For some two months beforehand, the little ones used to deposit a weekly penny for this special purpose; and, when their contributions were thought to nearly amount to a shilling each, the fund was held sufficient to carry out the long-looked-for treat—although, of course, the vicar and other kindly-disposed persons would largely help to make the affair go off with the eclat and dignity suited to the occasion, all of which resulted in its being turned into a general picnic for the parish.
The anniversary of the fête this year, was celebrated with even grander effect than any former ones had been, imposing and satisfactory though they were held at the time to be. Richmond Park was the scene of our festivities; and, not only had the vicar caused to be provided a couple of roomy four-horse omnibuses, the leading one of which sported a band, to accommodate the rank and file of the juveniles under the escort of such of their mothers as could spare the time to accompany them; but, those children who had particularly distinguished themselves during the year for good conduct, were permitted to go in the gondola, in which we oldsters proceeded, to the same destination by water. It was arranged that the “’buses” should meet us at Richmond, where both descriptions of conveyances were to disgorge their motley contents; and, the several and hitherto-severed parties, joining issue, would set about making as pleasant a day of it as could be effected under the circumstances.
A “gondola” seems at first sight an anachronism on the Thames; still, on mature reflection, there does not appear to be any reason why we should not indulge in this respect equally as well as the inhabitants of much-idealised dirty Venice.
Whether you agree with me or not, however, I can tell you that there are gondolas to be seen on our great watery highway—heavy barges, with bluff bows and fictitious awnings and problematical cushions, that may be had on hire for the asking, at most of the principal boating places along the banks from Chelsea to Chiswick.
On first starting, one missed the many romantic associations with which the name of our floating vehicle was generally connected; yet, suggestive fancy could readily supply their place with kindred ideas culled from our more prosaic surroundings. We had, it is true, no crimson-sashed, ragged, ballet-costumed gondolier to “ply the measured oar;” because, in the first instance, we did not row up at all. We were a trifle too wise in our generation to pull up the river in a lumbering barge under a broiling sun, and fancy we were amusing ourselves! No, we had a horse and a tow-rope; and, went on our way gaily without exertion!
Just you volunteer, for once, to row an excursion party up to Richmond:—you’ll enjoy it, I promise you! It is regular treadmill work; see, if you won’t afterwards think our plan the best, and adopt it, too, or I’m no prophet, that’s all!
Our gondolier “was not;” but the mounted jockey who bestrode our towing horse was; and, in lieu of waking the echoes with choice extracts from Tasso in the liquid Venesian or harsh, gritty Tuscan dialect, he occasionally beguiled his monotonous jog-trot with a plaintive ballad, in which he rehearsed the charms of a certain “Pretty little Sarah;” or else, “made the welkin ring”—though what a “welkin” is, I have never yet been able to discover—with repeated injunctions to his somewhat lazy steed to “gee whup” and “gee wo!”
We had no “Bridge of Sighs,” to pursue the parallel, where the roving eye might detect “a palace and a prison on either hand;” but, in its stead, we could gaze at the festooned chains of Hammersmith Suspension Bridge in all its simple beauty, and see the Soapworks and the Mall on the hither and further shore. Our course led, not through serpentine canals and past Doges’ palaces, gaudy with the lavish adornments of tricky Byzantine architecture; nor could we expect to see “lions” as historical as those which ornament the façade of Saint Mark’s. However, as we glided up against the tide, in slow but steady progress, by willowy banks and osiered eyots, our boat yawning in and out and requiring a stiff weather helm to keep her course, we often caught glimpses of ivy-wreathed churches, charming villa residences and gothic summer-houses, peeping out from amidst the river-lining trees—with a verdant meadow here and there to break the view, its smoothly-mown surface sweeping down to the water’s edge; while, we knew, also, that the stream which bore us on its bosom flowed over stakes and hurdles that our indigo-dyed ancestors, the ancient Britons, had planted in its bed, long before Caesar’s conquering legions crossed the channel, or Venice possessed “a local habitation and a name.”
You may say, probably, that all this is a regular rigmarole of nonsense; but, what else would you have?
It was a nice, beautiful, hot summer day, as our gondola glided on Richmondwards.