with me, my son,
And old friend Peneus, to the honest beasts,
And faithful desart, and well-seated caves;
Trees shelter man, by whom they often die,
And never seek revenge: no villainy
Lies in the prospect of an humble cave.
Pen. Talk you of villainy, of foes, and fraud.
Thy. I talk of Atreus.
Pen. What are these to him?
Thy. Nearer than I am, for they are himself.
Pen. Gods drive these impious thoughts out of your mind.
Thy. The Gods for all our safety put them there.—
Return, return with me.
Pen. Against our oaths?
I cannot stem the vengeance of the Gods.
Thy. Here are no Gods: they’ve left this dire abode.
Pen. True race of Tantalus! who parent-like
Are doom’d in midst of plenty to be starved.
His hell and yours differ alone in this:
When he would catch at joys, they fly from him;
When glories catch at you, you fly from them.
Thy. A fit comparison; our joys and his
Are lying shadows, which to trust is hell.
The day of the pretended Nuptials.—Atreus feigns a returning love for his Queen.
Ærope. O this is too much joy for me to bear:
You build new palaces on broken walls.
Atreus. Come, let our new-born pleasures breathe sweet air;
This room’s too vile a cabinet for gold.
Then leave for ever, Love, this doleful place,
And leave behind thee all thy sorrows here;
And dress thyself as this great day requires.
’Twill be thy daughter’s nuptials; and I dream’d,
The Sun himself would be asham’d to come,
And be a guest in his old tarnish’d robe;
But leave my Court,[468] to enlighten all the globe.—
Peneus to Atreus, dissuading him from his horrid purpose.
Pen. Fear you not men or Gods?
Atr. The fear of Gods ne’er came in Pelops’ House.
Pen. Think you there are no Gods?
Atr. I find all things
So false, I am sure of nothing but of wrongs.—
Atreus. Thyestes.
A Table, and a Banquet.
Atr. Come, brother, sit.
Thy. May not Philisthenes
Sit with us, Sir?
Atr. He waits upon the Bride.
A deeper bowl. This to the Bridegroom’s health.
Thy. This to the Gods for this most joyful day.—
Now to the Bridegroom’s health.
Atr. This day shall be
To Argos an eternal festival.
Thy. Fortune and I to day both try our strengths.
I have quite tired her left hand Misery;
She now relieves it with her right-hand Joy,
Which she lays on me with her utmost force;
But both shall be too weak for my strong spirit.
Atr. (aside). So, now my engines of delight have screw’d
The monster to the top of arrogance;
And now he’s ready for his deadly fall.
Thy. O these extremes of misery and joy
Measure the vast extent of a man’s soul.
My spirit reaches Fortune’s East and West.
She has oft set and ris’n here; yet cannot get
Out of the vast dominion of my mind.—
Ho! my proud vaunting has a sudden check;
See, from my head my crown of roses falls;
My hair, tho’ almost drown’d beneath sweet oils,
With strange and sudden horrors starts upright:
Something I know not what bids me not eat;
And what I have devour’d[469] within me groans;
I fain would tear my breast to set it free;—
And I have catch’d the eager thirst of tears,
Which all weak spirits have in misery.
I, who in banishment ne’er wept, weep now.
Atr. Brother, regard it not; ’tis fancy all.
Misery, like night, is haunted with ill spirits,
And spirits leave not easily their haunts;
’Tis said, sometimes they’ll impudently stand
A flight of beams from the forlorn of day,
And scorn the crowing of the sprightly cocks:—
Brother, ’tis morning with our pleasure yet.
Nor has the sprightly wine crow’d oft enough.
See in great flagons at full length it sleeps,
And lets these melancholy thoughts break in
Upon our weaker pleasures. Rouse the wine,
And bid him chase these fancies hence for shame.
Fill up that reverend unvanquish’d Bowl,
Who many a giant in his time has fallen,
And many a monster; Hercules not more.
Thy. If he descends into my groaning breast,
Like Hercules, he will descend to hell—
Atr. And he will vanquish all the monsters there.
Brother, your courage with this Hero try;
He o’er our House has reign’d two hundred years,
And he’s the only king shall rule you here.
Thy. What ails me, I cannot heave it to my lips?
Atr. What, is the bowl too heavy?
Thy. No; my heart.
Atr. The wine will lighten it.
Thy. The wine will not
Come near my lips.
Atr. Why should they be so strange?
They are near a-kin.
Thy. A-kin?
Atr. As possible; father and son not nearer.
Thy. What do you mean?
Atr. Does not good wine beget good blood?
Thy. ’Tis true.
Atr. Your lips then and the wine may be a-kin.
Off with your kindred wine; leave not a drop
To die alone, bewilder’d in that bowl.
Help him to heave it to his head; that’s well.
(Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out.)
Thy. What pond’rous crimes pull heav’n upon our heads?
Nature is choak’d with some vast villainy,
And all her face is black.
Atr. Some lights, some lights.
Thy. The sky is stunn’d, and reels ’twixt night and day;
Old Chaos is return’d.
Atr. It is to see
A young One born, more dreadful than herself;
That promises great comfort to her age,
And to restore her empire.
Thy. What do you mean?
Atr. Confusion I have in thy bowels made.
Thy. Dire thoughts, like Furies, break into my mind
With flaming brands, and shew me what he means.
Where is Philisthenes?
Atr. Ask thy own bowels:
Thou heard’st them groan; perhaps they now will speak.
Thy. Thou hast not, Tyrant—what I dare not ask?
Atr. I kill’d thy Son, and thou hast drunk his blood.
C. L.
[467] The descendants of Tantalus.
[468] A hint of the dreadful banquet which he meditates, at which the Sun is said to have turned away his horses.
[469] The mangled limbs of his son Philisthenes, which Atreus has set before him.
For the Table Book