A swan exercises on me something of the same fascination that a camel does; though far be it from me to compare the two in grace. They are both full of character, and both preserve a strictly critical attitude toward the human race. In the case of the swan, nature has perhaps dealt unfairly with him, for the curious little black cap, at the junction of bill and head, technically known as the "berry," gives him a fixed expression which he has no power to alter, even if he felt beaming with good humour. As it is, he is condemned to go through life as if he momentarily expected an attack upon his dignity and was prepared to repel it. When the sun is shining and the swan dips his long neck in the water and flings it upon his shoulders, the large, glistening drops, running together on the oily surface, lie like a necklet of diamonds in the hollow of his back.
The irises and bur-reeds line the low banks above the weir, and a line of short black poplars give some shade.
And on by many a level mead,
And shadowing bluffs that made the banks,
We glided, winding under ranks
Of iris and the golden reed.
—Tennyson.
I have said that Hurley is a summer place, and so it is; but there is one spring beauty which those who know it only in summer must for ever miss. On the slopes where the heights on the northern side fold into one another there is a little pillared temple, and about and around it some lavish and generous person has planted crocuses in big battalions, and they lie there in the sun, royal in purple and gold, and quite as rich in tint as those lights shining through the stained glass window at Bisham we saw a while ago.
Above the next stretch of the river stands the great modern palace of Danesfield, which is built of chalk, one would imagine a singularly unlasting material. Though hidden by trees from directly beneath, from a distance it is very noticeable, and the white walls gleam out beneath the red tiles in a way that cannot be overlooked. It is well thus to have used local material, for local it is, as can be seen by the great chalk cliffs that line the river side; and the idea is daring and original. The interior fittings are worthy of any palace, and no pains and cost has been spared. It is a worthy object to build a house which shall rank with those bygone mansions on which their owners so lovingly lavished their thought and time, and which have also so frequently disappeared. The name arises from the fact of there having been a Danish camp in the neighbourhood, and the place is still pointed out. After this there is rather a flat bit of meadow land, fringed with sedge and many a gay plant, growing gallantly in blue and mauve. We pass two reedy islands opposite a line of little houses called Frogmill, and then we see Medmenham Abbey, which looks more imposing than it is, being at the best a carefully composed ruin. However, sometimes these compositions, if artistically done, are worth having, and Medmenham has memories behind it. It was once a real abbey, founded for Cistercian monks in 1200. But after the Dissolution the buildings fell into ruin. Later they became the headquarters of the daring and impious club known as the "Hell Fire" Club, of which one of the leading spirits was Sir Francis Dashwood, afterwards Lord Le Despencer, the same who built the church at West Wycombe, only a few miles away as the crow flies. This is a church where the pulpit and reading desk are armchairs; the latter stands on a chest of drawers, which, being pulled out, serve as steps. On the tower of the church an immense ball like a gigantic football is tethered by chains. This can contain twelve people, and the mad lord held meetings here with his friends. The motto of his club was Fay ce que voudras, and the members went as near to devil worship as they dared. Once while they were at Medmenham someone let a huge ape down the chimney, when the revellers, worked up to a frantic pitch of excitement and more than half drunk, thought that his Satanic majesty had paid them a visit in good earnest. From such orgies Medmenham has long been free, and it is now a respectable dwelling house with a nice bit of cloister over which ivy hangs in folds, and to which the word "picturesque" may quite fitly be applied.
There is a ferry over the river at Medmenham, and, not far off, the old Abbey Hotel, in which numbers of artists stay. Up the green lane is a curious old house, once the residence of Sir John Borlase, whom Charles II. used to visit, riding here on horseback, accompanied frequently, so it is said, by Nell Gwynne. Standing by the high road, which here is not half a mile from the river, is a quaint little church with wooden porch and shady evergreens, a very model of what a tiny village church should be.