the thames a sketch-book by r. sharpley. a & c black ltd london w list of sketches by r. sharpley. 1 henley-on-thames (title page) 2 strand-on-the-green. 3 key bridge. 4 ferry road. twickenham. 5 kingston-"ye olde curiosity shoppe". 6 hampton court. 7 sunbury. 8 walton bridge. 9 below staines bridge. 10 windsor castle and bridge. 11 in bray village. 12 in west street. marlow. 13 "ye olde bell" inn. hurley. 14 hurley. the old barn and dovecot. 15 house-boats at henley. 16 sonning from the bridge. 17 mapledurham mill. 18 goring. the bridge. 19 streatley mill. 20 wallingford. 21 shillingford bridge. 22 dorchester abbey. south door. 23 abingdon bridge. 24 at iffley. [illustration: henley-on-thames (title page)] [illustration: strand-on-the-green.] [illustration: key bridge.] [illustration: ferry road. twickenham.] [illustration: kingston-"ye olde curiosity shoppe".] [illustration: hampton court.] [illustration: sunbury.] [illustration: walton bridge.] [illustration: below staines bridge.] [illustration: windsor castle and bridge.] [illustration: in bray village.] [illustration: in west street. marlow.] [illustration: "ye olde bell" inn. hurley.] [illustration: hurley. the old barn and dovecot.] [illustration: house-boats at henley.] [illustration: sonning from the bridge.] [illustration: mapledurham mill.] [illustration: goring. the bridge.] [illustration: streatley mill.] [illustration: wallingford.] [illustration: shillingford bridge.] [illustration: dorchester abbey. south door.] [illustration: abingdon bridge.] [illustration: at iffley.] produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) [illustration: at hampton court] the thames described by g. e. mitton pictured by e. w. haslehust blackie & son limited london and glasgow beautiful england bath and wells canterbury dartmoor dickens-land exeter folkestone and dover hampton court hastings and neighbourhood norwich and the broads oxford the peak district ripon and harrogate shakespeare-land the thames winchester york london the heart of london through london's highways in london's by-ways rambles in greater london beautiful scotland edinburgh the scott country loch lomond, loch katrine, and the trossachs beautiful switzerland chamonix lausanne villars and champery blackie & son ltd., 50 old bailey, london, and 17 stanhope street glasgow blackie & son (india) ltd. bombay; blackie & son (canada) ltd., toronto _printed in great britain by blackie & son, limited, glasgow_ list of illustrations facing page at hampton court _frontispiece_ windsor 5 richmond 12 marlow lock 16 maidenhead bridge 21 cookham church 28 henley 33 sonning 37 pangbourne 44 folly bridge, oxford 48 streatley hills 51 wallingford 54 [illustration: windsor] the thames when the american wondered what all the fuss was about, and "guessed" that any one of his home rivers could swallow the thames and never know it, the englishman replied, he "guessed" it depended at which end the process began; if at the mouth, the american river would probably get no farther than the "greatest city the world has ever known" before succumbing to indigestion! with rivers as with men, size is not an element in greatness, and for no other reason than that it carries london on its banks the thames would be the most famous river in the world. it has other claims too, claims which are here set forth with pen and pencil; for at present we are not dealing with london at all, but with that river of pleasure of which spenser wrote:- along the shores of silver-streaming themmes; whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes, was paynted all with variable flowers, and all the meades adorned with dainty gemmes, fit to deck mayden bowres and crowne their paramoures, against the brydale day which is not long, sweet thames! runne softly till i end my song. oddly enough, this is one of the comparatively few allusions to the thames in literature, and there is no single striking ode in its honour. it is perhaps too much to expect the present poet laureate to fill the gap, but certainly the poet of the thames has yet to arise. besides spenser, drayton makes allusion to the thames in his _polyolbion_, using as an allegory the wedding of thame and isis, from which union is born the thames; and in this he is correct, for where thame and isis unite at dorchester there begins the thames, and all that is usually counted thames, up to oxford and beyond, is, as oxford men correctly say, the isis. yet by custom now the river which flows past oxford is treated as the thames, and when we speak of our national river we count its source as being in the cotswold hills. other poets who refer to the thames are denham, cowley, milton, and pope. in modern times matthew arnold's tender descriptions of the river about and below oxford have been many times quoted. gray wrote an _ode on a distant prospect of eton college_, in which he refers to the "hoary thames", but the lines apostrophizing the "little victims" at play are more often quoted than those regarding the river. the influence of the thames on the countless sons of england who have passed through eton and oxford must be incalculable. it is impossible to mention eton without thinking of windsor, the one royal castle which really impresses foreigners in england. buckingham palace is a palace in name only, its ugly, stiff, stuccoed walls might belong to a gigantic box, but windsor, with its massive towers and its splendid situation, is castle and palace both. well may the german emperor envy it! it carries in it something of the character of that other william, the first of the norman kings of england, who saw the possibilities of the situation, though little of the castle as we see it is due to him. the mass of it is of the time of edward iii, and much of it was altered in that worst era of taste, the reign of george iv. windsor has come scatheless out of the ordeal; the fine masses of masonry already existing have carried off the alterations in their own grandeur, and the result is harmonious. many and many a tale might be quoted of windsor, but these are amply told in _windsor castle_ by edward thomas, the volume which follows this in the same series. here we must be content with quoting only four lines from _the kingis quhair_, the great poem of king james i of scotland, who spent part of his long captivity at windsor. by reason of this poem james i ranks as high among poets as among kings; in it he speaks of the thames as- a river pleasant to behold, embroidered all with fresh flowers gay, where, through the gravel, bright as any gold, the crystal water ran so clear and cold. windsor is the only royal palace, still used as such, which remains out of the seven once standing on the banks of the thames. few people indeed would be able to recite offhand the names of the others. they are all below windsor. the nearest to it is hampton court, chiefly associated with william iii, though it was originally founded by the tactless wolsey, who dared so to adorn it that it attracted the unenviable notice of henry viii. little was it to be wondered at, since the court was described by skelton as- with turrettes and with toures, with halls and with boures, stretching to the starres, with glass windows and barres; hanginge about their walles, clothes of gold and palles fresh as floures in may. skelton also wrote a satire beginning:- why come ye not to court? to whyche court? to the kynge's court or hampton court? the kynge's court should have the excellence, but hampton court hath the pre-eminence and yorkes place, which was like pouring vitriol into the mind of such a man as henry. when wolsey entertained the french ambassadors at hampton, "every chamber had a bason and a ewer of silver, some gilt and some parcel gilt, and some two great pots of silver, in like manner, and one pot at the least with wine or beer, a bowl or goblet, and a silver pot to drink beer in; a silver candlestick or two, with both white lights and yellow lights of three sizes of wax; and a staff torch; a fine manchet, and a cheat loaf of bread". no wonder the king's cupidity was aroused. it was not long before the great cardinal was forced to make a "voluntary" gift of his beloved toy, as he had also to do with another noble mansion which he "made" by thames side--whitehall, formerly known as york place, because held by the archbishops of york. when wolsey was told the king required this, he said with truth: "i know that the king of his own nature is of a royal stomach!" on leaving hampton the great prelate was allowed to go to the palace at richmond. one wonders if he rode from hampton to richmond, only a mile or two by the river bank, on that "mule trapped altogether in crimson velvet and gilt stirrups". of the thousands who use that popular towpath does one ever give a thought to the cardinal thus setting his first step on his tremendous downward descent? it was while he was at hampton that the news was brought to henry of the death of his old favourite at leicester abbey. henry, standing in a "nightgown of russet velvet furred with sables", heard the news callously, and only demanded an account of some money paid to the cardinal before his death; not a qualm disturbed his self-satisfaction. such is the most picturesque reminiscence of hampton, and others must stand aside with a mere reference; such events as the birth of edward vi, which occurred here; the "honeymoon" of bitter, loveless mary and her spanish husband; the imprisonment of charles i for three months. melancholy ghosts these; but they do not haunt the main part of the palace, for that was built later by wren, acting under orders from william iii, to imitate versailles. this incongruity of style must have sorely puzzled the much-tried architect, who has, however, succeeded admirably in his bizarre task. but of all the picturesque and romantic associations with palaces, those connected with richmond are the most interesting. only a fragment of the building now remains. after many vicissitudes, including destruction by fire at the hands of richard ii--who, like a child rending a toy which has hurt him, had it destroyed because the death of his wife occurred here--it was rebuilt by henry vii, the first to call it richmond, whereas before it had been sheen. it is much associated with the eccentric and forceful tudors, who, whatever their faults, had plenty of ability, and of that most valuable of all nature's gifts, originality. it is said that in a room over the gateway took place the death of the miserable countess of nottingham, who confessed at last that she had failed to give to elizabeth the ring which the earl of essex had sent to her in his extremity; whereupon the miserable queen exclaimed: "may god forgive you, for i never can". the unhappy katherine of aragon, and still more unhappy queen mary, spent bitter days at richmond. how different is kew, a palace in name only, a snug red-brick villa in appearance, where the most homely of the hanoverian kings played at being a private gentleman! the other royal palaces--westminster, whitehall and the tower--belong to the london zone, a thing apart, just as london is now itself a county, an entity, and not merely a city overflowing into neighbouring counties. not only for its palaces is the thames famous, the monks made excuse that friday's fish necessitated the vicinity of a river, but in reality they knew better than their neighbours how to choose the most desirable localities. note any exceptionally beautiful situation, any celebrated house, and ten times to one you will find its origin in a monastery. the monasteries which dotted the shores of thames were frequent and lordly. to mention a few of the most important, we have reading, dorchester, chertsey, abingdon, and an incomparable relic remaining in the magnificent abbey church at dorchester, with its "jesse" window, which draws strangers from all parts to see the tree of david arising from jesse and culminating in the christ. [illustration: richmond] nowadays many besides monks have discovered the desirability of a river residence; too many, in fact, for a house with the lawn of that unrivalled turf, smooth as velvet, bright as emerald, which grows only by thames side, commands a rent out of reach of all but the well-to-do. how beautiful such river lawns may be can be judged only at the time when the crimson rambler is in its glory, flinging its rose-red masses over rustic supports, and finding an extraordinary counterblast of colour in the striking vermilion of the geraniums which line the roofs of the prettily painted houseboats anchored near. a houseboat is not exactly a marvel either of comfort or cheapness, but as a joyous experience it is worth the money. you see them lying up in lines by molesey and richmond out of the season, dead lifeless things, with weather-stained paint and tightly shut casements. how different are they in the summer, resplendent in blue and white, lined by flowers and vivified by men in flannels and girls in muslin frocks, with parasols like flowers themselves; then the very houseboat seems alive. of all the notable houses which are passed in following "the silver-winding" way of the thames two cannot be overlooked, because, being perched in lordly situations, they command great vistas of the river. the first is cliveden, standing high above the woods and facing down the river to maidenhead. the present house dates only from the middle of the nineteenth century. it has had two predecessors, both destroyed by fire. the first one was built by "steenie", first duke of buckingham, charles i's favourite. his gay, arrogant life, which came to a fitting end by the assassin's knife, was carried on at cliveden with unbridled licence and extravagance. his wardrobe for the journey to spain with charles, when prince of wales, consisted of "twenty-seven rich suits, embroidered and laced with silk and silver plushes, besides one rich satten incut velvet suit, set all over, both suit and cloak, of diamonds, the value whereof is thought to be about one thousand pounds". it was to cliveden the duke brought the countess of shrewsbury after he had killed her husband by mortally wounding him in a duel, while she stood by disguised as a page and held his horse. there is nothing more curious than to discover how young were the principal actors in the dramas of history. after a life full of action, of intrigue, of excitement, the first duke of buckingham's career was ended at the early age of thirty-six. he left a son and daughter, and another son, francis, was born shortly after. this boy is described as having been singularly lovable and handsome. he fought gallantly for his king in the civil wars, and was killed when only nineteen at kingston-on-thames, thereby, giving us another riverside association. he stood with his back against an oak tree, scorning to ask quarter from his enemies, and fell covered with wounds. it was an age of masques and dramas, and buckingham was the patron of many a poet. ben jonson's masques, performed in costumes designed by inigo jones, were popular both with him and the king. in later days cliveden was the scene of another masque, _alfred_, written by james thomson, who was staying in the house as a guest of frederick, prince of wales, then the lessee. this masque itself is long forgotten, but it contained "rule, britannia!" the national song which thus first made the walls of cliveden echo, before it echoed round the empire. the masque was performed at a fête given in the garden, aug. 1 and 2, 1740. thomson's connection with the thames does not end here. it was at the mall, hammersmith, that he had previously written _the seasons_. enough has been said of cliveden to show that not only in situation but in interesting association it takes high rank among river mansions. the other pronouncedly notable high-standing river mansion is danesfield, above hurley, built of chalk, and reared upon the great chalk cliffs that here line the river's flood. on the slopes near, in crocus time, the hills shine purple and gold with blossom, resembling a royal carpet spread by someone's lavish hand. the place derives its name from having been the site of a danish encampment. but cliveden and danesfield do not exhaust the list of fine riverside mansions, though, as they stand so high, they are more conspicuous than most. one of the most delightful and desirable of all the old houses is bisham abbey, not far from marlow, picturesque in itself and redolent of old associations. there is the bisham ghost, which spreads itself across the river in a thin, white mist which means death to those who try to penetrate it. but the most touching and pitiful tale is of a certain lady hoby, one of the family who held the mansion from the time of edward vi to 1780. she is represented as wandering about in a never-ending purgatory, wringing her hands and trying to cleanse them from indelible inkstains. the story goes that she was condemned thus for her cruelty to her little son, whom, perhaps in mistaken severity, she beat so much for failure to write in his copybooks without blots that the poor child died. it was an age of sternness toward children. we know how lady jane grey suffered, and thought herself "in hell" while with her parents. there were no froebel schools or kindergartens then; and it may be the wretched mother was trying to do her duty as she knew it. a curious confirmation of the story was found in the discovery of a number of copybooks behind a shutter during some repairs. the books were of the tudor period and were deluged in every line with blots! [illustration: marlow lock] several of the hobys are buried in the pretty little church, near to which the river laps the very edge of the churchyard. one monument is to two brothers, sir philip and sir thomas hoby, and the epitaph on the latter, put up by his sorrowing widow, concludes with the lines:- give me, oh god, a husband like unto thomas, or else restore me to my husband thomas. like many another disconsolate widow she married again in a few years, so she had presumably found someone who could rank with thomas! leland in his _itinerary_ mentions the abbey as "a very pleasant delightsome place as most in england", and, indeed, so it is, with its grey stone walls, mullioned windows, and high tower rising amid the trees. bisham at one time belonged to the knights templars, and in 1388 the earl of salisbury established here a monastery for augustinian monks. it was twice surrendered at the dissolution, and the prior, william barlow, had five daughters, who all married bishops! it seems that the worthy cleric had readily taken advantage of the change which abolished celibacy for the clergy! poor anne of cleves lived here in retirement, whilst her stepson was on the throne, but she perhaps found the place too quiet after the fierce excitement of being wife to such a monarch as henry, because it was she who exchanged it with the hoby family, and went elsewhere. edward vi seems to have had a liking for sending his relatives here, for he next committed his sister elizabeth to the care of sir thomas, who seems to have treated her well, though she was in fact a prisoner. that she appreciated the beauty of the river scenery is shown by her revisiting the place when she was queen. the great square hall is said with much probability to have been the abbey church, and if so three earls of salisbury, the "king-maker" warwick, and the unhappy edward plantagenet, son of the duke of clarence, lie beneath the stones. we have lingered a little about bisham, but few places are so well worth it. temple lock, near by, recalls the templars, and just above it is another grand old house, lady place, also on the site of an abbey. sir richard lovelace, created baron by charles i, built here a magnificent mansion, described by macaulay in his usual rolling style, in his _history of england_. the house, therefore, is younger than bisham, but the abbey was older, having been founded as far back as 1086. a part of the crypt remains. here in the dim depths was signed that document which changed the whole course of english history, the invitation to william of orange to come over and take the throne. the chief conspirator was the second baron lovelace, who thus repaid the stuarts who had ennobled his father! at greenlands also, about three miles above lady place and hurley as the crow flies, but more by the winding river, we get another echo of the civil wars. we are told that "for a little fort it was made very strong for the king". it belonged at that time to sir cope d'oyley, a stanch royalist, and when he died his eldest son followed in his steps, and held out even when the parliamentarians planted their cannon in the meadows opposite and fired across the river. the marks of their balls are said to be still visible on the old walls. greenlands now belongs to the hon. w. f. d. smith, heir to his mother, viscountess hambleden. an altogether peculiar case in the peerage this! when the right hon. w. h. smith, first lord of the treasury, died, in october, 1891, he just missed the peerage destined for him. a month later it was conferred upon his widow with remainder to her son. so much for a few of the interesting and romantic associations of the river. but it is not thus the holiday crowds regard it. they seek no meaning in place-names, no historical associations in the grand old mansions passed; to them the river is a playground merely, where every yard of a particular backwater is known, where a favourite boatman reserves a special boat or punt, and where crowds of fellow creatures may be sought or shunned as individual fancy prompts. we might paraphrase wordsworth and say: a place-name on the river's brim, a simple name it was to him, and it was nothing more. one might wander from subject to subject while treating of the thames, finding in each matter enough for a book, indeed the variety of the subjects rivals in scope that famous conversation which ranged "from sealing-wax to kings". romance, history, boating, flowers, regattas, and fish are but a few out of the vast number lying ready for choice, and space is limited. [illustration: maidenhead bridge] the thames swans are a feature to be by no means overlooked. they belong to the crown, the vintners' and dyers' companies, and so ancient are the rights of the companies in this matter that their origin is lost in the mist of antiquity. the annual stock-taking and marking of the swans gives occasion for a pleasant holiday every year about the middle of july; but though the privileged members of the companies and their friends are no longer conveyed in "gaily decorated barges", they no doubt enjoy their excursion by steam launch just as much. "swan-hopping", as it is usually called, is really a corruption of "swan-upping", meaning the process of taking up the swans to mark them according to their ownership. the vintners used to mark their swans with a large v across the mandible, but this custom, having been protested against in the new spirit of tenderness which has swept over the country, they now give two nicks only, one on each side. the well-known tavern sign "the swan with two necks" is really a corruption of this much-used mark of identification, and should be "the swan with two nicks". the king is by far the largest owner, and as he has discontinued the custom of having a number of swans and cygnets taken for the royal table, it is probable that swans will increase on the river very rapidly. the swan has always been a royal bird, and in the time of edward iv no one was permitted to keep swans unless he had a freehold of at least five marks annually. the order for the regulation of the thames swans, in which this clause appears, runs to thirty clauses, and is a very quaint document. one sentence is as follows: "it is ordained that every owner that hath any swans shall pay every year ... fourpence to the master of the game for his fee, and his dinner and supper free on the upping days". these regulations show that the institution of swans on the thames is a very ancient one, and the graceful, bad-tempered birds themselves add much to the beauty of the river. the swan with arched neck between her white wings mantling, proudly rows her state with oary feet. --_milton._ to light upon another subject. there is in the boating alone enough to occupy many volumes. we might start from the solid punt, furnished with chairs, and shoved out into midstream by three sober snuff-coloured gentlemen; there anchored by its own poles, while the three sit on their chairs in midstream, regardless of the obstruction they form to quicker nimbler mortals, fishing, or rather holding rods, as immovable as themselves, the livelong day. the punt plays such a small part in the whole proceeding, it might well fall outside the boating classification altogether--a mud island would do as well. it has not even the dignity of a ferry boat. from here, through all varieties of broad-beamed, blunt-nosed family boats, to the long slender racing skiffs or the canoe light as a dragon-fly on the wing, we could run the gamut in the book of the boat. the distance between hammersmith bridge and folly bridge, oxford, is 103 miles, and the extent and variety of boating on this stretch, to go no lower, is unequalled on any other river in england. the first weir is to be found below richmond, and the first lock at teddington. in 1578 there were 23 locks, 16 mills, 16 floodgates, and 7 weirs on the river between maidenhead and oxford. thirty more locks and weirs were added in the next six years. when we find that "the locks were machines of wood placed across the river, and so contrived to hold the water as long as convenient, that is, till the water rises to such a height as to allow of depth enough for the barge to pass over the shallows", we are not surprised to learn that exception was taken to the building of more locks, because so many people had been drowned! the barges were not charged for going up, but only for coming down, which seems a little unreasonable when we realize that "the going up of the locks was so steep that every year cables had been broken that cost £400". it is curious how easily the river may be divided into "zones", each with its usual habitués quite distinct from those of other zones. taking it generally, it may be said that the farther from london the more exclusive is the crowd, and this is perhaps because a very large number of thames lovers live in london, and the accessibility and expense of the outing tend to thin out the number as the distance lengthens. the influence of london is felt all the way to hampton, linked up as it now is by trams with the metropolis. putney and hammersmith are part of london; chiswick and brentford run on continuously, and are only excluded by an arbitrary line. kew and richmond and hampton are the favourite playgrounds of the londoner, and may be reckoned as much among the "sights" as the tower or the zoo. the river between putney and barnes is associated with the greatest event of the boating year, the university boat race. it is the day of the year to many a quiet country clergyman, who comes up from his rural parish for the great event, even if it takes place at some impossible hour in the early morning. the hour varies according to the tide, for the race is rowed at its height, and, in spite of inconvenience or discomfort, there is always a company of enthusiasts to line the banks. on a really favourable day, when the chances are even, the route about mortlake is alive with people on both sides of the river. every vantage point is occupied, and trains arriving slowly on the railway bridge deposit their freights and withdraw every few minutes. carts are drawn up on the roadway, and filled with people, happy to get a seat at a reasonable price, while the meadows on the northern shore afford room for hundreds. the launch of the thames conservators comes to clear the course, hustling aside the small steamers and boats. a murmur begins and grows in intensity until the rival boats are seen rounding the corner from hammersmith. there is a moment of intense anxiety until the rival crews are distinguished, and then a roar goes up from impulsive partisans. close behind the boats comes the umpire's launch, and half a dozen others, including press boats. the crew which gets first under barnes railway bridge is generally considered to have the race in hand, but if the two boats are close this is by no means sure. the crowd prefers the slice of river between hammersmith and barnes bridge, because from first to last so much can be seen of the race, but the curve hides the winning-post. some few moments after the disappearance of the boats a rumour as to the winner comes swiftly back; but it is not till the umpire's launch returns, and glides smoothly down the course with the flag of the victors streaming out gallantly, that the result is known with certainty. the next zone, including sunbury, walton, weybridge, right on to windsor, is a quiet one. it has its own charm, but lacks any exceptional features of striking interest. placid green meadows, feathery willows, peaceful cows, and sunny little unpretentious houses are the chief components of almost every view. weybridge is perhaps the prettiest place, because of the many turnings and windings of the river near it, but penton hook, laleham, shepperton, and walton can all claim a quiet prettiness of their own. windsor stands by itself, and the influence of eton is paramount. then from bray right on to marlow we get what must be by far the most popular bit of the whole river. bray itself is particularly pleasant, and is associated for all time with the worthy vicar, who was content to turn his coat at the bidding of the party in power sooner than lose his beloved parish. the original vicar lived in the reigns of henry viii and his immediate successor, and his mental somersaults were from the catholic to reformed church, and back once more; but the ballad makes him live in the days of charles ii, james ii, william, anne, and george i, a period of over fifty years. as it is rather difficult to get hold of, we may quote part of it here. it runs through all the variations from- in good king charles's golden days, when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous high churchman was i, and so i got preferment. to teach my flock i never missed, kings were by god appointed, and damn'd are those that do resist or touch the lord's anointed. when royal james obtained the crown and popery came in fashion, the penal laws i hooted down and read the declaration. the church of rome i found would fit full well my constitution, and had become a jesuit but for the revolution. * * * * when george in pudding-time came o'er, and moderate men looked big, sir, i turned a cat-in-a-pan once more and so became a whig, sir. and thus preferment i secured from our new faith's defender, and almost every day abjured the pope and the pretender. * * * * for this is law i will maintain until my dying day, sir. whatever king in england reign i'll still be vicar of bray, sir. maidenhead bridges, rail and road, span the river above bray. maidenhead is easily accessible by the great western railway main line, and, with taplow, which comes down to the river on the opposite bank, counts its devotees in thousands. taplow village is a little distance away, but skindle's hotel on that side counts largely in itself as representing taplow. not even the sacred ganges itself could show a crowd more ardent or more gaily clad than this stretch of the river on a fine summer day. the rich ochres and purples of the east are outshone by the soft brilliancy of blues and pinks, the rose-reds and yellows of the gayer sex both in their garments and sunshades. and if the great day, the sunday after ascot, be in any way tolerable, boulter's lock, all the more sought apparently because of its congestion, is a sight indeed. people come in crowds to stand on the banks and view it as a show. but all the year round, even in winter, a few visitors may be found in the reach above boulter's, under the magnificent amphitheatre-like sweeps of the cliveden woods. the cliff itself rises to a height of 140 feet and is clothed to the very summit. oak, beech, ash, and chestnut show up against clumps of dark evergreen. the bosky masses are broken here and there by a lombardy poplar pointing upward, and the whole is wreathed and swathed in shawls of the wild clematis, the woodbine of the older poets, otherwise traveller's joy. beyond the cliveden reach is cookham, beloved of many, with its pretty little church tower peeping over the trees, and opposite is bourne end, near which is a wide, open reach used as a course for sailing boats. the only woods that can rival those of cliveden are the quarry woods, opposite great marlow, and they lose in effect from not coming right down to the water but sweeping away inland. the quarry woods are largely beech and evergreen, and in the autumn the stems, owing to the damp atmosphere, are covered with a vivid green lichen, the thick leaves, turning the burnt red colour peculiar to beeches, not only shine overhead, but make a rich carpet for the ground. then the woods might well be the enchanted woods of a child's fairy tale, so glorious is their aspect. between marlow and henley, as we have seen, most of the ancient historical associations cluster; within that short space are bisham, lady place, medmenham, and greenlands, and the reach of the river is quite pretty enough to tempt people without the added glamour. [illustration: cookham church] medmenham abbey is now a carefully composed ruin, with a most attractive-looking cloister close to the river. so well has art aped reality, that it is regarded with much more reverence than many genuinely old buildings which make less display. it is at present a private house, but began its career in the orthodox way as an abbey, being founded about 1200 for cistercian monks. few of the thirteenth-century stones can now remain, unless it be as foundations. a weird and ghostly flavour was imparted to the place by its being chosen as headquarters by the roistering crew of the eighteenth century who called themselves "the hell-fire club", and professed to worship satan. the leader of the revellers was sir francis dashwood, who succeeded his uncle in the title of baron le despencer in 1763. the club motto was _fay ce que voudras_, and each member tried to outdo the rest in eccentricity. though they gloried in their wild doings and set afloat many tales which made quieter folk catch their breath in horror, it is probable that, apart from open blasphemy, their proceedings were more foolish than horrible. once, as a joke, someone sent an ape down the chimney while they were gathered together, and the frightened gibbering creature, soot-begrimed, was mistaken by the terror-stricken revellers for satan himself. not far off is the old abbey hotel, beloved of artists, and farther on up the green lane is a curious old house which once belonged to sir john borlase, friend of king charles ii, who was visited here by his majesty on horseback, often accompanied, so tradition goes, by nelly gwynne. henley, of course, boasts the regatta of the thames; other regattas there are in plenty, but none can compare with henley in importance. its heats are telegraphed abroad, and as a sporting event it ranks only second to the boat race. the regatta is held the first week in july. the course is lined by booms, within the shelter of which every variety of craft is seen wedged together so tightly as to make upsetting a sheer impossibility. punts worked with canoe paddles are perhaps the most popular, but skiffs and frail canadian canoes, as well as the solid hired craft of the boat builders may be seen. gondolas regularly make their appearance, and seem to vanish in between from year to year. it used to be fashionable to wear simple muslins and straws at henley, but year by year fashion has screwed up things to a higher pitch, until nowadays gowns which, in their elaborate affectation of simplicity, would not disgrace ascot itself, are to be seen everywhere, especially on the lawns of the clubs which run down to the water behind the waiting craft. the scene is a gay one, and for days before every available room is taken, every available boat hired. the red lion--and henley would hardly be henley without the red lion--could be filled several times over. it was of this inn shenstone wrote:- whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, whate'er his stages may have been, may sigh to think he still has found the warmest welcome at an inn. the whole poem, of which this is a verse, was written on a window of the inn, and though the window was broken the relic is preserved. charles i stayed at the red lion in 1632, on his way from london to oxford, and a large fresco painting of the royal arms, done in commemoration of this visit, was discovered over a fireplace during alterations. doubtless it had been purposely hidden in the days when henley was hotly parliamentarian and striving vainly to subdue poor little greenlands. owing to its position as a sort of halfway house between london and oxford, henley enjoys a good deal of society. the great duke of marlborough actually furnished a room at the inn that he might frequently occupy it. it is at henley that the daily steamer stops when running between kingston and oxford in the summer months. between henley and sonning lies the most intricate part of the river bed, and here are the most bewitching reaches. the numerous islets, the backwaters and sheltered nooks, make it a favourite part with boating men. wargrave backwater, indeed, is the most famous on the river, and is in summer simply a fairyland of greenery. the entrance, behind a willow-covered island, conveys something of mystery, and as one floats gently along a waterway so narrow that one could almost touch the banks on either side, with the sun showering down between the meshes of the delicate veil of leaves, one might be sailing into the palace where lies the sleeping princess. fiddler's bridge is so low that it is necessary to lie down full length in the boat in passing under it, and two boats meeting must certainly make some arrangement for mutual safety, even if it be not exactly that of the goats in the fable. [illustration: henley] wargrave itself might be taken as a typical thames-side village. here we have collected together many of the features to be found singly in other river villages, notably the weather-worn look about the small irregular houses, probably due to the damp atmosphere, and, though not exactly an attraction from the house-hunter's point of view, yet a most desirable feature in the eyes of artists. no crudity can long exist by thames side; with gentle fingers the soft atmosphere caresses the hard red brick and adds a touch of lichen here and there, and straightway the wall becomes a thing of beauty. added to this, this same atmosphere, aided by the rich soil, possibly at one time part of the river bed, produces creepers in profusion in every nook and corner; and those asperities which will not yield to gentler methods are veiled by climbing clematis, by masses of wistaria, or by the stretching withy branches of rose bushes. the result is a sweet vista of glory in flower-time, a glory out of which peep casement windows, gable ends, and irregular angles. roses and sweetbrier, purple clematis and starry jasmine, tall garden plants, and delicate overhanging mauve blooms of wistaria, looking like rare coloured bunches of grapes, mingle with or succeed one another from spring to autumn. the prolific growth in thames village gardens is one source of beauty to the river. in autumn no strip of a few square yards but has its tall hollyhocks, its royal sunflowers, and, in gay carpets, its scented stocks. the gardens of the lock-keepers, often situated on small islands, are among the gayest on the river; a prize is offered every year for the best of them, a prize which, i believe, goring has carried off frequently. matthew arnold must have had some of these cottage gardens in his mind, when he wrote: soon will the musk carnations break and swell, soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, sweet-william with his homely cottage smell, and stocks in fragrant blow; roses, that down the alleys shine afar, and open jasmine-muffled lattices. besides its flowers and its general architecture, wargrave has other claims to rank as a typical thames-side village. the old inn, the george, whose lawn runs down to the water, is just the kind of hostelry one expects to find. its signboard, indeed, was painted by two r.a.s, a fact eloquent of the kind of "wild-fowl" which forgathers at wargrave. this unique sign is preserved indoors, while an understudy swings out over the village street. wargrave church, too, is no whit behind expectation. it is of flint, as are the most part of the thames-side churches, and has a square tower with pinnacles, half ivycovered; so it acts up to all that is required of it. thomas day, the author of _sandford and merton_, which so delighted the last generation of children, is buried in the church; he was killed by a fall from his horse. to add to the list of its self-respecting virtues, the tower of wargrave church can be seen from the river, peeping out from among the tall trees that surround it. above wargrave is shiplake, between which and sonning is the curious channel known as the loddon and st. patrick's stream. these two, making a loop by which the lock may be avoided, are tempting to boatmen, for nowhere else on the river may such a feat be performed. yet if the boatman try the passage up-stream it is likely he will regret it and wish he had favoured the lock, with all its bother and its unwelcome toll instead; for st. patrick's stream has a swift current. of sonning who can write with sufficient inspiration? the wonderful old red-brick bridge has drawn artists by the score, whereupon they have drawn it in retaliation! the hotel rose garden, famous for the variety and beauty of the blooms, is an attraction only second, and the hotel itself is second to none on the river. the mills on the thames might well have a book to themselves; they are so ancient and so picturesque. several, including the one at sonning, are actually mentioned in _domesday book_. they are more ancient in their establishment even than the records of the monasteries, and so can claim to be the oldest things on the river, though some of the bridges might run them close. in the hot summer days the backwater of a mill is a place beloved of many. there, beneath the shelter of a broad-leaved horse-chestnut, so thick and rich of growth it makes the water almost black, one may lie in still content, hearing the splash of the falling water, and perhaps seeing it dashing from the mighty flaps of the wheel in glittering cascades. the very sight helps to keep one cool. [illustration: sonning] of bridges, too, much might be said, and yet records are hard to find. sonning bridge must rank high in age, as also that at abingdon, of which we read: king herry the fyft in his fourthe yere, he hath i-founde for his folke a brige in berkschire for cartes with cariage may go and come clere, that many wynters afore were mareed in the myre. culham hythe hath caused many a curse, i-blessed be our helpers we have a better waye, without any peny for cart or for horse. --_geoffrey barbour._ the building of bridges was in old days considered an act of charity, in the same way as the founding of almshouses and "hospitals". people left bequests with this object. between reading and wallingford are two other noted beauty bits, which could not be omitted in any book on the thames, however limited the space. mapledurham, with its beautiful little church, its fine old elizabethan house near by, and its most delightful mill, is visited by everyone who can make the pilgrimage. it is, however, rather spoilt by the near neighbourhood of reading, which is the only town which can be called such, in the real "towny" sense, between london and oxford. yet reading is not exactly on the riverside, but has a river suburb at caversham. henley, wallingford, abingdon, and the rest are so thoroughly in accordance with the spirit of the river, so charming in themselves, and above all so comparatively limited in extent, they add to rather than detract from the thames scenery. reading, in spite of its undoubted features of interest, in spite of its ancient history, is still a manufacturing town, and as such spreads around an atmosphere which is uncongenial to true thames lovers, who regard it as a blot. the abbot of reading was mitred, and ruled with a powerful hand; indeed, the abbey over which he held sway was third in england, and had the privilege of coining, a royal prerogative. adela, second queen of king henry i, is buried here, also his daughter the empress maude. when the dissolution came, the abbot in office, hugh farringford, thirty-first of his line, nourished on the proud traditions of his predecessors, refused to yield to henry viii, and was in consequence hanged, drawn, and quartered in front of his own gate. there was a castle in reading as well as an abbey, though the only reminiscence of it left is in the name of castle street. from the time of the danes the castle played its part in history; in the civil wars it was at first a stronghold for the king and later for the parliamentarians. st. giles's church still bears the marks of the artillery from which it suffered. archbishop laud was born at reading and educated at the free school there. at present, as everyone knows, reading is renowned for its biscuits and seeds. farther up we have a repetition of twin villages, linked by a bridge, veritable siamese twins, a fact which is interesting and curious. pangbourne and whitchurch dwell in the same sort of amicable rivalry as do streatley and goring. they may be at war between themselves but they hold together against the world. streatley certainly cannot fail to yield the palm to goring for beauty. for goring is considered by many critics to be the very prettiest village on the river, a claim which its quaint main street, falling down the hillside to the river at right angles, does much to establish. but the surroundings of streatley, the splendid sweep of heights, which back it up, cannot be rivalled by goring. the road running through both crosses the river, and it is ancient in very truth. it was used by the romans and formed part of the famous icknield way, but was made long before their time. for generations before history begins bands of furtive men, ready for surprise, and as suspicious as wild animals, must have padded on bare feet down one line of hills, across the river ford, and mounted the heights again, keenly scanning the country for possible enemies. no neat creeper-covered red brick cottages then, no church even, though goring church is very old, dating back to norman times, and having been the church of an augustinian priory. no mills even, not the most primitive, and though neither village can be accused of ruining its beauty in a frantic search after modernism--the mill at goring, in spite of its mossy roof, gleaming green and russet, frequented by the flocks of white pigeons, has adopted an electric generating station! from the electric-power methods to the ancient britons is indeed a far cry! pangbourne and whitchurch, taken as a couple, cannot vie with goring and streatley; though pangbourne is pretty enough, and the river near it is island-broken, and particularly attractive. the reach succeeding goring and streatley is dull right up to wallingford. in some points wallingford and abingdon may claim brotherhood, they are of the same size and about them hangs the same atmosphere, but the river at abingdon is incomparably more interesting. of wallingford something more must be said in the historical reminiscences, and for the time we may leave it, and, skipping dorchester, already mentioned, and sutton-courtney, another beauty spot, with an incomparable "pool", go on to abingdon. of the bridge we have already spoken--there it stands, burford bridge, old and irregular, with straggling arches, some round, some pointed. the bridge is long and rests partly on an island on which is built the nag's head inn, whose garden occupies the island. the abbey buildings, still partly standing, founded by cissa in 675, is one of the most interesting features of the town. the long range of wall, and the mighty exterior chimney, probably built about the fourteenth century, show up in season amid masses of horse-chestnut blossom, for which the town is famous. henry i, the learned beauclerc, was here educated from his twelfth year. christ's hospital, as it is called, with a hall dating from 1400, is one of the sights of abingdon, and the day to see it is that on which eighty loaves of bread are distributed to the poor people of the town. this occurs once a week. with abingdon we get within range of oxford, and what remains is distinctly in the oxford zone, just as all the river below hampton is london in character. the famous oxford meadows, with their range of wild flowers, rival the swiss meadows. the profusion of flowers in the riverside gardens has already been noted, but these differ little, except in richness of growth, from those usually found in cottage gardens. more interesting to those studying the thames as a theme are the flowers growing wild along the banks, which are native to the river. among these may be reckoned the purple loosestrife, with its tapering gaily coloured spikes standing often four feet high, and at times mistaken for a foxglove; also the pink-flowering willow-herb, the wild mustard with its raw tone of yellow, the buckbean growing in low-lying stagnant places, and the tall yellow iris, clear-cut and soldierly, with its broad-bladed leaves rustling along the margin of the banks. not less beautiful are the burr-reeds and flowering rushes, the marsh-mallows and the cuckoo-flowers, found in many parts of the river; but the growth of wild flowers, including these and others, is richest of all in the meadows below oxford. here the fritillaries are especially noted:- i know what white, what purple fritillaries, the grassy harvest of the river fields above by ensham, down by sandford yields. --_matthew arnold._ also the yellow iris, the cuckoo flower, the water villarsia, the purple orchis, the willow-weed, and many another are here seen in full perfection. the nuneham woods rank with the oxford meadows as an attraction, and the inn at sandford still holds its own, though overshadowed by a paper mill. there is one glorious gem by the river which is in a category by itself, and is unapproached by rivals; this is the small church of iffley. its architecture is not pure, but its claim to date from norman times is undisputed. no one passing along the meadows should fail to stop at iffley and see some genuine norman mouldings and massive architecture. after this we come to oxford and may stand on folly bridge, and as we watch the water flowing swiftly beneath our feet may run with it in imagination past all the beauties and all the places of interest already described, on by cool meadows and overshadowing trees until it meets the flooding uptide below richmond and mingling with it in the ebb is lost in the "town" water of brentford and hammersmith, and so plunges into the thick grey flood by london, and on by wharves and docks until- stately prows are rising and bowing, shouts of mariners winnow the air, and level banks for sands endowing the tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. --_jean ingelow._ no river in the world can show so wonderful a gallery of great names, or so noted a collection of world's men, in connection with it. perhaps the two names which arise at once to everyone's mind are those of pope and walpole, who lived so near one another at twickenham. pope was at twickenham from 1719-44, and produced here his most famous works, including the last books of the _odyssey_, the _dunciad_, and the _essay on man_, but he is not by these remembered on the river, his claim to notice is that he made a curious underground grotto, of which he wrote:- from the river thames you see through my arch up a walk of the wilderness to a kind of open temple, wholly composed of shells in the rustic manner, and from that distance under the temple, you look down through a sloping arcade of trees, and see the sails on the river, passing suddenly and vanishing as through a perspective glass. when you shut the doors of this grotto it becomes on the instant from a luminous room a camera obscura, on the walls of which all objects of the river, hills, woods, and boats, are forming a moving picture in their visible radiation. pope had known the river from his birth. his parents lived at binfield, about nine miles from windsor. part of windsor forest is still called pope's wood, and his poem on windsor forest must contain some of his earliest impressions. he was two years at chiswick, after leaving binfield, and then bought the house at twickenham with which his name is chiefly associated. long before this, however, he had been a popular visitor at mapledurham, where the glorious old elizabethan mansion near the church still shelters blounts as it did in his day and long before. two pretty daughters of the house, described by gay as- the fair-hair'd martha and teresa brown, competed for the honour of pope's attentions, even though he was "a little miserable object, so weak that he could not hold himself upright without stays, so sickly that his whole life was a continued illness"; his genius, early recognized, concealed by its blaze such trifles. his poems in many places keep alive the sisters' names, and in the mapledurham ms collection much of his correspondence is preserved. there does not seem to have been any question of his marriage with either of the girls, and it is doubtful if his connection with them was altogether for their good; but at any rate it has added lustre to the family records. teresa once assured him, he tells us, "that but for some whims of that kind (propriety) she would go a-raking with me in man's clothes". [illustration: pangbourne] one detail of pope's garden is so peculiarly associated with the river that it must be mentioned. it is said that the weeping willow grown by him was the parent of all the weeping willows in england, and if so many a thames vista owes an added touch of beauty to him. pope's grotto has taken so much hold on the popular imagination that it ranks only second to his hideous and grotesque villa by the riverside, which was recently occupied by henry labouchere, m.p. the real interest of the place lies in the literary coteries which met in the house, including such men as swift and gay, who helped by suggestions and designs during the building of the famous marble hill for the countess of suffolk, friend of george ii. gay in particular was a _persona grata_ with the countess, and occupied a special suite of rooms set aside for him at marble hill. it was three years after pope's death that walpole came to the neighbourhood; he had the mania for fantastic building effects even more strongly than the poet. pope had made his villa peculiar enough in all conscience, but walpole's so-called gothic in the rebuilding of strawberry hill was a medley of every sort of architectural effect which could conceivably be classed under that heading. "not to mention minute discordances, there are several parts of strawberry hill which belong to the religious, and others to the castellated, form of gothic architecture." walpole solemnly boasted that his "house will give a lesson in taste to all who visit it". it might have done so, but not exactly in the way he intended. he made the place a perfect museum, and it became the fashion to visit strawberry hill. the earl of bath was so enchanted with it that he wrote a ballad, which, in its own kind, might well take rank with the architectural effort which inspired it. every verse ended: but strawberry hill, but strawberry hill must bear away the palm. walpole wrote of the place, soon after he had acquired it: "two delightful roads, which you would call dusty, supply me continually with coaches and chaises, barges as solemn as barons of the exchequer move under my window. richmond hill and ham walks round my prospect; but, thank god! the thames is between me and the duchess of queensberry!" he used to term the mansion his "paper house" because, the walls being very slight, and the roof not very secure, in the heavy rains it was apt to leak, "but," adds an enthusiastic writer of his own time, "in viewing the apartments, particularly the magnificent gallery, all such ideas vanished in admiration". after his first visit to paris, walpole never wore a hat, and used to go out walking over his soaking lawns in thin slippers. he sat much in the breakfast-room, which gave a view toward the thames, and his constant companion was an inordinately fat little dog. he wrote the _castle of otranto_ in eight days, or rather eight nights, for he says his "general hours of composition are from ten o'clock at night till two in the morning". the squirrels at strawberry hill were a great feature; regularly after breakfast walpole used to mix a large basin of bread-and-milk and throw it out to them. he was very fond of animals, he even used to cut up bread and spread it on the dining-room mantelpiece, thus drawing a number of expectant mice from their holes! it troubled him greatly when he became earl of orford, at the advanced age of seventy-four, on the death of his nephew. he could not see why, sitting at home in his own room, he should be called by a new name! the most notable fact connected with strawberry hill was the printing-press walpole there established, from which he issued many of his own, and some of his friend, the poet gray's, works. henry fielding came to twickenham, having first married, as his second choice, his late wife's maid. he was only here about a year. sir godfrey kneller, too, was a resident; and turner, having built here a summer resort, and called it sandycombe lodge, used it from 1814-26. so that, all things considered, twickenham may boast a considerable galaxy of stars. [illustration: folly bridge, oxford] though the names of pope and walpole are best known from their long association with the river, by far the noblest name that thames can boast is that of milton. it was as a young man, fresh from the university, that he came to live for five years with his parents at horton, near wraysbury. horton is not exactly on the river, but it is very near, and the influence of the scenery must have been strong on the delicate youth nicknamed "the lady", whose genius was already blossoming. he walked far and wide over the rich, well-watered land, down to the river's banks with its overhanging trees. in many of his stately poems little word pictures, reminiscences of these quiet days, are found: by the rushy-fringed bank where grows the willow and the osier dank. --_comus._ ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use of shades and wanton winds and gushing brooks. --_lycidas._ the house in which milton lived has vanished, in fact the only one of his many residences remaining is that at chalfont st. giles, bucks. but the pretty little church at horton, close by which the house was situated, still stands. the poet's only sister was married, his younger brother an occasional visitor, and, as his father was well on in years, the life must have been singularly quiet. milton was only in his twenty-fourth year when he left the university, but already his poems had shown the bent of his mind. he was at horton from 1632-38, and he himself says he spent there "a complete holiday in turning over the greek and latin writers". hardly the kind of holiday that would commend itself to the etonians not so many miles off. yet this "holiday" was productive of _l'allegro_, _il penseroso_, _arcades_, and _comus_, all ranking among the greatest classics in the english language. it is in single lines the effect of the landscape he knew best is seen. by hedgerow elms on hillocks green. meadows trim with daisies pied, are redolent of the thames country. milton's mother died in 1637, and was buried in horton church: soon after the poet went abroad. another poet of the first rank who may be claimed by the thames is shelley, who was at great marlow when he wrote _the revolt of islam_ and _alastor_. the cottage is now divided into four and is easy to see, as there is a long inscription, giving details about the poet's occupation, upon the front of it. _the revolt of islam_ was written partly as he sat in the quarry woods and partly in a boat; so it belongs peculiarly to the river. matthew arnold has already been mentioned, and many of his poems show strong impressions of the river scenery. he was born and is buried at laleham, where his father, the afterwards famous dr. arnold of rugby, had settled down to take pupils for the universities. [illustration: streatley hills] another name the thames can claim is that of cowley. the house in which he lived for two years before his death in 1665 is still standing, at chertsey. it is easy to see, therefore, that the river can boast more poets of high rank than any other celebrated men. this makes it the more peculiar that there is no great poem on the subject. above molesey lock, at hampton, stands the house bought by the great actor garrick in 1754. the place is known better by the little shakespeare temple near the water than by the galaxy of great names drawn thither by garrick himself. we have in fitzgerald's _life of garrick_ a living picture of the daily comings and goings; we see mrs. garrick discussing laurel cuttings with the vicar, or eating figs in the garden with her husband, who was dressed in dark-blue coat with gold-bound buttonholes. at all sorts of odd hours dr. johnson burst into the family circle, and when consulted as to how best the ridiculous little "temple" could be reached from the house, from which it was divided by a road, broke out in all earnestness in favour of a tunnel, as against a bridge, in the words: "david, david, what can't be over-done may be under-done!" one terrible night, when the sensitive actor read aloud from shakespeare, his guest, lord march, fell asleep. the sting was the deeper as "davie" dearly loved a lord! the river fêtes garrick gave were renowned, and the fame of them remains to this day; alas, the knack of river pageantry has long been lost! carlyle, in later days a frequent visitor to the villa, once drove a golf ball through the centre of a leafy archway clean into the river. history is notoriously dull, except to those who have a taste for it, but yet there are scenes in history which may stand out as brightly as any pictures. of such is the signing of magna charta, the greatest act recorded in the whole of our english annals. well might it be thought that london, by means of the tower or westminster, would have claimed to be the theatre of so epoch-making a scene; not at all; as the youngest child knows, it was no building which witnessed the deed, but a thames-side meadow, which may be seen to-day all unchanged, and happily as yet unbuilt on. the island, which goes by the name of magna charta island, is now generally supposed to have usurped a claim properly belonging to the meadow by thames side, and we confess to a certain pleasure that this discovery has been made; for the island is altogether too trim, too neat, and the house thereon too modern, to assort with thoughts of a mighty past. no, we who love the river believe rather, and in our belief we are backed by the latest research, that the flat land, encircled by the heights of cooper's hill, as by the rising tiers of seats, was the amphitheatre whereon the great scene was enacted. we can imagine it crowded by mailed men who trampled under foot the mushy grass, mushy even in the season of summer, an english june. the exact date, never to be forgotten, is june 15, 1215. the flowers grow well about here, the spotted knotweed, the common forget-me-not, the pink willow-herb, the yellow iris, and purple loosestrife may all be found in season, and the meadowsweet and dog-rose scent the summer air. everyone knows about magna charta, but few perhaps realize that kingston has an older historical claim than runnymeade, for it owes its name to being the seat of government of our oldest kings. in the marketplace may be seen the stone inscribed with the names of the seven saxon kings here crowned in turn; hence kings' stone. at that date mercia and wessex were united under one king, and the boundaries of mercia came down to the thames on the north side, while those of wessex marched with them on the south. london was unsafe because of the ravages of the danes, and as at kingston from time immemorial there has been a ford, a thing of vast importance in the absence of bridges, and a ford well known, it seemed that kingston had some claim to the ceremony. in 1224 a wooden bridge replaced the ford, the oldest bridge, and the only one, between this and london bridge. the bridge itself has played a historic part. in 1554 sir thomas wyatt, marching to london, found london bridge closed against him, so he had to march as far as kingston to reach the next crossing-place. the fact seems incredible to us in the days of many bridges. but when sir thomas arrived at the end of his tedious march he found he had been forestalled, the bridge was broken down, and on the farther bank two hundred soldiers stood ready for him should he dare to use the ford! therefore back went he to london town. wallingford has a little bit of history of its own. it boasts the oldest corporation in england, a hundred years prior to that of london. it also disputes with kingston the claim to the oldest bridge and ford above westminster. the town was "destroyed" by the danes in 1006. at the time of william the conqueror's advance on london the castle was held by wigod, a saxon, and from that time onward it was a notable fort, taking part in many historical events. it boasted three moats, and a fragment of the old wall remains in the pretty garden of the house now called the castle. in 1153 prince henry "lay" at wallingford with 3000 men, and stephen, with another army, glared at him from the opposite bank; but like two schoolboys, mutually unwilling, the rivals slipped away without encounter. it was cromwell who ordered the utter destruction of the castle in 1652. [illustration: wallingford] the oldest historical incident of all in connection with the thames is the supposed crossing of cæsar at cowey stakes, above walton bridge. some strong wooden stakes, black and tough with age, and metal-capped, were found driven into the bed of the river at this point. they are supposed to have been driven in by the britons to hinder the crossing of cæsar in b.c. 54. as it is known that cæsar did cross the river some eighty miles above the sea, and as a roman camp was discovered in the neighbourhood, it is quite possible that anyone standing on walton bridge, looking over the wide peaceful stretch of river above, is really surveying the stage on which one of the earliest acts in our great national drama was played. the unhappy henry vi, too weak to bear without misery to himself the responsibility life thrust upon him, sleeps at chertsey. his body, after being exposed at blackfriars, was brought here on a barge--a slow procession and a sad one. in _richard iii_ shakespeare makes the hyprocritical duke of gloucester say: after i have solemnly interred at chertsey monastery this noble king, and wet his grave with my repentant tears. not far from the resting-place of henry vi, a great statesman, charles james fox, was born. what a gap in time and manners and customs is here suggested. to think of the two is to span the distance between generations of growth and thought. fox died at chiswick house, so his life began and ended by thames side. in the same house, twenty years later, died another great statesman, george canning. thus, even without reckoning london itself, the centre of our national life and history, we find the thames can show names famous in literature, in history, and in politics. its banks are studded with memories as they are with flowers, and in contemplation and reminiscence the annals of the centuries flow past us as the water itself flows by, ever smoothly and unceasingly. [illustration: fox flushing pheasants. _from a drawing by lancelot speed._] the naturalist on the thames by c.j. cornish, f.z.s. preface having spent the greater part of my outdoor life in the thames valley, in the enjoyment of the varied interests of its natural history and sport, i have for many years hoped to publish the observations contained in the following chapters. they have been written at different intervals of time, but always with a view to publication in the form of a commentary on the natural history and character of the valley as a whole, from the upper waters to the mouth. for permission to use those which have been previously printed i have to thank the editors and proprietors of the _spectator_, _country life_, and the _badminton magazine_. c.j. cornish. orford house, chiswick mall. contents the thames at sinodun hill the filling of the thames the shells of the thames the antiquity of river plants insects of the thames "the chavender or chub" the world's first butterflies butterfly sleep crayfish and trout fountains and springs bird migration down the thames wittenham wood sport at wittenham sport at wittenham (_continued_) a february fox hunt ewelme--a historical relic eel-traps sheep, plain and coloured some results of wild-bird protection osiers and water-cress fog and dew ponds poisonous plants ancient thames mills the birds that stay ancient hedges the english mocking bird flowers of the grass fields riverside gardening cottages and camping out netting stags in richmond park richmond old deer park fish in the london river chiswick eyot chiswick fishermen birds on thames reservoirs the carrion crow london's buried elephants swans, black and white canvey island the london thames as a waterway the thames as a national trust list of illustrations a fox flushing pheasants wild duck a full thames shells of the thames a flowery bank burr reed and flowering rush a monster chub butterflies at rest a trout otters a waterhen on her nest a dabchick a badger fox and cub ewelme pool a nightjar and young one a reed-bunting peeling osiers botley mill eel bucks orchis water violet and wild iris a netted stag bream and roach a grampus at chiswick smelts the lobster smack inn, canvey island the stepping-stones at benfleet hauling the nets for whitebait fishing boats at leigh the naturalist on the thames the thames at sinodun hill fresh water is almost the oldest thing on earth. while the rocks have been melted, the sea growing salter, and the birds and beasts perfecting themselves or degenerating, the fresh water has been always the same, without change or shadow of turning. so we find in it creatures which are inconceivably old, still living, which, if they did not belong to other worlds than ours, date from a time when the world was other than it is now; and the fresh-water plants, equally prehistoric, on which these creatures feed. protected by this constant element the geographical range of these animals and plants is as remarkable as their high antiquity. there are in lake tanganyika or the rivers of japan exactly the same kinds of shells as in the thames, and the sedges and reeds of the isis are found from cricklade to kamschatka and beyond bering sea to the upper waters of the mackenzie and the mississippi. the thames, our longest fresh-water river, and its containing valley form the largest natural feature in this country. they are an organic whole, in which the river and its tributaries support a vast and separate life of animals and plants, and modify that of the hills and valleys by their course. civil law has recognised the thames system as a separate area, and given to it a special government, that of the conservators, whose control now extends from the nore to the remotest springs in the hamlets in its watershed; and natural law did so long before, when the valley became one of the migration routes of certain southward-flying birds. its course is of such remote antiquity that there are those who hold that its bed may twice have been sunk beneath the sea, and twice risen again above the face of the waters.[1] it has ever been a masterful stream holding its own against the inner forces of the earth; for where the chalk hills rose, silently, invisibly, in the long line from the vale of white horse to the chilterns the river seems to have worn them down as they rose at the crossing point at pangbourne, and kept them under, so that there was no barring of the thames, and no subsequent splitting of the barrier with gorges, cliffs, and falls. its clear waters pass from the oolite of the cotswolds, by the blue lias and its fossils, the sandstone rock at clifton hampden, the gravels of wittenham, the great chalk range of the downs, the greensand, the reading beds, to the geological pie of the london basin, and the beds of drifts and brick earth in which lie bedded the frames and fragments of its prehistoric beasts. in and beside its valley are great woods, parks, downs, springs, ancient mills and fortresses, palaces and villages, and such homes of prehistoric man as sinodun hill and the hut remains at northfield. it has 151 miles of fresh water and 77 of tideway, and is almost the only river in england in which there are islands, the famous eyots, the lowest and largest of which at chiswick touches the london boundary. after leaving oxford the writer has lived for many years opposite this typical and almost unspoilt reach of the london river, and for a considerable time shot over the estate on the upper thames of which sinodun hill is the hub and centre. this fine outlier of the chalk, with its twin mount harp hill, dominates not only the whole of the thames valley at its feet, but the two cross vales of the thame and the ock. on the bank opposite the thame joins the isis, and from thence flows on the thames. weeks and months spent there at all seasons of the year gave even better opportunities for becoming acquainted with the life of the upper thames, than the london river did of learning what the tidal stream really is and may become. fish, fowl and foxes, rare thames flowers and shy thames chub, butterflies, eel-traps, fountains and springs, river shells and water insects, are all parts of the "natural commodities" of the district. there is no better and more representative part of the river than this. close by is nuneham, one of the finest of thames-side parks, and behind that the remains of wild oxfordshire show in thame lane and clifton heath. how many centuries look down from the stronghold on sinodun hill, reckoning centuries by human occupation, no one knows or will know. there stands the fortress of some forgotten race, and below it the double rampart of a roman camp, running from thame to isis. beyond is dorchester, the abbey of the oldest see in wessex, and the abbey mill. the feet of the hills are clothed by wittenham wood, and above the wood stretches the weir, and round to the west, on another great loop of the river, is long wittenham and its lovely backwater. even in winter, when the snow is falling like bags of flour, and the river is chinking with ice, there is plenty to see and learn, or in the floods, when the water roars through the lifted hatches and the rush of the river throbs across the misty flats, and the weeds and sedges smell rank as the stream stews them in its mash-tub in the pool below the weir. [1] phillips, "geology of oxford and of the valley of the thames." the filling of the thames in the late autumn of 1893, one of the driest years ever known, i went to the weir pool above the wood, and found the shepherd fishing. the river was lower than had ever been known or seen, and on the hills round the "dowsers" had been called in with their divining rods to find the vanished waters. "thee've got no water in 'ee, and if 'ee don't fill'ee avore new year, 'ee'll be no more good for a stree-um"! thus briefly, to father thames, the shepherd of sinodun hill. he had pitched his float into the pool below the weir--the pool which lies in the broad, flat fields, with scarce a house in sight but the lockman's cottage--and for the first time on a saturday's fishing he saw his bait go clear to the bottom instead of being lost to view instantly in the boiling water of the weir-pool. he could even see the broken piles and masses of concrete which the river in its days of strength had torn up and scattered on the bottom, and among them the shoals of fat river fish eyeing his worm as critically as his master would a sample of most inferior oats. yet the pool was beautiful to look upon. where the water had sunk the rushes had grown taller than ever, and covered the little sandbanks left by the ebbing river with a forest of green and of red gold, where the frost had laid its finger on them. in the back eddies and shallows the dying lily leaves covered the surface with scales of red and copper, and all along the banks teazles and frogbits, and brown and green reeds, and sedges of bronze and russet, made a screen, through which the black and white moorhens popped in and out, while the water-rats, now almost losing the aquatic habit, and becoming pedestrian, sat peeling rushes with their teeth, and eyeing the shepherd on the weir. even the birds seemed to have voted that the river was never going to fill again, for a colony of sandpipers, instead of continuing their migration to the coast, had taken up their quarters on the little spits of mud and shingle now fringing the weir-pool, and were flitting from point to point, and making believe it was a bit of pagham harbour or porchester creek. on every sunny morning monster spiders ran out from the holes and angles of the weir-frame, and spun webs across and across the straddling iron legs below the footbridge, right down to the lowered surface of the water, which had so sunk that each spider had at least four feet more of web than he could have reckoned upon before and waxed fat on the produce of the added superficies of enmeshed and immolated flies. so things went on almost till new year's eve. the flats of the upper thames, where the floods get out up the ditches and tributaries, and the wild duck gather on the shallow "splashes" and are stalked with the stalking-horse as of old, were as dry as richmond park, and sounded hollow to the foot, instead of wheezing like a sponge. the herons could not find a meal on a hundred acres of meadow, which even a frog found too dry for him, and the little brooks and land-springs which came down through them to the big river were as low as in june, as clear as a hampshire chalk stream, and as full of the submerged life of plants. instead of dying with the dying year at the inrush of cold water brought by autumn rains, all the cresses, and tresses, and stars, and tangles, and laced sprays of the miniature growth of the springs and running brooks were as bright as malachite, though embedded in a double line of dead white shivering sedge. and thus the shortest day went by, and still the fields lay dry, and the river shrank, and the fish were off the feed; and though murky vapours hung over the river and the flats and shut out the sun, the long-expected rains fell not until the last week's end of the year. then at last signs and tokens began by which the knowing ones prophesied that there was something the matter with the weather. the sheep fed as if they were not to have another bite for a week, and bleated without ceasing, strange birds flew across the sky in hurrying flocks, and in all the country houses and farmers' halls the old-fashioned barometers, with their dials almost as big as our eight-day clocks and pointers as long as a knitting-needle, began to fall, or rather to go backwards, further than was ever recorded. and whereas it is, and always has been, a fact well known to the owners of these barometers that if they are tapped violently in the centre of their mahogany stomachs the needle will jerk a little in the direction of recovery, and is thereby believed to exercise a controlling influence in the direction of better weather, the more the barometers were tapped and thumped the more the needle edged backwards, till in some cases it went down till it pointed to the ivory star at the very bottom of the dial, and then struck work and stuck there. [illustration: wild duck. _from a photograph by charles reid._] [illustration: a full thames. _from a photograph by taunt & co._] that night the storm began. to connoisseurs in weather in the meteorological sense it was a joy and an ensample, for it was a perfect cyclonic storm, exactly the right shape, with all its little dotted lines of "isobars" running in ovals one inside another. from another point of view it was the storm of an hour spread over two days, so that there was plenty of time to see and remember the normal ways of cyclones, which may be briefly described as first a flush of heat whether in summer or winter, then a furious wind, then hurrying clouds and much rain, with changes of wind, then more clouds and more rain, then a "clearing shower" with most rain, then a furling and brailing-up of the rain clouds, splashes of blue in the sky, with nets of scud crossing them, sudden gleams of sun, sudden cold, and perhaps a hail shower, and then piercing cold and sunlight. all which things happened, but took a long time about it. the storm began in the night, and howled through the dark. the rain came with the morning; but it was the "clearing shower," which lasted ten hours, which caused the filling of the thames. the wind still blew in furious gusts, but the rain was almost too heavy to be moved. the sky was one dark, sombre cloud, and from this the rain poured in slanting lines like pencils of water. but across this blanket of cloud came darker, lower, and wetter clouds, even more surcharged with water, from which the deluge poured till the earth was white like glass with the spraying drops. out in the fields it was impossible to see through the rain; but as the end of the column of cloud began to break and widen the water could be seen in the act of passing from the land to the river. on the fallows and under the fences all the surface earth was beaten down or swept away. all seeds which had sunk naturally below the surface were laid bare. hundreds of sprouting horse chestnuts, of sprouting acorns beneath the trees, thousands of grains of fallen wheat and barley, of beans, and other seeds of the farm were uncovered as if by a spade. down every furrow, drain, watercourse, ditch, runnel, and watercut, the turbid waters were hurrying, all with one common flow, all with increasing speed, to the thames. the sound of waters filled the air, dropping, poppling, splashing, trickling, dripping from leaves to earth, falling from bank to rills below, gurgling under gate-paths, lapping against the tree-trunks and little ridge piles in the brooks, and at last sweeping with a hushed content into the bosom of thames. and the river himself was good for something more than a "stree-um." he was bank-full and sweeping on, taking to himself on this side and on that the tributes of his children, from which the waters poured so fast that they came in almost clear, and the mingled waters in the river were scarcely clouded in their flow. the lock-men rose by night and looked at the climbing flood, and wakened their wives and children, and raised in haste hatch after hatch of the weirs, and threw open locks and gates. windsor weir broke, but the wires flashed the news on, and the river's course was open, and after the greatest rain-storm and the lowest barometer known for thirty years, the thames was not in flood, but only brimful; and once more a "river of waters." the shells of the thames of the thousands who boat on the thames during the summer few know or notice the beauty of the river shells. they are among the most delicate objects of natural ornament and design in this country. exquisite pattern, graceful shapes, and in some cases lovely tints of colour adorn them. nature has for once relaxed in their favour her rigid rules, by which she turns out things of this kind not only alike in shape, but with identical colour and ornament. among humming-birds, for instance, each bird is like the other, literally to a feather. the lustre on each ruby throat or amethyst wing shines in the same light with the same prismatic divisions. but even in the london river, if you go and seek among the pebbles above hammersmith bridge when the river is low, you may find a score of _neretina_ shells not one of which is coloured like the rest or ornamented with exactly the same pattern, yet each is fit to bejewel the coronet of some titania of the waters. a number of these tiny shells, gathered from below the bridge, lie before the writer, set on black satin to display the hues. they look at a little distance like a series of mixed venetian beads, but of more elegant form. from whichever side they are seen, the curves are the perfection of flowing line. the colouring and ornament of each is a marvel and delight. some are black, with white spots arranged in lines following the curves, and with the top of the blunt spiral white. these "black-and-white marble" patterns are followed by a whole series in which purple takes the place of black, and the spots are modified into scales. then comes a row of rose-coloured shells, some with white lance-heads, or scales, others with alternate bands of white scales and white dots. some are polished, others dull, some rosy pink, others almost crimson. some are marked with cream and purple like the juice of black currants with cream in it. in some the scale pattern changes to a chequer, some are white with purple zig-zags. and lastly come a whole series in pale olive, and olive and cream, in which the general colour is that of a blackcap's egg, and the pattern made by alternate spots of olive and bands of cream. if these little gems of beauty come out of the london river, what may we not expect in the upper waters of the silver thames?[1] a search in the right places in its course will show. but these _neretinae_ are everywhere up to the source of the river, for they feed on all kinds of decaying substances. if the pearl is the result of a disease or injury, the beauty of the _neretina_ is a product or transformation from foul things to fair ones. as the thames is itself the product and union of all its vassal streams, an "incarnation" of all the rest, so in its bed it holds all the shells collected from all its tributaries. different tribes of shells live in different waters. some love the "full-fed river winding slow," some the swift and crystal chalk-stream. some only flourish just over the spots where the springs come bubbling up from the inner cisterns of earth, and breathe, as it were, the freshness of these untainted waters; others love the rich, fat mud, others the sides of wearings and piles, others the river-jungles where the course is choked with weeds. but come what may, or flourish where they please, the empty shells are in time rolled down from trout-stream and chalk-stream, fountain and rill, mill-pool and ditch, cress-bed and water-cut, from the springs of the cotswolds, the chilterns, the downs, from the valleys of berkshire, buckinghamshire, surrey, gloucester, oxford, and essex, into the thames. once there the river makes shell collections on its own account, sorting them out from everything else except a bed of fine sand and gravel, in which they lie like birds' eggs in bran in a boy's cabinet, ready for who will to pick them up or sift them out of it. these shell collections are made in the time of winter floods, though how they are made or why the shells should all remain together, while sticks, stones, and other rubbish are carried away, it is impossible to say. they are laid on smooth points of land round which the waters flow in shallow ripples. across the river it is always deep, swift, and dark, though the sandbanks come in places near the surface, and in the shallows grow water-crowfoot, with waving green hair under water, and white stems above it. the clean and shining sand shelves down to the water's edge, and continues below the surface. here are living shells, or shells with living fish in them. in the bright water lie hundreds of the shells of the fresh-water mussels, the bearers of pearls sometimes, and always lined with that of which pearls are made, the lustrous nacre. the mealy masses of dry sand beyond the river's lip are stuffed with these mussel shells. they lie all ways up, endways, sideways, on their faces, on their backs. the pearl lining shines through the sand, and the mussels gleam like silver spoons under the water. they crack and crunch beneath your feet as you step across to search the mass for the smaller and rarer shells. many of those in the water contain living mussels, yellow-looking fat molluscs, greatly beloved of otters, who eat them as sauce with the chub or bream they catch, and leave the broken shells of the one by the half-picked bones of the other. there was a popular song which had for chorus the question, "did you ever see an oyster walk upstairs?" these mussels _walk_, and are said to be "tolerably active" by a great authority on their habits. they have one foot, on which they travel in search of feeding ground, and leave a visible track across the mud. there are three or four kinds, two of which sometimes hold small pearls, while a third is the pearl-bearer proper. _unio pictorum_ is the scientific name of one, because the shells were once the cups in which the old dutch painters kept their colours, and are still used to hold ground gold and silver for illuminating. the pearl-bearing mussel is longer than the other kinds, flatter and darker, and the lining of mother-of-pearl is equal to half the total thickness of the shell.[2] [illustration: shells of the thames. _from a photograph by e. seeley_] though not so striking from their size and pearly lustre, there are many shells on the thames sandbanks not less interesting and in large numbers. among these are multitudes of tiny fresh-water cockle shells of all sizes, from that of a grain of mustard seed to the size of a walnut, flat, curled shells like small ammonites, fresh-water snail shells of all sizes, river limpets, _neretinae_, and other and rounder bivalve shells allied to the cockles. the so-called "snails" are really quite different from each other, some, the _paludinas_, being large, thick-striped shells, while the _limnaeas_ are thin, more delicately made, some with fine, pointed spiral tops, and others in which the top seems to have been absorbed in the lower stories. there are eight varieties of these _limnaeas_ alone, and six more elegant shells of much the same appearance, but of a different race. the minute elegance of many of these shells is very striking. tiny _physas_ and _succineas_, no larger than shot, live among big _paludinas_ as large as a garden snail, while all sizes of the larger varieties are found, from microscopic atoms to the perfect adult. being water shells, and not such common objects as land shells, these have no popular names. the river limpets are called _ancylus fluviatilis_. some are no larger than a yew berry, and are shaped like a phrygian cap; but they "stick" with proper limpet-like tenacity. on the stems of water-lilies, on piles, on weeds and roots in any shallow streams, but always on the under side of the leaves, are the limpets of the thames. the small ammonite-like shells are called _planorbis_, and like most of the others, belong also to the upper tertiary fossils. they feed on the decaying leaves of the iris and other water plants, and from the number of divisions on the shell are believed to live for sometimes twenty years. of the many varieties, one, the largest, the horn-coloured _planorbis_, emits a purple dye. two centuries ago lister made several experiments in the hope that he might succeed in fixing this dye, as the tyrians did that of the murex, but in vain. there are eleven varieties of this creature alone. it is easier to find the shells than to discover the living creature in the river. for many the deep, full river is not a suitable home; they only come there as the water does, from the tributary streams. far up in some rill in the chalk, from the bed of which the water bubbles up and keeps the stones and gravel bright, whole beds of little pea-cockles may be found, lying in masses side by side, like seeds sown in the water-garden of a nymph. [1] i have a series of _neretina_ shells from the philippines, much larger in size and brown in colour, in which many of the same kinds of ornament occur. [2] a fresh-water mussel shell from north america in my possession is coloured green, and so marked and crimped as to resemble exactly a patch of water-weed, such as grows on stones and piles. the antiquity of river plants in the still gossamer weather of late october, when the webs lie sheeted on the flat green meadows and spools of the air-spiders' silk float over the waters, the birds and fish and insects and flowers of the best of england's rivers show themselves for the last time in that golden autumn sun, and make their bow to the audience before retiring for the year. all the living things become for a few brief hours happy and careless, drinking to the full the last drops of the mere joy of life before the advent of winter and rough weather. the bank flowers still show blossom among the seed-heads, and though the thick round rushes have turned to russet, the forget-me-not is still in flower; and though the water-lilies have all gone to the bottom again, and the swallows no longer skim over the surface, the river seems as rich in life as ever; and the birds and fish, unfrightened by the boat traffic, are tamer and more visible. [illustration: a flowery bank near cookham. _from a photograph by e. seeley_.] the things in the waters and growing out of the waters are very, very old. the mountains have been burnt with fire; lava grown solid has turned to earth again and grows vines; chalk was once sea-shells; but the clouds and the rivers have altered not their substance. also, so far as this planet goes, many of the water plants are world-encircling, growing just as they do here in the rivers of siberia, in china, in canada, and almost up to the arctic circle. the creatures which lived on these prehistoric plants live on them now, and in exactly the same parts of the stream. the same shells lie next the banks in the shallows as lie next the bank of the prehistoric river of two million years ago whose bed is cut through at hordwell cliffs on the solent. the same shells lie next them in the deeper water, and the sedges and rushes are as "prehistoric" as any plant can well be. in the clay at hordwell, which was once the mud of the river, lie sedges, pressed and dried as if in the leaves of a book, almost exactly similar in colour, which is kept, and in shape, which is uninjured, to those which fringe the banks of the thames to-day. these fresh-water plants show their hoary antiquity by the fashion of their generation. most of them are mono-cotyledonous--with a single seed-lobe, like those of the early world. there is nothing quite as old among the thames fishes as the mud fishes, the lineal descendants of the earliest of their race. but the same water creatures were feeding on the same plants perhaps when the thames first flowed as a river. [illustration: burr reed and flowering rush. _from photographs by e. seeley._] the sedge fringe in the shallows, the "haunt of coot and tern" elsewhere, and of hosts of moorhens and dabchicks on the now protected river, is mainly composed of the giant rush, smooth and round, which the water-rats cut down and peel to eat the pith. these great rushes, sometimes ten feet high, _die_ every year like the sickliest flowers, and break and are washed away. few people have ever tried to reckon the number of kinds of sedges and reeds by the river, and it would be difficult to do so. there are forty-six kinds of sedge (_carex_), or if the _scirpus_ tribe be added, sixty-one, found in our islands. they are not all water plants, for the sand-sedge with its creeping roots grows on the sandhills, and some of the rarest are found on mountain-tops. but the river sedges and grasses, with long creeping roots of the same kind, have played a great part in the making of flat meadows and in the reclamation of marshes, stopping the water-borne mud as the sand-sedge stops the blowing sand. they have done much in this way on the upper thames, though not on the lower reaches of the river. the "sweet sedge," so called--the smell is rather sickly to most tastes--is now found on the thames near dorchester, and between kingston and teddington among other places, though it was once thought only to flourish on the norfolk and fen rivers. it is not a sedge at all, but related to the common arum, and its flower, like the top joints of the little finger, represents the "lords and ladies" of the hedges. so the burr reed, among the prettiest of all the upright plants growing out of the water, is not a reed, but a reed mace. its bright green stems and leaves, and spiky balls, are found in every suitable river from berkshire to the amur, and in north america almost to the arctic circle. in the same way the yellow water villarsia, which though formerly only common near oxford, has greatly increased on the thames until its yellow stars are found as low as the cardinal's well at hampton court, extends across the rivers of europe and asia as far as china. the cosmopolitan ways of these water plants are easily explained. they live almost outside competition. they have not to take their chance with every new comer, for ninety-nine out of a hundred stranger seeds are quietly drowned in the embosoming stream. the water itself keeps its temperature steadily, and only changes slowly and in no great degree, and then, when the plants are in their winter sleep the stream may well say that "men may come and men may go, but i go on for ever." the same is very largely true of the things which live in the brook. many of the flowers are not quite what their names imply. the true lilies are among the oldest of plants. but "water-lilies" are not lilies. they have been placed in order between the barberry and the poppy, because the seed-head of a water-lily is like the poppy fruit. the villarsia, which looks like a water-lily, is not related at all, while the buck-bean is not a bean, but akin to the gentians. water-violet might be more properly called water-primrose, for it is closely related to the primrose, though its colour is certainly violet, and not pale yellow. by this time all the bladderworts have disappeared under water. in june in a pool near the inflow of the thames at day's lock, opposite dorchester, the fine leafless yellow spikes of flower were standing out of the water like orchids, while the bladders with their trapdoors were employed in catching and devouring small tadpoles. there is something quietly horrible about these carnivorous plants. their bladders are far too small to take one in whole, but catch the unhappy infant tadpoles by their tails and hold them till they die from exhaustion. the bank flora of the thames is nearly all the same from oxford to hampton court, made up of some score of very fine and striking flowers that grow from foot to crest on the wall of light marl that forms the bank. constantly refreshed by the adjacent water, they flower and seed, seed and flower, and are haunted by bees and butterflies till the november frosts. the most decorative of all are the spikes of purple loose-strife. in autumn when most of the flowers are dead the tip of the leaf at the heads of the spikes turns as crimson as a flower. the other red flowers are the valerian, in masses of squashed strawberry, and the fig-wort, tall, square-stemmed, and set with small carmine knots of flower. in autumn these become brown seed crockets, and are most decorative. the fourth tall flower is the flea-bane, and the fifth the great willow-herb. the lesser plants are the small willow-herbs, whose late blossoms are almost carmine, the water-mints, with mauve-grey flowers, and the comfrey, both purple and white. the dewberry, a blue-coloured more luscious bramble fruit, and tiny wild roses, grow on the marl-face also. at its foot are the two most beautiful flowers, though not the most effective, the small yellow snapdragon, or toad-flax, and the forget-me-not. this blue of the forget-me-nots is as peculiar as it is beautiful. it is not a common blue by any means, any more than the azure of the chalk-blue butterflies is common among other insects. colour is a very constant feature in certain groups of flowers. one of these includes the forget-me-nots, the borage, the alkanet, and the viper's bugloss, which keep up this blue as a family heirloom. others of the tribe, like the comfrey, have it not, but those which possess it keep it pure. the willows at this time are ready to shed their leaves at the slightest touch of frost. yet these leaves are covered with the warts made by the saw-flies to deposit their eggs in. the male saw-fly of this species and some others is scarcely ever seen, though the female is so common. the creature _stings_ the leaf, dropping into the wound a portion of formic acid, and then lays its egg. the stung leaf swells, and makes the protecting gall. it is difficult to say when "fly," in the fisherman's use of the term as the adult insect food of fish, may not appear on the water. moths are out on snowy nights, as every collector knows, and on any mild winter day flies and gnats are seen by streams. in the warm, sunny days of late september, numbers of some species of ephemerae were seen on the sedges and willows, with black bodies and gauzy wings, which the dace and bleak were swallowing eagerly, in quite summer fashion. the water is now unusually clear, and as the fish come to sun themselves in the shallows every shoal can be seen. among the typical thames-valley flowers, all of which would be the better for protection, are the very rare soldier orchis (_orchis militaris_) and the monkey orchis (_orchis simia_), the water-snowflake, the _hottonia_, or water-violet, the water-villarsia, more elegant even than the water-lilies, the flowering rush, with a crown of bright rose-pink flowers. the two orchids named are very interesting plants. of the monkey orchis mr. claridge druce says in his "flora of oxfordshire" that it has become exceedingly scarce, not so much from the depredations of collectors, but from the fondness of rabbits for it and the changes brought about by agriculture. the soldier orchis is very rare indeed; both are only found in a few woods in the thames valley, and possibly in kent. the bladderworts fade instantly, and are not much interfered with, and though the fritillaries are picked for market, the roots are not dug up because that would injure the meadow turf in which they grow, and business objections would be raised. insects of the thames except among the select few, generally either enthusiastic boys or london mechanics of an inquiring mind, who keep fresh-water aquariums and replenish them from ponds and brooks at "weekends," few persons outside the fancy either see or know much of the water insects,[1] or are aware, when floating on a summer day under the willows in a thames backwater, of the near presence of thousands of aquatic creatures, swift, carnivorous, and pursuing, or feeding greedily on the plants in the water garden that floats below the boat, or weaving nests, tending eggs, or undergoing the most astonishing transitions of form and activity, on or below the surface. many of them are perhaps better equipped for encountering all the chances of existence than any other creatures. they can swim, dive, and run below water, live on dry land, or fly in the air, and many are so hardy as to be almost proof against any degree of cold. the great carnivorous water-beetle, the dytiscus, after catching and eating other creatures all day, with two-minute intervals to come up, poke the tips of its wings out of the water and jam some air against its spiracles, before descending once more to its subaqueous hunting-grounds, will rise by night from the surface of the thames, lift again those horny wing-cases, unfold a broad and beautiful pair of gauzy wings, and whirl off on a visit of love and adventure to some distant pond, on to which it descends like a bullet from the air above. when people are sitting in a greenhouse at night with no lamp lighted, talking or smoking, they sometimes hear a smash as if a pebble had been dropped on the glass from above. it is a dytiscus beetle, whose compound eyes have mistaken the shine of the glass in the moonlight for the gleam of a pond. at night some of the whirligig beetles, the shiny, bean-like creatures seen whirling in incessant circles in corners by the bank, make a quite audible and almost musical sound upon the water. the activity of many of the water insects is astonishing. besides keeping in almost incessant motion, those which spend most of their time below water have generally to come up constantly to breathe. such are the water-bugs, water-scorpions and stick insects, which, though slender as rushes, and with limbs like hairs, can catch and kill the fry of the smaller fishes. most of these are like divers, who have to provide themselves with air to breathe, and work at double speed in addition. if a group of whirligig beetles is disturbed, the whole party will dive like dabchicks, rising to the surface again when they feel the need for breathing-air again. the diving-bell spiders, which do not often frequent the main thames stream, though they are commonly found in the ditches near it, gather air to use just as a soldier might draw water and dispose it about his person in water-bottles. they do this in two ways, one of which is characteristic of many of the creatures which live both in and out of the water as the spider does. the tail of the spider is covered with black, velvety hair. putting its tail out of the water, it collects much air in the interstices of the velvet. it then descends, when all this air, drawn down beneath the surface, collects into a single bubble, covering its tail and breathing holes like a coat of quicksilver. this supply the spider uses up when at work below, until it dwindles to a single speck, when it once more ascends and collects a fresh store. the writer has seen one of these spiders spin so many webs across the stems of water plants in a limited space that not only the small water-shrimps and larvae, but even a young fish were entangled. the other and more artistic means of gathering air employed by the spider is to catch a bubble on the surface and swim down below with it. the bubble is then let go into a bell woven under some plant, into which many other bubbles have been drawn. in this diving-bell the eggs are laid and the young hatched, under the constant watch of the old spider. few people care to take the trouble to gaze for any time into a shallow, still piece of water, in which the bottom is plainly discernible, and a crop of water-weeds makes a wall on either side of some central "well." if they do find some such pond near the thames banks or a shallow backwater, they may see after a few minutes much that is new and suggestive of strange activities. everything will be quiet and motionless at first, for water beasts are very suspicious of movement above them, and all sham dead, or lie quite still, and are strangely invisible. on the other hand, they have none of the power of remaining motionless for half-an-hour like land animals. soon what look like sticks, but are caddis larva, begin to creep on the bottom. then more brown objects, larvae of dragon-flies and water-beetles, detach themselves from the stems of the plants and cruise up and down seeking what they may devour. other creatures feeding and swimming among or beneath the plants crawl out on to the upper surface, and the water-beetles come up to breathe, or to play upon the surface. one of the largest of these is a very fine _black_ beetle, a vegetable-feeding creature. it is most interesting to see two of them--they generally live in pairs--browsing on one of the fern-like plants of the thames. this plant has leaves like fern blades, each having in turn its own small spikelets. the big beetles work along the leaf like a cow in a cabbage yard, biting off, chewing, and swallowing each in succession, and leaving the stem perfectly bare. sometimes it looks as if the two beetles were eating for a match, like the beef-eating contests held in country public-houses, in which the winner once boasted that he won easily "afore he came to vinegar." the number of carnivorous creatures found in the water seems out of all proportion to the usual order of nature. but this is perhaps because the minute, almost invisible creatures, or entomostraca, of which the rivers and ponds are full, and which are the main food of the smaller water carnivora, live mainly on decaying vegetable substance, which is practically converted and condensed into microscopical animals before these become in turn the food of others. it is as if all trees and grass on land were first eaten by locusts or white ants, and the locusts and white ants were then eaten by semi-carnivorous cows and sheep, which were in turn eaten by true carnivora. the water-weeds, both when living and decaying, are eaten by the entomostraca, the entomostraca are eaten by the larvae of insects, the perfect insects are eaten by the fish, and the fish are eaten by men, otters, and birds. thus we eat the products of the water plants at four removes in a fish; while we eat that of the grass or turnips only in a secondary form in beef or mutton. the water-shrimp is a very common crustacean in the small thames tributaries, and valuable as fish food. it has a very rare subterranean cousin known as the _well shrimp_. a lady in the isle of wight, who in a moment of energy went to the pump to get some water to put flowers in, actually pumped up one of these subterranean shrimps into a glass bowl. the well was eighty feet deep. the shrimp was absolutely white, and probably blind. flesh-eating insects are fairly common on land; wasps will actually raid a butcher's shop, and carry off little red bits of meat, besides killing and eating flies, spiders, and larvae. dragon-flies are the hawks of the insect world, and slay and devour wholesale, when in the air as well as when they are larvae on the water, though few persons actually witness their attacks on other creatures, owing to the swiftness of their flight. some centipedes will attack other creatures with the ferocity of a bulldog. an encounter between one of the smaller centipedes and a worm is like a fight between a ferret and a snake, so frantic is the writhing of the worm, so determined the hold which the hard and shiny centipede maintains with its hooked jaws. but the ferocity and destroying appetite of some of the water creatures would be appalling were it not for their small size. the desire of killing and devouring appears in the most unexpected quarters, among creatures which no one would suspect of such intentions. of two kinds of water snail found in the thames, and among the commonest molluscs, one is a vegetable feeder. it is found living on water plants, the snails being of all sizes, from that of a mustard seed to a walnut. the other will feed not only on dead animal substances, but on living creatures, and is equipped with sharp teeth, which work like a saw. one of these kept in an aquarium fastened on to and slowly devoured a small frog confined in the same vessel. the large dytiscus beetle is the great enemy of small fish. if the salmon is ever restored to the thames these creatures will be among the worst enemies of the fry, though in swift rivers they are not plentiful. frank buckland states that in hollymount pond they killed two thousand young salmon. one of these was put into a bowl with a dytiscus beetle, which, "pouncing upon him like a hawk upon an unsuspecting lark, drove its scythe-like horny jaws right into the back of the poor little fish. the little salmon, a plucky fellow, fought hard for his life, and swam round and round, up and down, hither and thither, trying to escape from this terrible murderer; but it was no use, he could not free himself from his grip; and while the poor little wretch was giving the last few flutterings of his tail, the water-beetle proceeded coolly to peck out his left eye, and to devour it at once." the larva not only of the carnivorous dytiscus but also of the vegetable-feeding water-beetle are ferocious and carnivorous, and deadly enemies of young fish and ova. [1] in mentioning some of the thames _insecta_ i have also noticed some of the _mollusca_ and _crustacea_. it is a pity these have not some common names. one cannot write easily of "pulmonate gasteropods." "the chavender or chub" "now when you've caught your chavender, (your chavender or chub) you hie you to your pavender, (your pavender or pub), and there you lie in lavender, (sweet lavender or lub)." _mr. punch._ i went into the plough inn at long wittenham in mid-november to arrange about sending some game to london. the landlord, after inquiring about our shooting luck, went out and came back into the parlour, saying, "now, sir, will you look at my sport?" he carried on a tray two large chub weighing about 2-1/2 lbs. each, which he had caught in the river just behind the house. their colour, olive and silver, scarlet, and grey, was simply splendid. laid on the table with one or two hares and cock pheasants and a few brace of partridges they made a fine sporting group in still life--a regular thames valley yield of fish and fowl. the landlord is a quiet enthusiast in this thames fishing. it is a pleasure to watch him at work, whether being rowed down on a hot summer day by one of his men, and casting a long line under the willows for chub, or hauling out big perch or barbel. all his tackle is exquisitely kept, as well kept as the yeoman's arrows and bow in the canterbury tales. his baits are arranged on the hook as neatly as a good cook sends up a boned quail. he gets all his worms from nottingham. i notice that among anglers the man who gets his worms from nottingham is as much a connoisseur as the man who imported his own wine used to be among dinner-givers. drifting against a willow bush one day, the branches of which came right down over the water like a crinoline, i saw inside, and under the branches, a number of fair-sized chub of about 1 lb. or 1-1/2 lbs. it struck me that they felt themselves absolutely safe there, and that if in any way i could get a bait over them they might take it. the entry under which i find this chronicled is august 24th. next morning when the sun was hot i got a stiff rod and caught a few grasshoppers. overnight i had cut out a bough or two at the back of the willow bush, and there was just a chance that i might be able to poke my rod in and drop the grasshopper on the water. after that i must trust to the strength of the gut, for the fish would be unplayable. it was almost like fishing in a faggot-stack. peering through the willow leaves i could just see down into the water where a patch of sunlight about a yard square struck the surface. under this skylight i saw the backs of several chub pass as they cruised slowly up and down. i twisted the last two feet of my line round the rod-top, poked this into the bush with infinite bother and pluckings at my line between the rings, and managed to drop the hopper on to the little bit of sunny water. what a commotion there was. the chub thought they were all in a sanctuary and that no one was looking. i could see six or seven of them, evidently all cronies and old acquaintances, the sort of fish that have known one another for years and would call each other by their christian names. they were as cocky and consequential as possible, cruising up and down with an air, and staring at each other and out through the screen of leaves between them and the river, and every now and then taking something off a leaf and spitting it out again in a very independent connoisseur-like way. the moment the grasshopper fell there was a regular rush to the place, very different from what their behaviour would have been outside the bush. there was a hustle and jostle to look at it, and then to get it. they almost fought one another to get a place. flop! splash! wallop! "my grasshopper, i think." "i saw it first." "where are you shoving to?" "o--oh--what is the matter with william?" i called him william because he had a mark like a w on his back. but he was hooked fast and flopping, and held quite tight by a very strong hook and gut, like a bull with a ring and a pole fastened to his nose. i got him out too--not a big fish, but about 1-1/2 lbs. this showed pretty clearly that where chub can be fished for "silently, invisibly," they can still be caught, even though steam launches or row-boats are passing every ten minutes. this was mid-august; my next venture nearly realised the highest ambitions of a chub-fisher. it also showed the sad limitations of mere instinctive fishing aptitudes in the human being as contrasted with the mental and bodily resources of a fish with a deplorably low facial angle and a very poor _morale_. there was just one place on the river where it seemed possible to remain unseen yet to be able to drop a bait over a chub. a willow tree had fallen, and smashed through a willow _bush_. its head stuck out like a feather brush in front and made a good screen. on either side were the boughs of the bush, high, but not too high to get a rod over them, if i walked along the horizontal stem of the tree. it was only a small tree, and a most unpleasant platform. but i had caught a most appetising young frog, rather larger than a domino, which i fastened to the hook, and after much manoeuvring i dropped this where i knew some large chub lay. as the tree had only been blown down a day before, i was certain that they had never been fished for at that spot. [illustration: a monster chub. _from a drawing by lancelot speed._] i was right; hardly had the frog touched the water when i saw a monster chub rise like a dark salamander out of the depths. slowly he rose and eyed the frog, moving his white lips as if the very sight imparted a gusto to the natural excellence of young frogs. i nearly dropped from the tree stem from sheer suspense, when he made up his mind, put on steam, and took it! he was fast in a minute, and kindly rushed out into the river, where i played him. then i wound in my line and hauled him up till his head and mouth were out of the water. as there was an impenetrable screen of bushes between him and me i laid the rod down, trusting to the tackle, and ran round to where close by was a farm punt, made fast. it had been used during harvest time, and was full of what in the classics they call the "implements of ceres." all of these that do not seem made to cut your leg off are designed to run into and spike you. besides scythes and reap hooks, there were iron rakes (sharp end upwards), wooden rakes, pitchforks, and garden forks, and the difficulty was to move in the punt without getting cut or spiked. the last users of the punt had also taken peculiar care to fasten it up. it was anchored by a grapnel, and by an iron pin on a chain, the pin eighteen inches long and driven hard into the bank. in a desperate hurry i hauled up the grapnel, did a regular sandow feat in pulling up the iron peg, seized a punt pole apparently weighted with lead, but made out of an ash sapling, and started the punt. it would not move. i found there was another mooring, so picking my way among the scythes, spikes, rakes, &c., i hauled this in. it was most infernally heavy, and turned out to be a cast-iron wheel of a steam plough or other farming implement. then i was under weigh, and got round to the fish. it was still there. i could see its expressionless eye (about as big as a sixpence) out of the water and its mouth wide open, when i remembered i had forgotten the landing-net in my hurry. then came the period of mental aberration common to the amateur. the fish was certainly 4 lbs. in weight, yet i tried to get him in with my hands. of course he gave one big flop, slipped out, and disappeared--the biggest chub i ever shall not catch. the world's first butterflies thames plants must strike every one as belonging to an ancient order of life. but the vast clouds of winged _ephemeridae_ that dance over its waters when there is a rise of "may-fly" in early summer look to be not only the creatures of a day, but of our day. in the astonishing wave and rush of life seen at such times, when from every plant and pool winged creatures are ascending to float in air, it is difficult to picture the silence and stillness of a world where there were no birds, or hum of bees, and no signs of the other insects which exceed the other population of the earth by unnumbered myriads of millions; yet the insects, even the same identical species which dance over the thames to-day, are among the very oldest of living things, just as its plants and its shells are. rocks and slate are not ideal butterfly cases; and if the fragile limbs of the beetle and grasshopper of the successive prehistoric worlds had perished beyond the power of identification, no one could have felt surprise. but such has been the industry of modern naturalists--to give the widest name to those who have devoted their time to the search for, and description of, fossil insects--that the remains of thousands of species have been identified, and the time of their appearance upon the earth approximately fixed. the latest contributor to this elegant branch of the study of fossils is mr. herbert goss.[1] perhaps the most interesting of his conclusions is the antiquity, not only of the existing orders of insects, but even of their particular families and genera, as compared with vertebrate animals. it is astonishing to find not only crickets and beetles existing at periods enormously earlier than the appearance of birds or fish, but that they conformed in type to the families in which they are classed to-day. though they become fewer and fewer as they are tracked back up the river of time, there are not found in the earliest fossil-bearing rocks any connecting links or earlier and simpler forms of insect life, or a clue to the common ancestor of insects, spiders, and shrimps, which naturalists would dearly like to discover. there is a baffling completeness about these creatures. when in the lias period, for instance, the vertebrates were huge saurian reptiles and flying lizards, and scarcely any of our existing classes of fish had come into existence, the beetles, cockroaches, crickets, and white ants were there, with all the distinguishing characteristics of the existing families as they were settled by linnaeus. the first insect known to have existed, a creature of such vast antiquity that it deserves all the respect which the parvenu man can summon and offer to it, was--a cockroach. this, the father of all black-beetles, probably walked the earth in solitary magnificence when not only kitchens, but even kitchen-middens were undreamt of, possibly millions of years before neolithic man had even a back cave to offer with the remains of last night's supper for the cockroach of the period to enjoy. his discovery established the fact that in the silurian period there were insects, though, as the only piece of his remains found was a wing, there has been room for dispute as to the exact species. mr. goss in his preface to the second edition of his book notes that what is probably a still older insect has been found in the lower silurian in sweden. this was not a cockroach, but apparently something worse. if the latin name, _protocimex silurius_, be literally translated, it means the original silurian bug. it was a fair conjecture that insects appeared about the same time as land plants first grew on the earth. as almost all the species either feed on some vegetable substances in growth or decay, or else live upon other insects, some such provision of food was necessary for them. remains of such plants were discovered in the silurian rocks. in the devonian formations, which contain the next oldest set of fossil insects, numbers of conifers and ferns are found. yet even then the only vertebrate animals seem to have been fish. the insects still had the land all to themselves. of one of these devonian insects the base of a wing was the only part preserved in the rock. from this it was possible to tell the order to which the creature belonged. it was one of the _neuroptera_--insects with wings in which the veins run straight down the wing, sometimes joined by cross branches at right angles. some of the modern kinds are very beautiful four-winged flies, with bright colours on their wings like butterflies. others are ant-lions or caddis-flies. the curve of the fragment of wing also suggested its probable size when unbroken. it was perhaps two inches long. as there are little horny rings round the wing base like those which crickets have, on which they rub their legs and so "chirp," it is also quite likely that this insect of hoary antiquity did the same, and enlivened the silence of devonian fern groves with a prehistoric hum. it is quite in keeping with modern ideas that in that age of fishes one of the most remarkable insects should have been a kind of may-fly, "a large species of _ephemerina_, which must have measured five inches in expanse of wings." thus our thames may-flies had gigantic prehistoric ancestors, which appeared on earth, possibly with their present associates the caddis flies, at an enormously remote age. so far no butterfly had yet appeared on earth, though the _ephemerinae_ might dance over the still lagoons and swamps. in the coal-forest period, and the age of trees and rank vegetation, insects of many kinds seem to have multiplied, even though the most beautiful of all were not yet launched in air. in england the first beetle wandered on to the stage of life--the oldest british insect fossil known. it was discovered in the ironstone of coalbrookdale, and was a kind of weevil. another creature found in the same ironstone was a cricket. it is quite in keeping with the forest and tree surroundings of the time that white ants should have abounded to eat up the decayed and dead wood. strictly speaking, black-beetles are not beetles at all. but they are a very good imitation. as some hundreds of families of _paltaeoblattidae_, which may be translated as "old original cockroaches," and _blattidae_, or cockroaches _pur sang_, pervaded these forests, and the doyen of all swiss fossil animals is one of these, the "state of the streets" in a coal forest may be imagined when there were no bird police to keep the insects in order. thus the end of the palaeozoic world--a very poor world at best--was fairly well stocked with insects, though the moths, bees, and butterflies had yet to come. then came the sunrise of a new time--mammals, any number of reptiles, possibly some birds, and an insect life more teeming than any we now know. the "insect limestone" attests these multitudes. beetles, of which the scarabs were a numerous family, increased vastly, and the oldest known dragon-fly and supposed ancestor of those which hawk over the oxford river, left his skeleton, or what represents a dragon-fly's skeleton, among some two thousand other specimens of fossil insects, in the swiss alps. it was then that the first bird and the first butterfly appeared. the bird was the famous archaeopteryx, found in the solenhofen slate, and the first butterfly, to use an irishism, was a moth, a sphinx moth, apparently about the size of the convolvulus sphinx moth. this stone-embedded relic of the moth that sucked the juices of the plants of the mesozoic world, incalculable ages before the time even of the gigantic mammals, is preserved in the teyler museum at haarlem. when the new era of the eocene period developed modern forms of plants, their rapid growth was accompanied by a great increase in the number of insects. those which, like the moths, had only made their first venture on earth, now appeared in greater numbers. near aix, in provence, five butterflies and two moths were found in some beds of marl and gypsum long celebrated for their fossils, and with the fossil butterflies were, in every case but one, fossil remains of the plants which had served its larvae as food. thus the may-flies and beetles are perhaps older than the thames shells, and older than the prehistoric plants on which the river molluscs feed. [1] secretary of the entomological society, and an accomplished botanist. the work is entitled "the geological antiquity of insects," and published by gurney and jackson, london. butterfly sleep fond as the butterflies are of the light and sun, they dearly love their beds. like most fashionable people who do nothing, they stay there very late. but their unwillingness to get up in the morning is equalled by their equal desire to leave the world and its pleasures early and be asleep in good time. they are the first of all our creatures to seek repose. an august day has about fifteen hours of light, and for that time the sun shines for twelve hours at least; but the butterflies weary of sun and flowers, colour and light, so early that by six o'clock, even on warm days, many of them have retired for the night. i climbed sinodun hill, on a cold, windy afternoon, and found that hundreds of butterflies were all falling asleep at five o'clock. their dormitory was in the tall, colourless grass, with dead seed-heads, that fringes the tracks over the hills, or the lanes that cross the hollows. common blues were there in numbers, and small heath butterflies almost as many. the former, each and every one of them, arrange themselves to look like part of the seed-spike that caps the grass-stem. then the use and purpose of the parti-coloured grey and yellow under-colouring of their wings is seen. the butterfly invariably goes to sleep head downwards, its eyes looking straight down the stem of the grass. it folds and contracts its wings to the utmost, partly, perhaps, to wrap its body from the cold. but the effect is to reduce its size and shape to a narrow ridge, making an acute angle with the grass-stem, hardly distinguishable in shape and colour from the seed-heads on thousands of other stems around.[1] the butterfly also sleeps on the top of the stem, which increases its likeness to the natural finial of the grass. in the morning, when the sunbeams warm them, all these grey-pied sleepers on the grass-tops open their wings, and the colourless bennets are starred with a thousand living flowers of purest azure. side by side with the "blues" sleep the common "small heaths." they use the grass-stems for beds, but less carefully, and with no such obvious solicitude to compose their limbs in harmony with the lines of the plant. they also sleep with their heads downwards, but the body is allowed to droop sideways from the stem like a leaf. this, with their light colouring, makes them far more conspicuous than the blues. moreover, as grass has no leaves shaped in any way like the sleeping butterfly, the contrast of shape attracts notice. can it be that the blues, whose brilliant colouring by day makes them conspicuous to every enemy, have learnt caution, while the brown heaths, less exposed to risk, are less careful of concealment? be it noticed that moths and butterflies go to sleep in different attitudes. moths fold their wings back upon their bodies, covering the lower wing, which is usually bright in colour, with the upper wing. they fold their antennas back on the line of their wings. butterflies raise the wings above their bodies and lay them back to back, putting their antennae between them if they move them at all. on these same dry grasses of the hills, another of the most brilliant insects of this country may often be seen sleeping in swarms--the carmine and green burnet moth. but it is a sluggish creature, which often seems scarcely awake in the day, and its surrender to the dominion of sleep excites less surprise than the deep slumber of the active and vivacious butterflies. the "heaths" and "blues" should perhaps be regarded as the gipsies of the butterfly world, because they sleep in the open. they are even worse off than the nomads, because, like that regiment sleeping in the open which the war office lately refused to grant field allowance to on the ground that they were "not under canvas," they do not possess even a temporary roof. what we may call the "garden butterflies," especially the red admirals, often do seek a roof, going into barns, sheds, churches, verandahs, and even houses to sleep. there, too, they sometimes wake up in winter from their long hibernating sleep, and remind us of summer days gone by as they flicker on the sun-warmed panes. mrs. brightwen established the fact that they sometimes have fixed homes to which they return. two butterflies, one a brimstone, the other, so far as the writer remembers, a red admiral, regularly came for admission to the house. one was killed by a rain-storm when the window was shut; the other hibernated in the house. probably it was as a sleeping-place and bedroom that the butterflies made it their home. there is a parallel instance, mentioned by a dutch naturalist quoted by mr. kirby, when a butterfly came night after night to sleep on a particular spot in the roof of a verandah in the eastern archipelago. in the east the sun itself is so regular and so rapid in rising and setting that the sleeping hours of insects and birds are far more regular than in temperate lands, with their shifting periods of light and darkness. our twilight, that season that the tropics know not, has produced a curious race of moths, or rather, a curious habit confined to certain kinds. they are the creatures neither of day nor of night, but of twilight. they awake as twilight begins, go about their business and enjoy a brief and crepuscular activity, and go to sleep as soon as darkness settles on the world. at the first glimmer of the dawn they awaken again to fly till sunrise, when they hurry off like the fairies, and sleep till twilight falls again. [illustration: butterflies at rest. _from photographs by r.b. lodge._] at the time of writing a border of bright flowers runs in straight perspective from the window opposite, with a rose arcade by the border, and a yew hedge behind that. the shafts of the morning sun fly straight down to the flowers, and every blossom of hollyhock, sunflower, campanula, and convolvulus, and the scarlet ranks of the geraniums, are standing at "attention" to welcome this morning inspection by the ruler and commander-in-chief of all the world of flowers. the inspecting officers, rather late as inspecting officers are wont to be, are overhauling and examining the flowers. these inspectors, also roused by the sun, are the butterflies and bees. splendid red admirals are flying up, and alighting on the sunflowers, or hovering over the pink masses of valerian. peacock butterflies, "eyed" like emperors' robes, open and shut their wings upon the petals; large tortoiseshells are flitting from flower to flower; mouse-coloured humming-bird moths are poising before the red lips of the geraniums; and a stream of common white butterflies is crossing the lawn to the flowers at the rate of twenty a minute. they all come from the same direction, across a cornfield and meadow, behind which lies a wood. the bees came first, as they are fairly early risers; the butterflies later, some of them very late, and evidently not really ready for parade, for they are sitting on the flowers stretching, brushing themselves, and cleaning their boots--or feet. the fact is that the butterflies, late though it is, are only just out of bed. you might look all the evening to find the place where these particular butterflies sleep, and not discover it, unless some of them have taken a fancy to the verandah or the inside of a dwelling-room in the house. but each and every one of them has been asleep in a place it has chosen, and it is probable that some, the red admirals, for instance, will go back to that place to sleep at evening. as there are hundreds of moths that fly by night and sleep by day at seasons when there are perhaps only twenty species of butterflies flying by day and sleeping by night, it is strange that the sleeping moths are not more often found. some kinds are often disturbed, and are seen. but the great majority are sleeping on the bark of trees, in hedges, in the crevices of pines, oaks and elms, and other rough-skinned timber, and we see them not. some prefer damp nights with a drizzle of rain to fly in, not the weather which we should choose as inviting us to leave repose. few like moonlight nights; darkness is their idea of a "fine day" in which to get up and enjoy life, many, like the dreams in virgil's hades, being all day high among the leaves of lofty trees, whence they descend at the summons of night, the- "filmy shapes that haunt the dusk, with ermine capes, and woolly breasts, and beaded eyes," the connection between character and bedtime which grew up from association when human life was less complex than now has some counterpart in the world of butterflies and insects. the industrious bees go to bed much earlier than the roving wasps. the latter, which have been out stealing fruit and meat, and foraging on their own individual account, "knock in" at all hours till dark, and may sometimes be seen in a state of disgraceful intoxication, hardly able to find the way in at their own front door. the bees are all asleep by then in their communal dormitory. it would not be human if some belief had not arisen that the insects that fly by night imitate human thieves and rob those which toil by day. there has always been a tradition that the death's-head moth, the largest of all our moths, does this, and that it creeps into the hives and robs the bees, which are said to be terrified by a squeaking noise made by the gigantic moth, which to a bee must appear as the roc did to its victims. it is said that the bees will close up the sides of the entrance to the hive with wax, so as to make it too small for the moth to creep in. probably this is a fable, due to the pirate badge which the moth bears on its head. but it is certainly fond of sweet things, and as it is often caught in empty sugar-barrels, it is quite possible that it does come to the hive-door at night and alarm the inmates in its search for honey. [1] in the illustration it was impossible to photograph butterflies actually sleeping. they show their attitude, but not the degree to which the wings are flattened into a very acute angle. crayfish and trout about the middle of august, when walking by one of the locks on a disused canal in the ock valley, i saw a man engaged in a very artistic mode of catching crayfish. the lock was very old, and the brickwork above water covered with pennywort and crane's-bill growing where the mortar had rotted at the joints. in these same joints below water the crayfish had made holes or homes of some sort, and were sitting at the doors with their claws and feelers just outside, waiting, like mr. micawber, for something to turn up. to meet their views the crayfish catcher had cut a long willow withe. from the tapering tip of this he had cut the wood, leaving the bark, which had been carefully slit and the woody tip extracted from it. this pendant of bark he had made into a running noose, and leaning over the bank he worked it over the crayfish's claws and then snared them. it was a neat adaptation of local means to an end; for if you think of it, string would not have answered, because it would not remain rigid, and wire would be too stiff for the job. crayfish catching, until lately one of the minor fisheries of the thames, is now a vanished industry. ten years ago the banks of the river from staines to the upper waters at cricklade were honeycombed with crayfish holes, like sandmartins' nests in a railway cutting. these holes were generally not more than eighteen inches below the normal water line of the river. in winter when the stream was full fresh holes were dug higher up the bank. in summer when the water fell these were deserted. the result was that there were many times more holes than crayfish, and that for hundreds of miles along the thames and its tributaries these burrows made a perforated border of about three feet deep. the almost complete destruction of the crayfish was due to a disease, which first appeared near staines, and worked its way up the thames, with as much method as enteric fever worked its way down the nile in the egyptian campaign after omdurman. the epidemic is well known in france, where a larger kind of crayfish is reared artificially in ponds, and serves as the material for _bisque d'ã©crevisses_, and as the most elegant scarlet garnish for cold and hot dishes of fish in paris restaurants; but it was new to recent experience of the thames. perhaps that is why its effects were so disastrous. the neat little fresh-water lobsters turned almost as red as if they had been boiled, crawled out of their holes, and died. under some of the most closely perforated banks they lay like a red fringe along the riverside under the water. near oxford, and up the cherwell, windrush, and other streams they were, before the pestilence, so numerous that making crayfish pots was as much a local industry as making eel-pots, the smaller withes, not much larger than a thick straw, being used for this purpose. most cottages near the river had one or two of these pots, which were baited on summer nights and laid in the bottom of the stream near the crayfish holes. it must be supposed that they only use them by day, and come out by night, just as lobsters do, to roam about and seek food on a larger scale than that which they seize as it floats past their holes by day. that time of more or less enforced idleness the crayfish used to spend in looking out of their holes with their claws hanging just over the edge ready to seize and haul in anything nice that floated by. their appetite by night was such that no form of animal food came amiss to them. the "pots" were baited with most unpleasant dainties, but nasty as these were they were not so unsavoury as the food which the crayfish found for themselves and thoroughly enjoyed, such as dead water-rats and dead fish, worms, snails, and larvae. they were always hungry, and one of the simplest ways of catching them was to push into their holes a gloved finger, which the creature always seized with its claw and tried to drag further in. the crayfish, who, like the lobster, looked on it as a point of honour never to let go, was then jerked out into a basket. they rather liked the neighbourhood of towns and villages because plenty of dirty refuse was thrown into the water. in the canalised stream which runs into oxford city itself there were numbers, which not only burrowed in the bank, but made homes in all the chinks of stone and brick river walls, and sides of locks, and in the wood of the weiring, where they sat ensconced as snugly as crickets round a brick farmhouse kitchen fireplace. they were regularly caught by the families of the riverine population of boatmen, bargees, and waterside labourers, and sold in the oxford market. a dish of crayfish, as scarlet as coral, was not unfrequently seen at a college luncheon. possibly the recovery from the epidemic may be rapid, and the small boys of medley and mill street may earn their sixpence a dozen as delightfully as they used to. young crayfish, when hatched from the egg, are almost exactly like their parents. the female nurses and protects them, carrying them attached to its underside in clinging crowds. they grow very fast, and this makes it necessary for the youthful crayfish to "moult" or shed their shells eight times in their first twelvemonth of life, as the shell is rigid and does not grow with the body. the constant secretion of the lime necessary to make these shells is so exhausting to the youthful crayfish that only a small number ever grow up. in america, where a large freshwater crayfish nearly a foot long is found, its burrowing habits are a serious nuisance, especially in the dykes of the mississippi. in those streams from which these interesting little creatures have entirely disappeared it might be worth while to introduce the large continental crayfish. as it is bred artificially, there would be no difficulty in obtaining a supply, and it would be a useful substitute for the small native kind. sea crayfish, which grow to a very large size, are not much esteemed in this country. they are not so well flavoured as their cousin the lobster. but as river crayfish of a superior kind can be cultivated, and are reared for the table abroad, it might be worth while to pay some attention to what has been done in the united states to replenish by artificial breeding the stock of lobsters now somewhat depleted by the great "canning" industry. the method of obtaining the young lobsters is different from that employed to rear trout from ova. the female lobsters carry all their eggs fastened to hair-fringed fans or "swimmerets" under their tails, the eggs being glued to these hairs by a kind of gum which instantly hardens when it touches the water. for some ten months the female lobster carries the eggs in this way, aerating them all the time with the movement of the swimmerets. when they are caught in the lobster-pots in the months of june and july, the eggs are taken to the hatchery, and the ova are detached. as they are already fertilised, they are put into hatching jars, where in due course they become young lobsters, or rather lobster larvae, for the lobster does not start in life quite so much developed as does the infant crayfish. it is about one-third of an inch long, has no large claws, and swims naturally on the surface of the water, instead of lurking at the bottom as it does when it has come to lobster's estate. it seems to be compelled to rise to the surface, for sunlight, or any bright illumination, always brings swarms of lobsterlings to the top of the jars in which they are hatched. in the sea this impulse towards the light stands them in good stead, for in the surface-waters they find themselves surrounded by the countless atoms of animal life, or potential life, the eggs and young of smaller sea beasts. the young lobster is furiously hungry and voracious, because, like the young crayfish, it has to change not only its shell but the lining of its stomach five times in eighteen days. unfortunately, in the hatching jars there is no such store of natural food as in the sea. the result is that the young lobsters have to eat each other, which they do with a cheerful mind, if they are not at once liberated. when they have reached their fifth month they go to the bottom and "settle down" in the literal sense to the serious life of lobsters. [illustration: a trout. _from a photograph by charles reid._] i believe no one ever saw trout spawning in the thames, though there are plenty of shallows where they might do so. consequently the thames trout must be regarded as a fish which was born in the tributaries and descended into the big river, and as the mouths of these trout-holding tributaries, such as the kennet at reading, the pang, the lower colne, and others, become surrounded with houses and the trout no longer haunt the _embouchure_, so the tendency is for fewer trout to get into the thames. still, places like the windrush, the evenlode, and the other upper tributaries hold rather more trout than they did, as they are better looked after; and the fairford colne is still a beautiful trout stream. for some reason, however, the thames trout do not seem fond of the upper waters, where if found they seem to keep entirely in the highly aerated parts by the weirs, but mainly haunt the lower ones from windsor downwards, and one was recently caught in the tidal waters below the bridge. it is very difficult to see why there are so few above oxford, or from abingdon to reading. it is not because they are caught, for very few are caught. a friend of mine who had lived on the river near clifton hampden for some eight years, could only remember eight trout being caught in that time. i thought i was going to have one once. i was fishing for chub with a bumble bee, and a great spotted trout rose to it in a way which made me hope i was going to have a trophy to boast of for life. but he "rose short," and i saw him no more. i believe _all_ the brooks which rise in the chalk hills of the thames valley have trout in them. one runs under the railway line at steventon. a resident there had quite a number of tamed trout in the conduit which took the stream under the line, and used to feed them with worms as a show. at the head waters of the lockinge brook, close to the springs, i saw the trout spawning on new year's day. the big fish had wriggled up into the very shallowest water, and were lying with their back fins and tails out, i suppose from some instinct either that this water is the most highly aerated, or because floods do less harm on a shallow, or for both reasons combined. at long wittenham, though i never saw a trout in the river (they are, however, taken there), admiral clutterbuck recently had a fine old stew pond in the picturesque old grounds of the manor house cleaned out, and stocked it with rainbow trout. they did well and grew fast, and so far as i know, none died. the water was not suited for their breeding, but the fish were very ornamental, and rose freely to the fly. fountains and springs is it true that our fountains and springs of sweet water are about to perish? a writer in _country life_ says "yes," that in parts of the southern counties the hidden cisterns of the springs are now sucked dry, and that the engineers employed to bring the waters from these natural sources to the village or the farm lament that where formerly streams gushed out unbidden, they are now at pains to raise the needed water by all the resources of modern machinery. when the old fountains fail new sources are eagerly sought, and where science fails the diviner's art is called in to aid. at the agricultural show the water-diviner sits installed, surrounded by votive tablets picturing the springs discovered by his magic art; and county councils quarrel with the auditors of local expenditure over sums paid for the successful employment of his mysterious gift. it is not strange that the springs of england should still suggest a faint echo of nature-worship. if rivers have their gods, fountains and springs have ever been held to be the home of divinities, beings who were by right of birth gods, even though, owing to circumstances, they did not move exactly in their circle. _procul a jove, procul a fulgure_ may have been the thought ascribed by greek fancy to the gracious beings who made their home by the springs, for whether in ancient greece or in our western island, they breathe the sense of peace, security, and quiet, and to them all living things, animal and human, come by instinct to enjoy the sense of refreshment and repose. a spring is always old and always new. it is ever in movement, yet constant, seldom greater and seldom less, in the case of most natural upspringing waters, syphoned from the deep cisterns of earth. absolutely material, with no mystery in its origin, it impresses the fancy as a thing unaccountable, like the source of life embodied, something self-engendered. it has pulses, throbbing like the ebb and flow of blood. its dancing bubbles, rising and bursting, image emotion. it is the only water always clear and sparkling. streams gather mud, springs dispel it. they come pure from the depths, and never suffer the earth to gather where they leap from ground. they are the brightest and the cleanest things in nature. from all time the polluter of a spring has been held accursed. one of the sources of the thames was a real spring, rising from the earth in a meadow, until the level of the subterranean water was reduced. these suddenly uprising springs are not common in our country, and need seeking. our poets, who borrowed from the classics all their epithets for natural _fountains_, wrongly applied them to our modest springs welling gently from the bosom of the earth. the springs of old greece and italy gushed spouting from the rocks or flowed like the fountains of tivoli in falling sheets over dripping shoots of stone. even a greek of to-day never speaks of a "spring," because he seldom sees one. "fountain" is the word used for all waters flowing from the earth, and the difference of words corresponds to a difference of fact. the springs of his land _are_ fountains, waters gushing from the rock or flowing from caverns and channels in the hills. the fountains of greece flow down from above, and do not bubble up from below. these are the waters that tell their presence by sound, and have been the natural models of all the drinking fountains ever built,--jets that, spouting in a rainbow curve, hollow out basins below them, cut in the marble floor, cool cisterns ever running over, at which demi-gods watered their horses, and the white feet of the nymphs were seen dancing at sundown. a tributary of the severn, near bisley, in the cotswolds, bursts from a real fountain pouring from a hollow face of stone. but fountains in this sense are rare in england, though among the welsh hills and the yorkshire dales they may be seen springing full grown from the sides of the glens or "scarrs," and cutting basins and steps in marble or slate. but in the south the gentle springs take their place, silent, retiring, seldom found, except by chance, or by the local tradition which always attaches to the more important of our english natural wells. these it is the ambition of misdirected zeal to enclose in walls of stone, and to furnish with steps and conduits. if the old goddess tan was once worshipped as the deity of the spring, it has usually undergone conversion by the early monks and changed its title to "st. anne's well," or been assigned to st. catherine or some other of the holy sisterhood of saints.[1] but there are hundreds of tiny springs in britain still left as nature made them, and not yet settled in trust on any of the modern successors to the water rights of classic nymphs and celtic goddesses. he who discovers for himself one of these springs will visit it each time he passes near. some are in the woods, known only to the birds and beasts which live in them, and come daily to drink the pure, untainted waters. wood springs are among the most beautiful of all, for they have a setting of tall timber, and their margins are never trampled by cattle, or the natural play of their waters disturbed to draw for the beasts of the farm. in the wood below sinodun hill there rises an everlasting spring. there may be seen how great an area of land it takes to make and keep one tiny spring. all the waters which gather in the millions of tons of chalk on sinodun rise and flow out in the wood in the one pool, not larger than the circle of a wheel. it is always full, with the water throbbing up clear from the invisible vents below, and tiny white water-shells floating and falling in the basin, set round with liverwort and moss, and watering a bed of teazles in the wood below. children drink from it, and pluck wild strawberries by its banks, and the pheasant and the fox come there to quench their thirst. an unexpected but not uncommon site of such springs is close to the margin of streams, which themselves are fed, not mainly by springs, but from the surface waters. [2] wherever high ground slopes down to a stream, and ends in a rising bank at some distance from the river, there a true spring often rises, with an existence wholly apart from that of the river close by, into which its surplus of waters flows. such springs have their special flora, their own "phenomena," and their own little set of effects on their liliput landscape. in the centre the waters well up, absolutely pure, and only discoloured when a more impatient earth-throb drives up a column of cloudy sand or earth. the spreading circles broaden outwards, and make their little marsh, planted with water-grass and forget-me-nots and blue bog-bean, and in the spring with butterburs. outside, on the firmer but still moist soil the creeping jenny mats the ground; and the succulent grasses which attract the cattle to tread the marsh into a muddy paste. at the foot of the larger chalk downs the springs sometimes break out in different fashion, a modest imitation of classical fountains. the chalky soil breaks down, and from its sides the water often spouts in jets, as may be seen in betterton glen, above lockinge house, and in many other heads of the chalk brooks. springs of this kind are the natural outflowing of the water-bearing strata, where they lie upon others not pervious. but the upflowing springs are often fed by the accumulations of a great area of country, coming to the surface like water from the orifice of a syphon, and flowing permanently neither in greater nor less volume with constant force. if these cease to run the inference is that the old conditions are seriously disturbed. this has happened so frequently of late that local authorities would do well to schedule lists of the larger springs and request the owners or occupiers of the land to inform them from time to time whether there is a decrease in the flow. stored water is almost as valuable as earth in a cycle of deficient rainfall, and the loss of any of our fountains and springs is a local misfortune not easily remedied. [1] "well deckings" are still common festivals in the north. quite lately a scotch loch was dragged with nets to catch a kelpie, and the bottom sowed with lime. the church early forbade well worship. [2] there is one such just above marston ferry, near oxford, on the cherwell, and two in a field below ardington, near lockinge. bird migration down the thames on september 16, 1896, after a period of very stormy wet weather, i saw a great migration of swallows down the thames. it was a dark, dripping evening, and the thick osier bed on chiswick eyot was covered with wet leaf. between five and six o'clock immense flights of swallows and martins suddenly appeared above the eyot, arriving, not in hundreds, but in thousands and tens of thousands. the air was thick with them, and their numbers increased from minute to minute. part drifted above, in clouds, twisting round like soot in a smoke-wreath. thousands kept sweeping just over the tops of the willows, skimming so thickly that the sky-line was almost blotted out for the height of from three to four feet. the quarter from which these armies of swallows came was at first undiscoverable. they might have been hatched, like gnats, from the river. in time i discovered whence they came. they were literally "dropping from the sky." the flocks were travelling at a height at which they were quite invisible in the cloudy air, and from minute to minute they kept dropping down into sight, and so perpendicularly to the very surface of the river or of the eyot. one of these flocks dropped from the invisible regions to the lawn on the river bank on which i stood. without exaggeration i may say that i saw them fall from the sky, for i was looking upwards, and saw them when first visible as descending specks. the plunge was perpendicular till within ten yards of the ground. soon the high-flying crowds of birds drew down, and swept for a few minutes low over the willows, from end to end of the eyot, with a sound like the rush of water in a hydraulic pipe. then by a common impulse the whole mass settled down from end to end of the island, upon the osiers. those in the centre of the eyot were black with swallows--like the black blight on beans. next morning, at 6.30 a.m., every swallow was gone. in half an hour's watching not a bird was seen. whether they went on during the night, or started at dawn, i know not. probably the latter, for gilbert white once found a heath covered with such a flock of migrating swallows, which did not leave till the sun dispelled the mists. the migration routes of birds follow river valleys, when these are conveniently in line with the course they wish to take. there is far more food along a river than elsewhere, and this is a consideration, for most birds, in spite of the wonderful stories of thousand-mile flights, prefer to rest and feed when making long migrations, and also those short shifts of locality which temporary hard weather causes. a friend just back from khartoum tells me that he saw the storks descending from vast heights to rest at night on the nile sandbanks, and saw their departing flight early in the morning, these birds being in flocks of hundreds and thousands. by watching the river carefully for many years i have noticed that it is a regular migration route for several species besides swallows. the first to begin the "trek" down the river are the early broods of water-wagtails, both yellow and pied. they turn up in small flocks so early in the summer that one might almost doubt if they could fly well enough to take care of themselves. on june 26th last summer nearly forty were flying about in the evening, and went across to roost on the eyot. later numbers of blackbirds arrive, also moving down the river. sand-martins, when beginning the migration, travel down the thames in small flocks, and sleep each night in different osier beds. how many stages they make when "going easy" down the river no one knows. but i have seen the flocks come along just before dusk, straight down stream, and then dropping into an osier bed. in the second week of september there is usually an immense migration of house-martins and swallows down the river. i have already described what i once saw on a migration night on chiswick eyot. sometimes they go on past london, and find themselves near thames mouth with no osier beds or shelter of any kind. then they settle on ships. i was told that one morning the craft lying in hole haven off canvey island were covered with swallows, all too numb to move, but that when the sun came out the greater number flew away towards the sea. the same thing happened on the windmill at cley, in norfolk, a famous starting and alighting place for birds. moorhens evidently migrate up or down the river in spring and autumn, and occasionally dabchicks; otherwise their sudden appearance and disappearance on the eyot could not be accounted for. snipe follow the thames up the valley. formerly chiswick eyot was their first alighting place when east winds were blowing, after the fatigue of crossing london; and persons still living used to go out and shoot them. a friend of mine, whose family has resided in chiswick for several generations, used to go down the outside of the eyot and kill snipe, and also kill teal and duck in the stream which runs from chiswick house into the river. another friend broke a young pointer to partridges on the market garden between barnes bridge and chiswick. probably a number of the warblers also use the river as a migration road, though i only notice them in spring. but as i am never here in early september possibly many pass without being noticed. also they are silent in autumn, whereas in spring they sing, a little, but enough to show that they are there. among the birds of this kind which pass up the river, but of which only a few pairs stay to breed on the eyot, are whitethroats, blackcaps, chiff-chaffs, and, i believe, nightingales. one beautiful early morning in spring i could not believe my ears, but i heard a nightingale in a bush by the side of the garden overhanging the river. it sang for about an hour, "practising" as nightingales do. another person in a house near also heard it, and was equally astonished. it probably passed on, for next day it was inaudible. in hard weather a migration of a different kind takes place down the river towards the sea. these birds are recruited from the ranks of the birds that stay, with some foreign winter visitors also. they pass down the river feeding on the mud and among the stones at ebb tide. among those i have seen are flocks of starlings and scattered birds, mainly redwings, thrushes, blackbirds, and occasionally robins. sandpipers also migrate up the thames in spring, and down it in autumn. wittenham wood in wittenham wood, which in our time was not spoiled, from a naturalist's point of view, by too much trapping or shooting the enemies of game, though there was plenty of wild game in it, the balance of nature was quite undisturbed. of course we never shot a hawk or an owl, and i think the most important item of vermin killed was two cats, which were hung up as an awful instance of what we could do if we liked. [illustration: otters. _from a photograph by j. s. bond_.] [illustration: waterhen on her nest. _from a photograph by r. b. lodge_.] in such large isolated woods, the wild life of the ordinary countryside exists under conditions somewhat differing from those found even in estates where the natural cover of woodland is broken up into copses and plantations. birds and beasts, and even vegetation, are found in an intermediate stage between the wholly artificial life on cultivated land and the natural life in true forest districts like the new forest or exmoor. most of these woods are cut bare, so far as the underwood extends, once in every seven years. but the cutting is always limited to a seventh of the wood. this leaves the ground covered with seven stages of growth, the large trees remaining unfelled. with the exception of this annual disturbance of a seventh of the area, and a few days' hunting and shooting, limited by the difficulty of beating such extensive tracts of cover, the wood remains undisturbed for the twelve months, and all wild animals are naturally tempted to make it a permanent home. as i have said, the wood stands on the banks of the thames, below the old fortress of sinodun hill, and opposite to the junction of the river thame. all the british land carnivora except the martin cat and the wild cat are found in it. the writer recently saw the skin of a cat which had reverted to the exact size, colouring, and length of fur of the wild species, killed in the well-known bagley wood, an area of similar character, but of much greater extent, at a few miles distance in the direction of oxford. a polecat was domiciled in wittenham wood as lately as august, 1898. though this animal is reported to be very scarce in many counties, there is little doubt that in such woods it is far commoner than is generally believed. being mainly a night-hunting animal it escapes notice. but in the quiet of the wood it lays aside its caution, and hunts boldly in the daytime. the cries of a young pheasant in distress, running through some thick bramble patches and clumps of hazel, suggested that some carnivorous animal was near, and on stepping into the thicket a large polecat was seen galloping through the brushwood. its great size showed that it was a male, and the colour of its fur was to all appearance not the rich brown common to the polecat and the polecat cross in the ferret, but a glossy black. this, according to mr. w.e. de winton, perhaps the best authority on the british _mustelidae_, is the normal tint of the male polecat's fur in summer. "by the 1st of june," he writes, "the fur is entirely changed in both sexes. the female, or 'jill,' changes her entire coat directly she has young; at the end of april or the beginning of may. the male, or 'hob,' changes his more leisurely throughout the month of may. he is then known locally as the black ferret, and has a beautiful purplish black coat. as in all _mustelidae_ the male is half as big again as the female." stoats and weasels are of course attracted to the woods, where, abandoning their habit of methodical hedgerow hunting, they range at large, killing the rabbits in the open wood, and hunting them through the different squares into which the ground is divided with as much perseverance as a hound. they may be seen engaged in this occupation, during which they show little or no fear of man. they will stop when crossing a ride to pick up the scent of the hunted rabbit, and after following it into the next square, run back to have another look at the man they noticed as they went by, with an impudence peculiar to their race. the foxes have selected one of the prettiest tracts of the wood for their breeding-earth. it is dug in a gentle hollow, and at a height of some forty feet above the thames. from it the cubs have beaten a regular path to the riverside, where they amuse themselves by catching frogs and young water-voles. the parent foxes do not, as a rule, kill much game in the wood itself, except when the cubs are young. they leave it early in the evening and prowl round the outsides, over the hill, and round the celtic camp above, and beat the river-bank for a great distance up and down stream, catching water-hens and rats. at sunrise they return to the wood, and, as a rule, go to earth. the cubs, on the other hand, never leave it until disturbed by the hounds cub-hunting in september. otters, which travel up and down the river, and occasionally lie in the osier-bed which joins the wood, complete the list of predatory quadrupeds which haunt it. with the exception of the first, the wild cat, and the last, the otter, they constitute its normal population, and as long as the stock of rabbits and hares is maintained, they may remain there as long as the wood lasts. numerically, the rabbits are more than equal to the total of other species, whether bird or beast.[1] in dry seasons, they swarm in the lighter tracts of the wood, and burrow in every part of it. these wood-rabbits differ in their way of life from those in the open warren outside. their burrows are less intricate, and not massed together in numbers as in the open. on the other hand, the whole rabbit population of the one hundred acres seems to keep in touch, and occasionally moves in large bodies from one part of the area to another. during one spring and early summer the first broods of young rabbits burrowed tunnels under the wire-netting which encircled the boundary for many hundred yards, and went into a large field of barley adjoining. this they half destroyed. by the middle of august it was found that, instead of the barley being full of rabbits, it was deserted. they had all returned to the wood, and were in their turn bringing up young families. one colony deserted the wood altogether, and formed a separate warren some hundreds of yards away on a steep hillside. on the eastern boundary the river is a complete check to their migration. except in the great frosts, when the thames is frozen, no rabbit ever troubles to cross it. hares do so frequently when coursed, and occasionally when under no pressure of danger. after harvest, when the last barley-fields are cut, the wood is full of hares. they resort to it from all quarters for shelter, and do not emerge in any number until after the fall of the leaf. during the months of august, september, and october these hares, which during the spring and winter lie out in the most open parts of the hills above, lead the life of woodland animals. in place of lying still in a form throughout the day, they move and feed. at all hours they may be heard fidgeting about in the underwood and "creeping" in the regularly used paths in the thick cover. when disturbed they never go at speed, but, confident in the shelter of the wood, hop and canter in circles, without leaving cover. in the evening they come out into the rides, and thence travel out into the clover layers, returning, like the foxes, early in the morning. a badger was found dead in the wood the first year i rented it. this i much regretted, for though it had probably been shot coming out of a cornfield next the wood, the badger is quite harmless, and most useful to the fox hunter, for he _cleans out the earths_. mr. e. dunn, late master of the old berkshire, tells me that they are of great service in this way, as they _dig_ and enlarge the earths, and so prevent the taint of mange clinging to the sides if a mangy fox has lain in them. [illustration: dabchick. _from a photograph by r.b. lodge._] [illustration: badger. _from a photograph by j.s. bond._] lying between the river and the hills, this wood holds nearly every species of the larger woodland and riverine birds common to southern england. the hobby breeds there yearly. the wild pheasant, crow, sparrow-hawk, kestrel, magpie, jay, ringdove, brown owl, water-hen (on the river-bounded side), in summer the cuckoo and turtle-dove, are all found there, and, with the exception of the pigeons and kestrels, which seek their food at a distance during the day, they seldom leave the shelter of its trees. one other species frequents the more open parts of the cover in yearly greater numbers; this is the common grey partridge. the wood has an increasing attraction for them. they nest in it, fly to it at once for shelter when disturbed, lie in the thick copses during the heat of the day, and roost there at night. several covies may be seen on the wing in a few minutes if the stubbles outside are disturbed in the evening, flying to the wood. there they alight, and run like pheasants, refusing to rise if followed. it is said that in the most thickly planted parts of hampshire the partridge is becoming a woodland bird, like the ruffed grouse of north america. all that it needs to learn is how to perch in a tree, an art which the red-legged partridge possesses. the birds, unlike the foxes, hares, and rabbits, avoid the centre of the wood. only the owls and wood-pigeons haunt the interior. all the other species live upon the edge. they dislike the darkness, and draw towards the sun. the jays keep mainly to one corner by the river. the sparrow-hawks have also their favourite corner. the wild pheasants lead a life in curious contrast to that of the tame birds in the preserves. like their ancestors in china and the caucasus, they prefer the osier-beds and reeds by the river to the higher and drier ground. but in common with all the other birds of the wood, with the exception of the brown owls, they move round the wood daily, _following the sun_. in the early morning they are on the eastern margin to meet the sunrise. at noon they move round to the south, and in the evening are on the stubbles to the west. where the pheasants are there will the other birds be found, in an unconscious search for light. it is the shelter and safety of the big wood, and not the presence of crowded vegetation, that attracts them. they seek the wood, not from choice, but because it is a city of refuge. [1] these observations were made some years ago. i believe it has been found necessary to kill down the rabbits since. sport at wittenham there is always some rivalry about shooting different woods on adjacent properties, and the villages near always take a certain interest in the results. visiting our nearest riverside inn to order luncheon for our own shoot that week, i found about a dozen labourers in the front room, with a high settle before the fire to keep the draught out, sitting in a fine mixed odour of burning wood, beer, and pipes. sport was the pervading topic, for a popular resident had been shooting his wood, and many of the men had been beating for him, and had their usual half-crown to spend. they were all talking over the day at the top of their voices; it had been a very good one. the wood is quite isolated and not more than forty acres. all round it is the property of one of the oxford colleges, which retains the sporting rights over about fifteen hundred acres. this is exercised by one of their senior fellows under some arrangement which works perfectly well so far as i can see. i asked our keeper, who always calls him "the doctor," whether he was a medicine doctor or a doctor of divinity. he inclined to think he was the latter, as he belonged to college shooting. this way of putting it struck me as odd, but he was right. any way, he looked a very pleasant figure in his long shooting coat and old-fashioned bedford cords. there is also a college keeper, who is an institution in the village. the day's sport in "the captain's wood" had been a success. forty hares had been shot, or just one per acre, as well as a number of rabbits and wild pheasants. the hares were being sent round the village in very generous fashion, and a dozen lay on a bench in a back room. our own day was also a satisfactory one. rabbits were unusually numerous, and many squares had to be beaten twice. the gross total of the two days was only something over three hundred head; but it was all wild game, and shot in very pretty surroundings. with the beaters were the keeper, who is also head woodman, and two assistant woodmen. these three men cut the whole of the hundred acres down in the course of seven years. putting their lives at something over three score and ten, they will, as they began before they were twenty-one, have cut the wood down about eight times in the course of their existence. the beaters are entirely recruited from the staff of this very large and well-managed farm. they have beaten the woods so often that they know exactly what to do, when properly generalled. our landlord was one of the guns, and his son, who does not shoot, but knows the wood thoroughly, kindly took command of the men, and kept things going at best pace through the day. anything prettier than the entrance to the wood would be hard to find. a long meadow slopes steeply to the thames, with an old church and the remains of a manor house at one end and the wood at the other. below the house is a roaring weir, and opposite the abbey of dorchester across the flats. our little campaign gave an added interest to the scene. the bulk of the men were going round behind the hills to drive these "kopjes" into the wood. the guns and one or two ladies, and some small boys bearing burdens were walking up the middle ride. below was the silver thames in best autumn livery, for the leaf was not yet off the willows, though the reed-beds were bright russet. the sky was blue, the sun bright, and the sound of the weir came gaily up through the trees. all the wood-paths were bright with moss, the air still, and an endless shower of leaves from the oaks was falling over the whole hundred acres. there were just enough wild pheasants in the wood to make a variety in the rabbit-shooting. hares were unexpectedly numerous, and we lined up on the side of the wood furthest from the river for a hare drive. the whole hillside is without a hedge. watching the long slope it is a pretty and exciting sport to see the coveys of partridges, of which there are sometimes a number on the hill, rise, fly down and pitch again, and then rise once more and come fifty miles an hour over your head into the wood. the hares are generally very wild, getting up while the folds of the ground are still between them and the beaters. as they seldom come straight into the wood it is amusing to guess which particular gun they will make for. most of them slipped in at a safe distance, only to be picked up in the wood later. a few birds were shot, and the cover now held some forty partridges, though they are very wild in the low slop, and seldom leave more than one or two stragglers behind when the wood is beaten. the rabbit-shooting in the cover is difficult unless firing at "creepers" from the cover in front is indulged in. the rides are often very narrow, and the rabbits cross like lightning. shooting "creepers" is also highly dangerous if there are many guns, or if the men are near. they do not seem to mind; indeed, i have known them shout out exhortations for us to fire, when only screened by a row of thistles. one thing i have learnt by shooting this big wood. the hares, and late in the season the rabbits, move at least one square ahead of the beaters. if a single gun is kept well forward, choosing his own place and taking turnabout with the others, the bag--if it is wished to kill down the ground game--will be considerably increased. one object when shooting this wood is to get the ground beaten quickly; if there are twenty squares to be beaten, and five minutes are wasted at each, it means a loss of one hour forty minutes. the guns consequently go best pace to their places forward after each beat. what with running at a jog-trot down the rides, shooting hard when in place, and then getting on quickly to the next stand, often along spongy or clayey rides on a nice, warm, moist november day, this is by no means the armchair work which people are fond of calling wood shooting. the variety of scenery in the wood added much to the charm. sometimes we were in the narrow rides covered with short turf and almost arched over by the tall hazels; sometimes we were in low slop or walking through last year's cuttings, shooting at impossible rabbits. there we had an occasional rise of those most difficult of all birds to kill, partridge in cover, killing both french and english birds; or a cock pheasant would rise and hustle forward, an agreement having been made to leave these till properly beaten up later in the day. two very pretty corners were perhaps the most enjoyable parts of the sport. by the river was a flat reedand rush-covered corner, with a ring of oaks round, the thames at the bottom, and some tall chestnut-trees on the outside. as the men advanced we had a regular rise of wild pheasants, rocketing up from the reeds in every direction high over the oaks and chestnuts. a fox helped the fun by trotting up and down in the reeds uncertain which way to go, and flushing the birds as he did so. then the rushes were walked out and the rabbits sent darting in every direction. after this we hardly found a bird or rabbit in that corner during the season. that year the wood gave constant sport, far better than in the later years. there were three times as many rabbits, as well as hares and pheasants. one day in january we shot it during a fall of fine, dry snow. as the day went on the ground grew white, and our coats whiter. at luncheon the men were quite prepared for the emergency, or rather had prepared for it the day before when the frost began. they had a bonfire of brambles a dozen feet high, and faggots ready as seats, one set for us on one side of the fire, another for themselves on the other. the roaring blaze of the fire warmed us through and through, and by the end of luncheon our coats, which had been powdered with snow, were grey with wood ash descending. during this day a fox hung round us during the whole shoot. i think he must have been picking up and burying or hiding wounded rabbits, for every now and then he would come out into the ride, carefully smell the various places where rabbits had crossed, and then, selecting one, would go off like a retriever into the cover. sport at wittenham (_continued_) a month later mr. harcourt was shooting his woods at nuneham. there are more than four hundred acres of woods round this most beautiful park, all of them giving ideal english estate scenery. the oaks of the park are like those at richmond, but there is not much fern except in the covers. nuneham is the best natural pheasant preserve in the thames valley, except wytham, lord abingdon's place, above oxford. the woods lie roughly in a ring round the park, in which the pheasants sun themselves. outside these woods are arable fields with quantities of feed, and all along the front lies the river, which the pheasants do not often cross. the most striking sport at nuneham is the driving of the island by the lock cottage. every one who has been at oxford has rowed down to have tea under the lovely hanging woods by the old lock. few see it later in the year when the island opposite is covered with masses of silver-white clematis and thousands of red berries of the wild rose and thorn. in the late autumn mornings, when the mists are floating among the tall trees on the hill and the sunbeams just striking down through the vapours as they top the wood from the east, it is one of the prettiest sights on the thames. in november or early december, when the woods are shot, numbers of pheasants are always found on the island. it holds a pool, in which and on the river are usually a number of wild ducks. shooting from the river itself is now forbidden, and these and the half-wild duck have multiplied. the beaters, in white smocks, all cross the old rustic bridge like a procession of white-robed monks, and drive this island, and wild ducks and pheasants come out high over the river, making for the top of the hill. the shooting is fast and difficult, and the scene as the guns fire from the stations all along the bank is most picturesque. shooting with a neighbour on some land adjoining nuneham, my attention was drawn to the very elegant appearance of all the gates and rails adjacent to the road. as the ground was always beautifully farmed and in good order, the condition of the gates did not surprise me. there was, however, a story attached to their smartness. a seller of quack medicines had sent out advertisers with most objectionable little bills, which he had posted on every gate adjoining the roads. my entertainer, who was the occupier of the land, had brought an action against the medicine man for defacing his gates, which was only compromised by the delinquent undertaking to paint every gate. he demurred at first to painting the railings too, but in the end had to do this also. the stalking-horse is still part of the sporting equipment of some old thames-valley farmhouses, but not in this neighbourhood. only one wet season fell to my lot, and then, though i often saw bodies of duck, i had no opportunity of getting near them. a neighbour anchored a punt under a hedge on the line which he believed the duck would take at dusk, and killed several. hard frosts send large bodies of duck to the river; they come as soon as ever the large private lakes, like those at blenheim, wootton, and eynsham are frozen, and lie in small flocks all along the river. water-hens are so numerous on the river now, owing to their preservation by the conservancy, that any small covers of osier near are full of them. they make extremely pretty old-fashioned shooting when beaten up by a spaniel from the sedge and osier cover. i once turned out a dozen water-hens, a brown owl, a woodcock, and a water-rail from one little withe patch. when shooting the wood we always had one or two water-hens in the bag, and sometimes a chance at a duck flying overhead from the river. only once were there many woodcocks in the cover. there must have been at least five, and all were missed. at last, as we were finishing the beat, one of the guns, who was young and keen, went off after the last-missed cock along the river bank. as we were loading up the game at the wood gate we heard a single shot. then he appeared in the ride with the cock. both he and his excellent old spaniel received warm congratulations. for my own part i was never tired of by-days in the wood in my first season. the best sport was starting rabbits from under the rows of fresh-felled ash and hazel poles, which the woodman called drills. they are about five feet high and seven feet through. the rabbits get under them in numbers, and sit there all day. we had an old retriever who was an expert at finding them. the next process was for the gun to clamber on to the top and stand knee-deep on the springing faggots, while a woodman on each side poked the rabbit out with a pole. he might bolt any way, and was under the next drill in a trice, so the shooting was quick. i bagged twelve one afternoon in this cheerful manner. another great ambition of our lives was to get the better of the hill partridges. there were plenty of them, but they always dived into the wood, and were lost for the day. only once did we score off them. we drove about sixty from the hills into the wood. there they were seen running along the rides like guinea fowls, but by placing a gun at the corner of the wood, and beating towards him, we killed nine brace. a february fox hunt when the yeomanry left the hunting field for south africa, and "registered" horses were commandeered by government, fox hunting in counties where it is not the main business of life might be supposed to languish. as a matter of fact, it did not; and if the fields were smaller than usual, and a good many familiar faces missing, the master very properly felt that as he had his pack and there were plenty of foxes, he might as well employ the one and hunt the other, and keep up the spirits of the county by good, sound sport and plenty of it. masters who take this view, and there are very few who do not, are public benefactors and shining examples; for it is not only the men who hunt who benefit vastly by the change and exhilaration which hunting brings in its train. the whole countryside enjoys a wholesome tonic by the frequent visits of the hounds, and the well-equipped company with them. nothing cheers up the village, or cures the influenza, or brings oblivion of war news, or puts every one into conceit with themselves, so quickly, or leaves such a glow of sound satisfaction behind it. it would be odd if it did not, considering the amount of time, money, and trouble spent before the pack trots up to the green before the old grey church at eleven on a february morning. wittenham wood lies on the very edge of the old berkshire country, and as the river blocks all one side of it is naturally not one of the favourite meets. but at the time of writing, early in february a meet was duly advertised, and punctually to time the hounds were there. some people seem to think that modern fox-hunting is not so thorough as it was in the past. we know better, and without imitating mr. jack spraggon, or reminding every one present of that "two thousand five hundred--twenty-five 'undred--pounds a year" which lord scamperdale did or did not spend on his pack, are very well aware of what our master and the servants and the hounds had done that morning. the meet is on the edge of his country, sixteen miles from his house, and he has ridden over all the way, rising before the sun has got through more than the outside layer of the mists. there is no special honour and glory awaiting him in return. the cover to be drawn is surrounded for miles by deep and holding land now soaked with rain. a run of any distinction is most improbable. on the other hand, there will be plenty of hunting of a certain kind, and the chance of seeing it, for the wood is overlooked by lofty hills. therefore, though the meet is small, the neighbourhood as a body expect to see plenty of the hounds, and turn up expectant, the farmers on their cobs, the young ladies on ponies and in dog-carts, and all the village who can be spared for an hour on foot, while the small boys regard each other with rapturous grins, and practise "holloaing" to improve their lung-power when the fox breaks. when the hounds appear--they have come nearly as far from the kennels as the master has from home--they are covered with road mud from foot to head. the gritty splashes have changed all the white and tan to grey, and made the black badger-pied. while some roll on the grass and push themselves along sideways to get clean, and others attempt the impossible task of licking the mud off their legs and feet, the older hounds, who are less self-conscious, poke their heads into the hands and against the chests of their ready-made friends, the village children, who rush in while the master and the field and lookers-on are exchanging courtesies, and embrace all the pack whom they can reach. meantime the "assets" for the day's sport, the material complement on which this present assembly must rely for its day's hunting, lie in the cover and its contents. a hundred acres of wood, in all stages of growth, from the high thickets which the woodmen were felling yesterday, to the teazle and stump-studded slope which they cut last year, with the deep river below and the swelling hills above, is the cover. [illustration: fox and cub. _from photographs by charles reid_.] what the master would like would be that it should hold but one fox, that that fox should get away over the hills and on to the downs beyond as quickly as possible, and that he should never come back, but be killed three parishes away. but no one believes in such luck; and the local lookers-on do not in the least desire it. they want to see "a day's hunting" in the wood, and a fox to every half-dozen hounds. as a fact there are five foxes, not one, in the wood; and, passing from the general to the particular, we may explain how they came there. the heavy rains of the end of january filled all the drains, in which many foxes lie, so full of water that they abandoned them in sheer disgust, and took to the warm lying of the wood. among these was a most attractive vixen, whose society kept the rest from leaving when the weather improved; consequently, the wood seemed full of foxes, none of which were disposed to leave it. when the pack trotted up to the main ride, and the huntsman's ringing voice sent them crashing into the four-years' growth by the river, a brace were lying snug and dry in the old ash-stumps. one slipped into the river at once and quietly swam to the opposite bank, while the other crept all along the outside hedge and curled up in the corner waiting on events. the vixen slipped into a badger earth under an old oak and stayed there, and a couple more dog-foxes moved on into four acres of low slop, brambles, shoots, and blackthorns, where they were winded by half the pack, while the other half were running the first fox up the fence. the crash and music of the hounds re-echoed from the trees and the enfolding hills above, the shrieking of the jays as they flit protesting from tree to tree, the hearty ring of the huntsman's voice cheering his hounds--surely all this should send each fox flying out over the fields beyond! but a fox has no nerves. he keeps his head with the coolness of a red indian, and a "slimness" all his own. the first fox doubles back along his tracks, crosses the big ride, twenty yards lower, just as that part of the pack which is hunting him flings on up the fence, and waits again till he hears them break out where he first stopped. from outside, where the field are waiting on a knoll which gives a downward view into the rolling acres of the wood, the rest of the pack are seen forcing another fox upwards towards the hills. the sight is as pretty as our woods can show. down below the red coats of the master and huntsman move up the rides, and the heads and sterns of the broad line of hounds, now all clean and bright after brushing through the wood, rise and fall, appear and vanish, as they leap over or thrust through the low slop and brambles. in front, where a goyle runs up to a hollow of the hill, the ground has been cleared of wood, and the forest of tall teazle-tops is full of goldfinches, flying from seed-head to seed-head, too tame to mind the noise or care for anything but their breakfast. yet even they gather and fly before the approaching tumult. hares come hurrying out, and dash over the smooth hillside; magpies rise, poise themselves, slue round, and dive backwards into the wood; and then circumspect, lopping easily and lightly along, a fox crosses through the teazles, and slips down to a drain in the hollow; and see! another fox behind him, along the same path, and on the same errand, for each trots up to a covered drain, looks at it, and finding it stopped, pauses a second to think, and takes his resolve. one slips back into the wood, the other canters to the fence, rising the hill, looks out, whisks his brush and is off--across the turf, over the fifty-acre field of growing wheat, and away to the back of the hills. half the pack are running the first fox, who has slipped back to the river, but with the other half every one gets clear off, and does his best over the awful ground. the mud explodes like shells as the hoofs crush into it, but somehow every one is across and away, and on to the green road and a line of sainfoin much sooner than could be expected. the fox can be seen crossing the back of the hill, looking big and red, and full of running; but after twenty-five minutes over all sorts of ground, from medium bad to "downright cruel," for the soaking rains have made a very pudding even of the pasture, the fox is run into and killed close to the thames. no one need be sorry for him, for he had lived by theft and violence for the past two years, and was duly eaten himself by his natural enemies. then back to the wood again, where the rest of the pack had been whipped off their fox, and were waiting dolefully to begin again, by which time the other foxes, of which two elected to stay, had resolved that come what might, they would stick to the wood, of which they knew every inch by heart; and by keeping under the river bank, sneaking under layers of felled brushwood, dodging along drains, and other devices, postponed their fate for two hours, when one was "chopped" and one broke away and was run till dark. this is not the kind of thing that keeps hunting alive, but it is the kind of day which occurs in most ordinary counties in february, and at which no one greatly grumbles. but if a slow woodland day is unattractive, the man who hunts in a modest way from london and wishes to be sure of a run has no lack of choice. try, for instance, a day on the south downs, five miles from the sea, on the vast uplands and among the furze-covered bottoms behind beachy head, when the snow-clouds are rolling in from the channel and dusting the summits of the downs with white. there is at least the certainty of foxes, and of a gallop over the highest and soundest land in the south, and even "february fill-dike" cannot make the going heavy. ewelme--a historical relic at the head of one of the smaller thames tributaries, a few miles from the river, lies ewelme, the ancient aquelma, so called from the springing waters which rise there. there are trout in the brook and excellent water-cresses higher up, which are cultivated scientifically. also there was a political row in gladstonian days over an appointment to the living. but the real interest of this exceptionally beautiful thames-valley village is that it is a survival, almost unchanged, of a "model village" made in the time of the plantagenets. as such it deserves a place in any history, even a "natural" history, which deals with the river. the village lies at the foot of the chiltern hills, not far from dorchester. the persons who made it a model village just before the wars of the roses were william de la pole, the first duke of suffolk, and his duchess, alice, the grandchild of geoffrey chaucer. the duke, as every one knows, was for years the leading spirit in england during the early part of the reign of henry vi., whose marriage with margaret of anjou he arranged in the hope of putting an end to the disastrous war with france. his murder in mid-channel--when his relentless enemies followed him out to sea, took him from the ship in which he was going into exile, and beheaded him on the thwarts of an open boat--was the forerunner of the most ghastly chapters of blood and vengeance in civil feud ever known in this country. but the grace and dignity of his home life in his palace at ewelme, with his duchess to help him, are less well known, though the evidences of it remain little altered at the present day. [illustration: ewelme pool. _from a photograph by taunt & co_.] of course there was a village there long before the duke of suffolk became possessed of it. it was such a perfect site that if any place in the country round were inhabited, ewelme would have been first choice. the flow of water is one of the most striking natural features and amenities of the place. it is a natural spring, coming out from the chalk of the chilterns, and forming immediately a lovely natural pool, under high, tree-grown banks. this is still exactly as it was in the ancient days. no water company has robbed it, and besides "the king's pool," which is the old name of the water, there are overflowing streams in every direction, now used in careful irrigation for the growth of watercress, one of the prettiest of all forms of minor farming. fertile land, shelter from gales by the overhanging hill, great trees, and abundance of ever-flowing water, are the natural commodities of the place. it was of some importance very early, for it gave its name to a hundred. this hundred contains among other places chalgrove, where hampden received his death-wound. ewelme belonged to the chaucer family. the last male heir was thomas, son of geoffrey chaucer the poet, who left an only daughter alice, destined to become the greatest lady of her time. she married first the celebrated earl of salisbury, who was killed by a cannon-shot while inspecting the defences of orleans during the siege which joan of arc raised. william de la pole, then earl of suffolk, was appointed commander of the english forces in the earl of salisbury's place, and not only succeeded to his office, but also married his countess, who now became countess of suffolk. it was long before either the earl or his countess could revisit ewelme, where the earl must have had some property before his marriage, for his elder brother, earl michael, was buried at the public expense in the church of ewelme after his death at agincourt. for seventeen years the earl never left the war in france; but when henry vi. was grown up he arranged the marriage with margaret of anjou, and did his best to promote peace. at this time suffolk was the most powerful subject in the kingdom. he was made a marquis, and finally a duke, and his duchess was granted the livery of the garter. in 1424 they built a palace at ewelme, and in due course rebuilt the church, founded a "hospital for thirteen poor men and two priests," and added to this a school. palace, church, hospital, and school were all of the same period of architecture, and that the very best of its kind. thus in the fifteenth century ewelme was eminently a "one man" place, like most of the model villages of to-day. the palace was moated, and used as a prison as late as the civil war. margaret of anjou was kept there in a kind of honourable confinement for a short time, for long after the duke's murder the duchess was in favour once more, in the triumph of the yorkists, and margaret, who had been her queen and patroness, was given to her keeping as a prisoner both in her palace and later at wallingford castle. henry viii. spent his third honeymoon there, with jane seymour, and prince rupert lived in it during the civil war. later, only the banqueting hall remained, which was converted into a manor house. but if the palace is gone, the church remains as evidence of the magnificence of the duke's ideas on the subject of a village place of worship. he seems to have shared the apprehension felt by the duke in disraeli's novel "tancred," that he might be accused of "under-building his position." in design it is very like another large church at wingfield in suffolk, where his hereditary possessions lay, and where he was buried after his murder, his body having been given to his widow. the same architect possibly supervised both, but of the two ewelme church is the finer. the interior is especially splendid, for in it are the tombs of the chaucers, and the magnificent sepulchre of the duchess herself, on which her emaciated figure lies wrapped in her shroud. this tomb of the duchess alice is one of the finest monuments of the kind in england. the other relic of the prosperity of ewelme under the de la poles is the hospital and school they founded. "god's house" is the name now given to it, and it is kept in good repair and used as an almshouse. the inner court is surrounded by cloisters, and the whole is in exactly the same condition as when it was built. the higher parts, constructed of brick, were the quarters of the priest and schoolmaster. the ruin and subsequent murder of the duke, who adorned and beautified this model village in the early fifteenth century, took place in 1450. nearly all france was lost, and in the hopes of conciliating the enemy, maine and anjou were given up by suffolk's advice. he was accused of "selling" the provinces, and a number of vague but damaging charges were drawn up against him on evidence which would not be listened to now in any court or parliament, except perhaps in a french state trial. suffolk drew up a petition to the king, which shows among other things the drain which the french wars made on the lives and fortunes of the english nobles. after referring to the "odious and horrible language that runneth through the land almost in every common mouth, sounding to my highest charge and most heaviest slander," he reminded the king that his father had died in the siege of harfleur, and his eldest brother at agincourt; that two other brothers were killed at the battle of jargeau, where he himself had been taken prisoner and had to pay â£20,000 ransom; that while his fourth brother was hostage for him he died in the enemy's hands; and that he had borne arms for the king's father and himself "thirty-four winters," and had "abided in the war in france seventeen years without ever seeing this land." the king's favour secured that he should be banished instead of losing his head, for a state trial was never anything better than a judicial murder. the following is the letter written by an eye-witness to sir john paston, describing what then happened: "in the sight of all his men he was drawn out of the great ship into the boat, and there was an axe and a stock. and one of the lewdest men of the ship bade him lay down his head and he should be fairly ferd (dealt) with, and die on a sword. and he took a rusty sword and smote off his head with half-a-dozen strokes, and took away his gown of russet and his doublet of velvet mailed, and laid his body on the sands of dover; and some say his head was set on a pole by it, and his men sit on the land by great circumstance and pray." the writer says, "i have so washed this bill with sorrowful tears that uneths ye shall not read it." the countess survived his fall and lived to be great and powerful once more. her son became the brother-in-law of sovereigns, and her grandchildren were princes and princesses. eel-traps fish and flour go together as bye-products of nearly all our large rivers. the combination comes about thus: wherever there is a water-mill, a mill cut is made to take the water to it. the larger the river, the bigger and deeper the mill cut and dam, unless the mill is built across an arm of the stream itself. this mill-dam, as every trout-fisher knows, holds the biggest fish, and where there are no trout, or few trout, it will be full of big fish, while in the pool below there are perhaps as many more. of all the food fishes of our rivers the eel is really far the most important. he flourishes everywhere, in the smallest pools and brooks as well as in the largest rivers, and grows up to a weight of 9 lb. or 10 lb., and sometimes, though rarely, more. his price indicates his worth, and never falls below 10d. per lb. consequently he is valuable as well as plentiful, and the millers know this well. on nearly all rivers the millers have eel-traps, some of the ancient sort being "bucks," made of withes, and worked by expensive, old-fashioned machinery like the mill gear. another and most paying dodge of the machine-made order is worked in the mill itself, and makes an annexe to the mill-wheel. i once spent an agreeable hour watching the making of barley meal and the catching of eels, literally side by side. it was sufficiently good fun to make me put my gun away for the afternoon, and give up a couple of hours' walk, with the chance of a duck, to watch the mill and eel-traps working. they were both in a perfect old-world bye-end of the thames valley, in the meads at the back of the forgotten but perfect abbey of the third order at dorchester, under the tall east window of which the river thame was running bank full, fringed with giant poplars, from which the rooks were flying to look at their last year's nests in the abbey trees. the mill was, as might be supposed, the abbey mill; but on driving up the lane i was surprised to see how good and large was the miller's house, a fine dwelling of red and grey brick; and what a length of frontage the old mill showed, built of wood, as most of them are, but with two sets of stones, and space for two wheels. only one was at work, and that was grinding barley-meal--meal from nasty, foreign barley full of dirt; but the miller had english barley-meal too, soft as velvet and sweet as a new-baked loaf. stalactites of finest meal dust hung from every nail, peg, cobweb, and rope end on the walls, fine meal strewed the floor, coarse meal poured from the polished shoots, to which the sacks hung by bright steel hooks, and on both floors ancient grindstones stood like monuments of past work and energy, while below and beside all this dust and floury dryness roared the flooded waters of the dam and the beating floats of the wheel. "have you any eels?" i asked. "come and see," said the miller. he stopped his wheel, unbolted the door, and we looked up the mill dam, two hundred yards long, straight as a line, embanked by double rows of ancient yews, the banks made and the trees planted by the monks five hundred years ago. then we stepped into the wheel-house, where the water, all yellow and foaming, was pouring into two compartments set with iron gratings below, on which it rose and foamed. seizing a long pole with prongs like walrus teeth, the miller felt below the water on the bars. "here's one, anyway," he said, and by a dexterous haul scooped up a monster eel on to the floor. in a box which he hauled from the dam he had more, some of 5-lb. weight, which had come down with the flood--an easy and profitable fishery, for the eels can lie in the trap till he hauls them out, and sell well summer and winter. it pays as well as a poultry yard. once he took a 9-lb. fish; 2-1/2 lb. to 4 lb. are common. the eel-trap on the old thames mill stream is imitated in other places where there is no mill. thus at mottisfont abbey on the test an old mill stream is used to work an hydraulic ram, and also to supply eels for the house; the water is diverted into the eel-trap, and the fish taken at any time. another dodge for taking eels, which is not in the nature of what is called a "fixed engine," is the movable eel-trap or "grig wheel." it is like a crayfish basket, and is in fact the same thing, only rather larger. they can be obtained from that old river hand, mr. bambridge, at eton, weighted, stoppered, and ready for use, for 7s. 6d. each, and unweighted for 5s. they are neat wicker-work tunnels, with the usual contrivance at the mouth to make the entrance of the eels agreeable and their exit impossible. the "sporting" side of these traps is that a good deal of judgment is needed to set them in the right places in a river. many people think that eels like carrion and favour mud. mr. bambridge says his experience is different, and his "advice to those about to fish" with this kind of eel-trap is suggestive of new ideas about eels. he says that "for bait nothing can beat about a dozen and a-half of small or medium live gudgeon, failing these large minnows, small dace, roach, loach, &c., though in some streams about a dozen good bright large lob worms, threaded on a copper wire and suspended inside, are very effective, and should always be given a trial. offal i have tried but found useless, eels being a cleaner feeding fish than many are aware of; and feeding principally in gravelly, weedy parts, the basket should be well tucked up under a long flowing weed, as it is to these places they go for food, such as the ground fish, loach, miller's thumb, crayfish, shrimps, mussels, &c. when i worked a fishery near here, i made it a rule after setting the basket to well scratch the soil in front of the entrance with the boathook i used for lowering them, and firmly believe their curiosity was excited by the disturbed gravel. choose water from four feet to six feet deep, and see basket lays flat. every morning when picked up, lay them on the bank, pick out all weed and rubbish, and brush them over with a bass broom, keeping them out of water till setting again at dusk." eel-bucks, of which few perfect sets now remain, are the fixed engines so often seen on the thames, and are a costly and rather striking contrivance, adding greatly to the picturesqueness of parts of the river. they are very ancient, and date from days when the "eel-run" was one of the annual events of river life. the eels went down in millions to the sea, and the elvers came up in such tens of millions that they made a black margin to the river on either side by the bank, where they swam because the current was there weakest. the large eels were taken, and are still taken, on their downward journey in autumn. it is then that the thames fills, and at the first big rush of water the eels begin to descend to reach the mud and sands at the thames mouth, where they spawn. they always travel by night, and it is then that the heavy eel-bucks are lowered. often hundredweights are taken in a night, all of good size, one of the largest of which there is any record being one of 15 lb., taken in the kennet near newbury. in the "grig-wheels" they are taken as small as 3 oz. or 4 oz.; but in the bucks they rarely weigh less than 1 lb. the darkest nights are the most favourable. moonlight stops them, and they do not like still weather. the upward migration of eels goes on from february till may on the thames, but the regular "eel-fare" of the young grigs do not assume any great size till may, when as many as 1,800, about three inches long, were seen to pass a given point in one minute. so say the records. but who could have counted them so fast? a few recent developments of the eel trade elsewhere show how valuable this may be. quite lately the danes discovered that the lim-fiord and some other shallow broads on the west danish coast were a huge preserve of eels. they began trawling there steadily, and have established a large and lucrative trade in them. on the bann, in ireland, eel catching is still done in a large way, and the fish shipped to london. but the most ancient and yet most modern of eel fisheries is on the adriatic, at comacchio, where lagoons 140 miles in circumference are stocked with eels, and eel breeding and exporting are carried out on a large scale. even as early as the sixteenth century the popes used to derive an income of â£12,000 from this source. sheep, plain and coloured in the thames valley there are two very distinguished breeds of sheep--the cotswolds at the head of the watershed, and the oxford downs, near wallingford. wallingford lamb is supposed to be the best in the market. there are also the berkshire downs sheep, but these are, i think, more obviously cross-bred, or else of the hampshire breed. the cotswold sheep are probably a very old breed. they are evidently the original of the woolly "baa-lamb" of the nursery, with long, fleecy wool. the oxford downs are a short-woolled sheep. one of the flocks of this breed has been improved by selection, mainly in regard to fecundity, to such an extent that i believe twins are the normal proportion among the lambs. the shepherds, as elsewhere on the large down farms, form a race apart. they are not always on the best of terms with the ordinary farm labourers, i notice. "the shepherd be a working against i," is a complaint i sometimes hear. the real reason is that the shepherd thinks, above all things, of his flock, and of finding them _food_. the feud between the keeper of sheep and the raiser of crops dates from the days of cain and abel. i heard lately from a gentleman who very frequently occupies the honourable position of judge or steward at the leading agricultural shows, that it is proposed that in future no sheep sent to shows are to be allowed to have their coats rouged, and the judges are in future to make their decisions uninfluenced by the beauties of cosmetics. this decision comes as a great blow to the skilled hands in the business of the "improver," who, by long experience and a nice knowledge of the weaknesses of judges, had brought the art of "making up" pedigree sheep of any particular breed to something very nearly approaching the ideal of perfection. their wool was clipped so artistically as to resemble a bed of moss, and this being elegantly tinted with rouge or saffron, the sheep assumed the hue of the pink or primrose, according to taste and fancy. the reason for the demand which now requires that the champions of the flock shall be shown "plain" and not coloured is not too technical to appeal to the general public. those who know the acute anxiety with which the exhibitors of prize animals, from fancy mice to shorthorns, watch them "coming on" as the hour for the show approaches, will treat tenderly, even if they cannot condone, the little weaknesses into which the uses of rouge and saffron led them. when a southdown which ought to have a contour smooth and rounded as a pear still showed aggravating little pits and hollows where there ought to be none, nothing was easier than to postpone clipping those undesirable hollows till the moment before the show, or if there were bumps where there should be no bumps, to shave the wool down close over them. left to nature, the newly-clipped wool would show a different tint from the rest of the fleece; but the rouge or saffron then applied made all things even, to the eye, and the judges to find out whether the animals were "level" or not had to feel them all over. feeling every six inches of some two hundred sheep's backs is very tiring work; so the judges have struck against rouge, and there is an end of it. one night, some years ago, an extraordinary thing happened on both lines of downs by the thames, near reading, and also along the chilterns. most of the flocks over a very large area took a panic and burst from their folds, and next morning thousands of sheep were wandering all over the hills. i feel certain that there must have been an earthquake shock that night. nothing else could have accounted for such a wide and general stampede. the last authenticated earthquake shock in the south midlands took place hereabouts in 1775, and was noted at lord macclesfield's castle of shirbourne, where the water in the moat was seen to rise against the wall of one of the towers.[1] are our domestic sheep, except for their highly artificial development of wool, really very different from their wild ancestors, the active and flat-coated animals which still feed on the stony mountain-tops? the ways of sheep, not only in this country but abroad, show that a part at least of their wild nature is still strong in them; and if type photographs of all the representative domestic animals of our time, had been possible a few centuries ago, it may be that even in this country the shape of the animal would be found to have been far nearer to the sheep of st. kilda and of the wild breeds than it is to-day. in one of the old cloth halls of norfolk are two fine reliefs in plaster, one showing the _argo_, bringing the golden fleece, the other a flock of sheep of the day, with a saint in bishop's mitre and robes preaching to them. the shepherd, in a smock, is spinning wool with a distaff; and the sheep feeding around him, though carefully modelled, are quite unlike any of the modern breeds. many of the domestic sheep of hot countries are more slender and less woolly than the wild sheep of the mountains. the black-and-white somali sheep, for instance, are as smooth as a pointer dog. but it is in temperament and habits that the close connection between the wild and tame breeds is most clearly shown. the _excessive_ domestication of the flocks of southern england has killed all interest in them even among those who live in the country, and are keen and sympathetic observers of the ways of every other creature in the fields. the beauty of the lambs attracts attention, and the prettiness of the scene when they and their mothers are placed in some sheltered orchard among the wild daffodils and primroses, or in an early meadow by the brook, makes people wonder why they are so stupid when grown up. but the fact is that when not penned up by hurdles and moved from square to square over a whole farm, so that each inch of food may be devoured, each member of the flock can think for itself, and would, in less artificial surroundings, make for itself a creditable name for independence and intelligence. all sheep have retained this distinguishing habit of their ancestors, that they are by nature migratory, and share with nearly all migrant animals a capacity for thought and organisation, and a knowledge of localities. wild sheep are migratory because they live by preference on the rocky and stony parts of hills just below the snow-line. this is why the tame sheep do so well on the moors of scotland and mountains of switzerland. but as the snow-line descends each winter far below their summer feeding haunts, wild sheep either migrate to the lower slopes of the mountains, or, like the deer of the rockies, move off altogether to great distances. every winter, for instance, the lower valleys of yellowstone park are filled with deer and antelope from the distant mountains. so the tame flocks of greece, thrace, spain, and even scotland are migratory. in scotland their transport is modernised, and they travel regularly by steamer from the islands to winter in the lowlands, and by train from the highlands. two years ago a flock of migratory sheep from ayrshire came for early spring feeding to hyde park, and were there shorn, with their highland collies looking on. in the "old countries" and the non-progressive east of europe the migration of the flocks is on a vaster and far more romantic scale. in spain there are some ten millions of migratory sheep, which every year travel as much as two hundred miles from the plains to the "delectable mountains," where the shepherds feed them till the snows descend. these sheep are known as _transhumanies_ and their march, resting places, and behaviour are regulated by ancient and special laws and tribunals dating from the fourteenth century. at certain times no one is allowed to travel on the same route as the sheep, which have a right to graze on all open and common land on the way, and for which a road ninety yards wide must be left on all enclosed and private property. the shepherds lead the flocks, the sheep follow, and the flock is accompanied by mules carrying provisions, and large dogs which act as guards against the wolves. the merino sheep travel four hundred miles to the mountains, and the total time spent on the migration there and back is fourteen weeks. in thrace the migration of the flocks is to the northern ranges of mount rhodope. the sheep are said to be no less alert than the pomak shepherds, obeying a signal to assemble at any moment given by the shepherd's horn. the dogs are ferocious in the extreme, as the enemies of sheep in these parts are more commonly men than wild beasts, and the gentle shepherd, who has, since the russo-turkish war, exchanged his long gun for a winchester rifle, shoots at sight and asks no questions. the more nearly domestic sheep can approach the life of the primitive stock, the more intelligent their way of life becomes. the cleverest sheep live on the hills, and the stupidest on the plains. in wales, for instance, if a new tenant takes over the flock of an outgoing tenant, the latter is by law allowed a higher price if the flock is one which knows the boundaries and paths on the hills. on the plains of argentina, as mr. hudson tells us, the lambs are born so stupid that they will run after a puff-ball rolling before the wind, mistaking it for their mother. [1] this was a tremor of the great earthquake at lisbon. some results of wild-bird protection among the happiest results of the modern feeling about birds is the conversion of the whole of the thames above the tideway into a "protected area." this was not done by an order of the secretary of state, who, by existing law, would have had to make orders for each bit of the river in different counties, and often, where it divides counties, would have been obliged to deal separately with each bank. the thames conservancy used their powers, and summarily put a stop to shooting on the river throughout their whole jurisdiction. the effect of this was not seen all at once; but little by little the waterfowl began to return, the kingfishers to increase, and all the birds along the banks grew tamer. then the county councils of oxfordshire, buckinghamshire, and berkshire forbade the killing of owls and kingfishers, and this practically made the river and its banks a sanctuary. the water-hen are so numerous that at nuneham lock they run into the cottages, and at other locks the men complain they eat all their winter cabbages. as many as forty at a time have been counted on the meadows. mr. harcourt has also established a wild-duck colony on and about the island at nuneham. the island has a pond in the centre, with sedges and ancient willows and tall trees round. there the really wild ducks join the home-bred ones in winter. lower down, the scene on late summer days is almost like a poultry-yard, with waterfowl and wild pigeons substituted for ducks and chickens. young water-hens of all sizes pipe and flutter in the reeds, and feed on the bank within a few feet of those rowing or fishing, and their only enemies are the cats, which, attracted by their numbers, leave the cottages for the river and stalk them, while the old water-hens in vain try to get their too tame young safe on to the water again. though kingfishers have increased fast they are less in evidence, being naturally shy after years of persecution. in summer they keep mainly at the back of the willows, away from the river, so long as the latter is crowded with boats. it was not till november, 1899, that i saw the kingfishers at play, as i had long hoped to do, in such numbers as to make a real feature on the river. it was a brilliant, warm, sunny morning, such as sometimes comes in early winter, and i went down before breakfast to clifton bridge. there the shrill cry of the kingfishers was heard on all sides, and i counted seven, chasing each other over the water, darting in swift flight round and round the pool, and perching on the cam-shedding in a row to rest. presently two flew up and hovered together, like kestrels, over the stream. one suddenly plunged, came up with a fish, and flying to the other, which was still hovering, put the fish into its beak. after this pretty gift and acceptance both flew to the willows, where, let us hope, they shared their breakfast. in a row down the river extending over ten miles i saw more than twenty kingfishers, most of them flying out, as is their custom, on the side of the willows and osiers averse from the river, but some being quite content to remain on their perches from which they fish, while the boat slipped down in midstream. as they sit absolutely motionless, and the reddish breast, and not the brilliant back, is turned to the water, it needs quick eyes to see these watchers by the stream. the total prohibition of shooting on the water or banks is also producing the usual effect on the other birds and beasts. they are rapidly becoming tame, and the oarsman has the singular pleasure of floating down among all kinds of birds which do not regard him as an enemy. young swallows sit fearlessly on the dead willow boughs to be fed by their parents; the reed-buntings and sedge-warblers scarcely move when the oar dips near the sedge on which they sit; wood-pigeons sit on the margin and drink where the pebble-banks or cattle-ways touch the water; and the water-rats will scarcely stop their business of peeling rushes to eat the pith, even if a boatload of children passes by. [illustration: nightjar and young one. _from a photograph by r.b. lodge_.] [illustration: reed bunting. _from a photograph by r.b. lodge_.] the return of the birds, and especially of wild fowl, to the london river is the result partly of the same causes which have restored the fish to its waters; partly, also, of measures affecting a wider area, but carried out with far less physical difficulty. their presence is evidence that the tidal thames now yields them a stock of food so abundant as to tempt birds like the heron, the water-hen, and the kingfisher back to their old haunts. it shows, secondly, that the by-laws for the protection of birds passed by the counties of london, surrey, and middlesex, and by the thames conservancy (which was the pioneer in this direction by forbidding shooting on the river), are so far effective that the stock is rapidly increasing; and, lastly, that the birds are preserved and left in peace to a great extent on the london river itself. the following are the most marked instances of this return of river fowl which have come under the writer's notice; but in every case there have been preliminary advances on the part of the birds, which show that what is now recorded is only one step further in the general tendency to resume their old habits, or even to go beyond their former limits of place and time in resorting to the river. the herons from richmond park have extended their usual nightly fishing ground, which formerly ended at kew bridge, four miles further down the river, almost to hammersmith bridge, and in place of coming late at night, under cover of darkness, have made a practice of flying down at dusk, and pitching on the edge of chiswick eyot.[1] their regular appearance led to various inquiries as to the nature of the "big birds like geese" which flew down the river and made a noise in the evening, questions which were answered, in one case, by the appearance of one of the birds as it swung round in the air opposite a terrace of houses, and dropped in the stream to fish, not twenty yards from the road. as the heron is naturally among the shyest of all waterside birds, and seeks solitude above all things, these visits show that the quantity of fish in the lower river must be great, and also that the london herons, now never shot at, are losing their inbred dislike of houses and humanity. their footprints have been found on the mud opposite a creek in hammersmith, round which is one of the most crowded quarters of the poorer folk of west london. the birds had been fishing within ten yards of the houses, which at this point are largely inhabited by organ-grinders and vendors of ice-creams, callings which do not promote quiet and solitude in the immediate neighbourhood. in the evening and early morning a few wild ducks accompany the herons as low as the reach above hammersmith bridge, and single ducks have been seen even at midday flying overhead. at sunrise one midsummer day i saw a sheldrake (probably an escaped bird) flying down the river, looking very splendid in its black, white, and red plumage, in the bright light of the morning. it haunted the reach for some days, and was not shot. among other visitors to this part of the river and its island during spring were a curlew, which fed for some time on the eyot during the early morning, and a pair of pheasants, one of which, an old-fashioned english cock bird, was subsequently captured unhurt. a flock of sandpipers remained there for some weeks, and during the summer numbers of sedge-warblers have nested on and around the eyot; the cuckoo has been a regular visitor to the osier-bed in the early morning, probably with a view to laying its eggs in the sedge-warblers' nests. as a set-off to these early visits of the cuckoo, a nightjar has hunted round the islet for moths, both at dusk and during the night, when its note may often be heard. this is a fairly long list of interesting birds revisiting a portion of the river which the london boundary crosses. at a distance of less than half a mile, on some ornamental water near the river, an even more unexpected increase of the bird population has been noted. a pair of kingfishers nested and reared their brood in an old gravel-pit, while several nests of young dabchicks hatched by the pool.[2] there also during the spring a pair of tufted ducks appeared, and remained for some days before going on their journey to their breeding haunts. one lamentable event in the bird life of the thames deserves mention. a pair of swans ventured to nest within a few hundred feet of the london boundary. the hen, a very shy young bird, laid three eggs on chiswick eyot, and the pair, being supplied with material, diligently built up their nest day by day until it was above the tide level. they sat for five weeks, the cock bird keeping anxious guard day and night, while the hen would probably have died of starvation unless fed by kindly neighbours, for the river affords very little food for a swan, and this required far longer time to find than the bird was willing to spare from her nest. this was then robbed in the night, and the cock bird maltreated in defending it. the return of fish and fowl to the london thames shows by the best of tests that the efforts of the thames conservancy to preserve the amenities of the river, of the sewage committee of the county council to maintain its purity, or rather to render it less impure at its mouth, and of the adjacent county authorities to protect bird life, are all yielding good results, and justify the courage with which such an apparently hopeless task was undertaken. to the conservancy i would offer one or two suggestions, which county councillors might also consider. the river is the only large _natural_ feature still left in the area of london and greater london. now that it contains water in place of sewage, there is a guarantee that its main element as a natural amenity in a great city will be maintained, and as it becomes purer, so will the facilities which it offers for boating, fishing, and bathing increase. but it should not be _embanked_ beyond the present limit at putney. stone walls are not a thing of beauty, and a natural river-bank is. at present, from putney to richmond the greater part of the thames flows between natural boundaries. if these can be maintained, the growth of willows, sedge, hemlock, reeds, water ranunculus, and many other fine and luxuriant plants affords insect food for the fish and shelter for the birds, besides giving to the river its natural floral border. if this is replaced by stone banks the birds and the fish will move elsewhere. [1] mr. j.e. vincent tells me that in 1902 the herons were heard as far down the river as chelsea. [2] in the beautiful grounds of chiswick house, where the present occupier, dr. t. tuke, carefully preserves all wild birds. osiers and water-cress osiers, the shoots of which are cut yearly for making baskets, crates, lobster-pots, and eel-traps are a form of crop of which not nearly as much is made in the thames valley as their profitable return warrants. properly managed they nearly always pay well, and, in addition, they are very ornamental, and for the whole of the summer, autumn, and winter are one of the very best forms of covert for game. they are commonly seen near rivers, especially in parts where the ground is flooded in winter. but osiers may be grown anywhere on good ground, and are a rapid and paying crop, giving very little trouble, though they need some attention even on the banks of tidal rivers. it is estimated that in the whole of great britain there are only between 7,000 and 8,000 acres of osier beds, but these average three tons of rods per acre, and the value of the crop when harvested is often at least â£15 per acre gross return. as fruit cultivation is immensely increasing in england, there is a corresponding increase in the demand for baskets to put the fruit in. this is the main reason why osiers, unlike most farm crops, keep up their price. immense quantities are now imported from belgium, france, and germany because our own crop is not nearly sufficient.[1] they do not require a wet soil or to be near water: all that the willow roots need is that the land shall be good and not too dry or sandy. stagnant, boggy ground does not suit them at all, though they will grow well in light loam. many species of osier are of most brilliant colouring in winter and early spring. in some the rods are golden yellow; in others the bark is almost scarlet with a bright polish, and the osier bed forms a brilliant object from december to february, just before the rods are cut. the kind of willow grown varies from the slender, tough withes used in making small baskets and eel-traps, to the large, fast-growing rods suited for making crates for heavy goods. the planter must find out for which kind there is the readiest market in the neighbourhood, and then get his land ready. it needs thorough clearing and trenching to the depth of from twenty to thirty inches. the young osiers should then be put in. these should be taken from a nursery in which they have been "schooled" for one year, as in that case they will produce a crop fit to cut one year earlier than if the cuttings have been put at once in the new osier-bed. the cuttings when transferred to the bed should be put in twelve inches apart in the rows, and these rows made at two feet distance from each other. they will need hoeing to keep the ground clear, which will cost â£l to â£2 per acre for the first two years, and this should be done before the middle of june. when the osiers are well started they grow so densely that they kill out the weeds themselves. the rate of growth even on ordinary field-land is astonishing; they will add eighteen inches in a week. february and march are the months for planting, and march also sees the osier harvest when the time comes to cut them. in the fens the harvesting of the rods begins earlier, but this depends usually on the season, the object being to cut them before the sap begins to rise. osiers particularly invite the attention of those who are desirous of planting coverts for game. they are a paying crop, and a quick crop, giving cover sooner and of better quality than almost any other form of underwood, and are also very ornamental. it is true that they are cut yearly, but this is not till the shooting season is over. meantime there is no covert which pheasants like so much as osier-beds, especially if they are near water. on chiswick eyot, which is entirely planted with osiers, there are standing at the time of writing six stacks of bundles set upright. each stack contains about fifty bundles of the finest rods, nine feet high. thus the eyot yields at least three hundred bundles. this osier-bed is cut quite early in the year, usually in january, and by february all the fresh rods are planted. before being peeled the osiers are stood upright in water for a month, and some begin to bud again. this is to make the sap run up, i presume, by which means the bark comes off more readily. i believe that the chiswick osiers, being of the largest size, are used for making crates, and that they are cut early because there is no need to peel them. water-cress growing is an increasing business in the thames valley, where the head of every little brook or river in the chalk is used for this purpose. this is good both for business in general and for the fish, for water-cress causes the accumulation of a vast quantity of fish food in various forms. the artificial culture of water-cress is comparatively modern, and a remarkably pretty side-industry of the country. formerly, the cress gatherer was usually a gipsy, or "vagrom man," who wandered up to the springs and by the head waters of brooks at dawn, and took his cresses as the mushroom-gatherer takes mushrooms--by dint of early rising and trespass. [illustration: peeling osiers. _from a photograph by taunt & co_.] the places where water-cress grows naturally are usually singularly attractive. the plant grows best where springs actually bubble from the ground, either where the waters break out on the lower sides of the chalk downs, or in some limestone-begotten stream where springs rise, sometimes for a distance of one or two miles, bubbling and swelling in the very bed of the brook. there, among dead reeds and flags, the pale green cresses appear very early in the spring, for the water is always warmer which rises from the bosom of the earth. trout and wild duck haunt the same spots, and one often sees, stuck on a board in the stream, a notice warning off the poor water-cress gatherer, who was supposed to poach the fish. the happy-go-lucky cress gathering is now a thing of the past, and there are few rural industries more skilfully and profitably conducted. i knew a farmer who, having lost all his capital on a large farm on the downs, took as a last resource to growing the humble "creases" by the springs below. he has now made money once more, and been able to take and cultivate another farm nearly as large as that he worked before, while the area of his water-cress beds still grows. wherever a chalk stream, however small, breaks out of the hills, it is usual to let it to a water-cress grower. he widens the channels, and year by year every square foot of the upper waters is planted with cress. each year, too, new and larger beds are added below, and the cresses creep down the stream. when they encroach on good spawning ground this is very bad for trout; but the beds are pretty enough, forming successive flats, on different levels, of vivid green. the scene on the water-cress farm shows the complete metamorphosis undergone by what was once a swift running brook when once the new culture is taken in hand. when left to nature, the little chalk stream might truly have said, in the words of the poem- "i murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses, i linger by my shingly bars, i loiter round my cresses." now all the brambles and shingle are gone, and the stream is condemned to "loiter round its cresses," and to do nothing else. the water must not be more than six inches deep, and it must not flow too fast. to secure these conditions little dams, some made of earth and some of boards, are built from side to side of the brook. the water thus appears to descend in a series of steps, each communicating with the next by earthen pipes, through which the water spouts. when a fresh bed of cresses is to be planted, which is done usually towards the end of summer, a sluice is opened, and only an inch or so of water left. on this cuttings from the cress are strewn, which soon take root, and make a bed fit for gathering by next spring. from february to april the cresses are at their best. their flavour is good, their leaves crisp, and they come at a time when no outdoor salad can be grown. as the beds are set close to the fresh springs, they are seldom frozen. hence, in very hard weather all the birds flock to the cress-beds, where they find running water and a certain quantity of food. if the beds do freeze, the cress is destroyed, and the loss is very serious. gathering cresses is a very pleasant job in summer, but in early spring one of the most cheerless occupations conceivable short of gathering iceland moss. the men wear waterproof boots, reaching up the thighs, and thick stockings inside these. but the water is icy cold. the cress plants are then not tall, as they are later, but short and bushy. they need careful picking, too, in order not to injure the second crop. then the cold and dripping cresses have to be trimmed, tied into bundles, and packed. when "dressed" they are laid in strong, flat hampers, called "flats," the lids of which are squeezed down tight on to them. the edges are then cut neatly with a sharp knife, and the baskets placed in running water, until the carts are ready to drive them to the station. not london only but the great towns of the north consume the cress grown in the south of england. a great part of that grown in the springs which break out under the berkshire downs goes to manchester. one basket holds about two hundred large bunches. from each of these a dozen of the small bunches retailed at a penny each can be made; and every square rod of the cress-bed yields two baskets at a cutting. in one of the east london suburbs, near to the reservoirs of a water company, it has been found worth while to create an artificial spring, by making an arrangement with the waterworks for a constant supply. this flows from a stand-pipe and irrigates the cress-beds, which produce good cresses, though not of such fine flavour as those grown in natural spring water and upon a chalk soil. [1] fishermen in the isle of wight send all the way to the midlands to get the little scarlet withes required for making lobster-pots. fog and dew ponds the cycle of dry seasons seems to be indefinitely prolonged. during the period, now lasting since 1893, in which we have had practically no wet summers, and many very hot ones, a very curious phenomenon has been remarked upon the high and dry chalk downs. the dew ponds, so called because they are believed to be fed by dew and vapours, and not by rain, have kept their water, while the deeper ponds in the valleys have often failed. the shepherds on the downs are careful observers of these ponds, because if they run dry they have to take their sheep to a distance or draw water for them from very deep wells. they maintain that there are on the downs some dew ponds which have never been known to run dry. others which do run dry do so because the bottom is injured by driving sheep into them and so perforating the bed when the water is shallow, and not from the failure of the invisible means of supply. there seem to be two sources whence these ponds draw water, the dew and the fogs. summer fogs are very common at night on the high downs, though people who go to bed and get up at normal hours do not know of them. these fogs are so wet that a man riding up on to the hills at 4 a.m. may find his clothes wringing wet, and every tree dripping water, just as during the first week of last november in london many trees distilled pools of water from the fog, as if it had been pouring with rain. such was the case on july 4th, 1901. the fogs will draw up the hollows towards the ponds, and hang densely round them. fog and dew may or may not come together; but generally there is a heavy dew deposit on the grass when a fog lies on the hills. after such fogs, though rain may not have fallen for a month, and there is no water channel or spring near the dew pond, the water in it rises prodigiously. every shepherd knows this, but the actual measurements of this contribution of the vapour-laden air have not often been taken. yet the subject is an interesting one, and of real importance to all dwellers on high hills, especially those which, like the south downs, are near the sea, and attract great masses of fog and vapour-laden cloud, but contain few springs on the high rolls of the hills. the following are some notes of the rise in a dew pond caused by winter fogs on the berkshire downs. they were recorded by the rev. j.g. cornish at lockinge, in berkshire, and taken at his suggestion by a shepherd[1] in a simple and ingenious way. whenever he thought that a heavy dew or fog was to be expected (and the shepherds are rarely wrong as weather prophets) he notched a stick, and drove it into the pond overnight, so that the notch was level with the surface. next morning he pulled it up, marked how high the water had risen above the notch, and nicked it again for measurement. on january 18th, after a night of fog, the water rose 1-1/2 in.; on the next day, after another fog, 2 in.; and on january 24th, 1 in. five nights of winter fog gave a total rise of 8 ins.--a vast weight of water even in a pond of moderate area. five days of heavy spring dew in april and may, with no fog, gave a total rise in the same pond of 3-1/2 ins., the dews, though one was very heavy, giving less water than the fogs, one of which even in may caused the water to rise 1-1/2 ins.[2] the shepherds say that it is always well to have one or two trees hanging over the pond, for that these distil the water from the fog. this is certainly the case. the drops may be heard raining on to the surface in heavy mists. during the first october mists of 1891 the pavement under certain trees was as wet as if it had been raining, while elsewhere the dust lay like powder. the water was still dripping from these trees at 7 a.m. under the plane-trees the fallen leaves were as wet from distilled moisture as if they had been dipped in water; yet the ground beyond the spread of the tree was dry. the writer tried a simple experiment in this distilling power of trees. at sundown, two vessels were placed, one under a small cherry-tree in full leaf, the other on some stone flags. heavy dew was falling and condensing on all vegetation, and on some other objects, with the curious capriciousness which the dewfall seems to show. the leaves of some trees were already wet. in the morning the vessel under the tree, and that in the open, both held a considerable quantity of water, that on the stone caught from dew and condensation, that under the tree mainly from what had dripped from the leaves, which clearly intercepted the direct fall of dew. but the vessel under the tree held just twice as much water as that in the open, the surplus being almost entirely derived from drops precipitated from the leaves. mr. sanderson, the manager of the elephant-catching establishment of the indian government, noted that in heavy dews in the jungle the water condensed by the leaves could be heard falling like a heavy shower of rain. gilbert white, who noticed everything, and lived near a chalk hill, makes some shrewd conjectures, both about the dew ponds and the part which trees play in distilling water from fog, though he does not form the practical conclusion, which we think is a safe one, that the most fog-distilling trees should be discovered and planted to help to supply the water in these air-tapping reservoirs. "to a thinking mind," he writes, "few phenomena are more strange than the state of little ponds on the summits of the chalk hills, many of which are never dry in the most trying droughts of summer. on _chalk_ hills, i say, because in many rocky and gravelly soils springs usually break out pretty high on the sides of elevated grounds and mountains; but no persons acquainted with chalky districts will allow that they ever saw springs in such a soil but in valleys and bottoms, since the waters of so pervious a stratum as chalk all lie on one dead level, as well-diggers have assured me again and again. now we have many such little round ponds in this district, and one in particular on our sheep-down, three hundred feet above my house, and containing perhaps not more than two or three hundred hogsheads of water; yet it is never known to fail, though it affords drink for three or four hundred sheep, and for at least twenty head of large cattle beside. this pond, it is true, is overhung with two moderate beeches, that doubtless at times afford it much supply. but then we have others as small, which, without the aid of trees, and in spite of evaporation from sun and wind and perpetual consumption by cattle, yet constantly contain a moderate share of water, without overflowing in the winter, as they would do if supplied by springs. by my journal of may, 1775, it appears that 'the small and even the considerable ponds in the vales are now dried up, but the small ponds on the very tops of the hills are but little affected.' can this difference be accounted for by evaporation alone, which is certainly more prevalent in the bottoms? or, rather, have not these elevated pools _some unnoticed recruits, which in the night time counterbalance the waste of the day?_" these unnoticed recruits, though it is now certain that they come in the form of those swimming vapours from which little moisture seems to fall, are enlisted by means still not certainly known. the common explanation was that the cool surface of the water condensed the dew, just as the surface of a glass of iced water condenses moisture. the ponds are always made artificially in the first instance, and puddled with clay and chalk. in the notes to a recent edition of "white's selborne," edited by professor l.c. miall, f.r.s., and mr. w. warde fowler, a considerable amount of information on dew ponds is appended to the passage quoted above, but the source of supply still remains obscure. the best dew ponds seem to be on the sussex downs, where far more fog and cooling cloud accumulates than on the more inland chalk ranges, because of the nearness of the sea. near inkpen beacon, in hampshire, there is a dew pond at a height of nine hundred feet, which is never dry, though it waters a large flock of sheep.[3] dew ponds are often found where there are no other sources of supply, such as the wash coming from a road. probably if the site for one had to be selected, it should be where the mists gather most thickly and the heaviest dews are shed, local knowledge only possessed by a few shepherds. i have driven up _through_ rain on to the top of the downs, and found there that no rain was falling, but mists lying in the hollows like smoke. mr. clement reid, f.r.s., has added to the "selborne" notes his own experiences of the best sites for dew ponds. they should, he thinks, be sheltered on the south-west by an overhanging tree. in those he is acquainted with the tree is often only a stunted, ivy-covered thorn or oak, or a bush of holly, or else the southern bank is high enough to give shadow. "when one of these ponds is examined in the middle of a hot summer's day," he adds, "it would appear that the few inches of water in it could only last a week. but in early morning, or towards evening, or whenever a sea-mist drifts in, there is a continuous drip from the smooth leaves of the overhanging tree. there appears also to be a considerable amount of condensation on the surface of the water itself, though the roads may be quite dry and dusty. in fact, whenever there is dew on the grass the pond is receiving moisture." though this is evidently the case, no one has explained how it comes about that the pond surface receives so very much more moisture than the grass. the heaviest dew or fog would not deposit an inch, or even two inches, of water over an area of grass equal to that of the pond. none of the current theories of dew deposits quite explain this very interesting question. two lines of inquiry seem to be suggested, which might be pursued side by side. these are the quantities distilled or condensed on the ponds, and the means by which it is done; and secondly, the kind of tree which, in gilbert white's phrase, forms the best "alembic" for distilling water from fog at all times of the year. it seems certain that the tree is an important piece of machinery in aid of such ponds, though many remain well supplied without one. [1] thomas elliot, who for some twenty years was shepherd and general manager for one of my father's tenants at childrey. [2] full details of the cost and method of making dew ponds, as well as other information about them, are contained in the prize essay of the late rev. j. clutterbuck, rector of long wittenham, in the journal of the royal agricultural society. vol. i., â§s. part 2. [3] in the isle of wight, on brightstone downs, about 400 feet above the sea, is a dew pond with a _concrete_ bottom, which has never run dry for thirty years. poisonous plants a friend informs me that he has found a quantity of woad growing on the chilterns above the thame, enough to stain blue a whole tribe of ancient britons, and also that on a wall by the roadside between reading and pangbourne he discovered several plants of the deadly nightshade, or "dwale." this word is said to be derived from old french _deuil_, mourning; but its present form looks very english. the only cases of plant poisoning now common among grown-up people are those caused by mistaking fungi for mushrooms, or by making rash experiments in cooking the former, of which gerard quaintly says: "beware of licking honey among the thorns, lest the sweetness of the one do not countervail the sharpness and pricking of the other." but with such a list of toxic plants as our flora can show there is always danger from certain species whose properties are quite unknown to ordinary mortals. are they equally unknown to the herbalists and that mysterious trade-union of country-women and collectors of herbs by the roadside who deal with them? probably the trade in poisons not used for serious purposes, but for what used in some parts of england to be called "giving a dose," a punishment for unfaithful, unkind, or drunken husbands, still exists as it did some forty years ago. the collectors of medicinal plants cut from the roadside and rubbish heaps, plants whose "operations" for good are quite well known, and have been handed down by tradition for centuries, cannot be absolutely ignorant of the other side of the picture, the toxic properties which other plants, or sometimes even the same plants, contain. foxglove, for instance, from which _digitalis_ used as a medicine is extracted, is a good example of these kill-or-cure plants. every portion of the plant is poisonous, leaves, flowers, stalks, and berries. it affects the heart, and though useful in cases in which the pulsations are abnormal, its symptoms when taken by persons in ordinary health are those of heart failure. thus foxglove is not only a dangerous but a "subtle" poison. among other plants which may cause serious mischief, but are seldom suspected, are such harmless-looking flowers as the meadowsweet, herb-paris, the common fool's-parsley, found growing in quantities in the gardens of unlet houses and neglected ground which has been in cultivation, mezereon, columbine, and laburnum. meadowsweet has the following set against its name: "a few years since two young men went from london to one of the southern counties on a holiday excursion, on the last day of which they gathered two very large sheafs of meadowsweet to bring home with them. these they placed in their bedroom at the village inn where they had to put up. in the course of the night they were taken violently ill, and the doctor who was called in stated that they were suffering from the poisonous prussic-acid fumes of the meadowsweet flowers, which he said almost overpowered him when he came into the room. the flowers were at once removed, and the young men, treated with suitable restoratives, were by next morning sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey home." [1] without knowing what the young men had had for supper, it seems perhaps rather hasty to blame the meadowsweet. but the other flowers mentioned above have a bad record. to take them in order. herb-paris, which grows in woods and shady places, with four even-sized leaves in a star at the top of the stem, all growing out opposite each other, bears a large, green solitary flower, and a bluish-black berry later. all parts of the plant are poisonous, the berries especially. fool's-parsley, an unpleasantly smelling, very common plant, which leaves its odour on the hand if the seeds are squeezed or drawn through it, is said to cause numbers of deaths by being mistaken for common parsley and cooked. in the case of poisoning by this plant, it is recommended that milk should be given, the body sponged with vinegar, and mustard poultices put on the sufferer's legs. it is reckoned that one plant produced six thousand and eighty seeds--an unpleasant degree of fecundity for a poisonous weed. columbine, which is a wild plant with blue or white flowers, as well as a domesticated one, has a toxic principle like that of the monkshood, more especially in the seeds; and the pretty red berries of the mezereon are responsible for the deaths or illness of children nearly every autumn. they are like cherries, and easily picked from the low bushes on which they grow. a dozen are said to be enough to cause death, though this must probably depend on the state of the eater's health. the laburnum, with its golden rain, is potentially a kind of upas tree. the writer has only known of two deaths of children caused by eating the beans in the green pods, but it is said to be a frequent cause of death every year on the continent, where, possibly, children are less naturally careful about poisonous plants than those in england, to whom risks of this kind are usually and properly made part of the "black list" of the nursery-book of "don'ts." the seeds will even poison poultry, if they pick them up after they have dropped from the pod. laburnum is of comparatively recent introduction into britain, or it would probably earlier have been accorded a place among the severely poisonous plants, dreaded by all. of these the deadly nightshade and hemlock are the best known in story, while the yew is most dangerous because far more common. in one case the rector of a berkshire village was made very ill by eating honey which had been partly gathered from yew flowers. green hellebore and monkshood are also classed in the list of the ranker poisons. deadly nightshade is rather a rare plant, yet it may be seen often enough on the sides of woods where there are old walls. it is poisonous throughout. the flowers are large, single, purple bells, and the berries black and shiny like a black cherry. it is said of this dangerous plant that the roots are computed to be five times more poisonous than the berries, that human beings have been found more susceptible to it than animals, and carnivorous animals more so than others. children suffer more in proportion to the quantity of poison taken than do adults. but cases of nightshade poisoning are very rare, though two were reported some three years ago. possibly the berries often fail to ripen, and so are less attractive in appearance. the poisonous hemlocks are two, one of which, the common hemlock, is said to have been the plant from which the athenians prepared their poison for executing citizens condemned to death; and the other, the water-hemlock, or cowbane, is particularly deadly when eaten by cattle, to which it is fatal in a very few hours. another plant, used for preparing poison in india, which produces a drug used by some tribes of thugs for procuring the death of their victims, datura or stramonium, has now found a place amongst our wild flowers. it has an english name, thorn-apple, and is said to have been naturalised by the gipsies, who used the seeds as a medicine and narcotic, and carried them about with them in their wanderings. like henbane, it is often seen on rubbish-heaps and in old brickfields. the leaf is very handsome, and the flower white and trumpet-shaped. both this plant and the henbane retain their poisonous properties even when dried in hay, and stalled cows have been known to be poisoned by fodder containing a mixture of the latter plant. cattle have a delicate sense of smell which warns them of the danger of most poisonous english herbs, though apparently this warning odour is absent from the plants which kill so many horses when the grass grows on the south african veld, and also from our english yew. yew was anciently employed as a poison in europe, much as is the curari to-day in central america. dr. w.t. fernie, the author of "herbal simples approved for modern use," says that its juice is a rapidly fatal poison, that it was used for poisoning arrows, and that the symptoms correspond in a very remarkable way with those which follow the bites of venomous snakes. it is believed that in india there is a poison which produces the same effect. an indian rajah once desired that a notice should be put in a well-known paper that he did not intend to raise his rents on his accession to the estates. the proprietor of the paper asked him his reasons for wishing for such an advertisement. the rajah said that his grandfather had raised the rents, and had died of snake-bite; that his father had done the same, and had also died of snake-bite; and that he concluded that there was some connection of cause and effect. the notice was inserted, and this rajah did not die of snake-bite, or rather of the poison which simulates it. [1] "farm and home" year book for 1902. ancient thames mills almost the greatest loss to country scenery is the decay of the ancient windmills and water-mills. the first has robbed the hilltops of a most picturesque feature, while in the valleys and little glens the roaring, creaking, dripping wheel sounds no longer, except in favoured spots where it still pays to grind the corn in the old way. the old town and city mills often survived longer than the country ones, and those on the thames longer than those on smaller rivers. the corn and barley which was taken to market in the town was easily transferred to the town mill, and thence by water to the place of consumption. every wykehamist remembers the ancient and picturesque mills of winchester, with the mill-stream bridged by the main street. at oxford some of the most ancient mills remain to this day, while others have only recently been destroyed, or have undergone a curious conversion into dwelling-houses, beneath which the mill-stream still rushes. one of these houses stands near folly bridge; another old mill has just undergone the same process, that close to holywell church. some of these mills are the most ancient surviving institutions in oxford, far older than the colleges--older even than any of the churches except perhaps one. some of these--the castle mill, for instance--have ground corn for centuries since the abbeys, for whose use they were founded, utterly disappeared. others were standing long before abbeys or colleges were founded, and were part of their endowments. they are the oldest link between town life and country life left in oxford, or indeed in england. for a thousand years the corn grown on the hills beyond the thames meadows has been drawn to their doors. saxon churls dragged wheat there on sledges, danes rowed up the river to oseney and stole the flour when they sacked the abbey, norman bishops stole the mills themselves. that iniquitous roger of salisbury was "in" this, as we might guess. roger, who knew that attention to detail is the soul of business, commandeered this particular mill with others in these parts, and, when forced to let it go, with a fine sense of humour made it over to the godstone nunnery as a pious donor. the knights templars had another mill at cowley, and the king himself one on the cherwell, which was given to the hospital of st. john, who "swapped" it with merton. later on these mills helped king charles's army vastly, for all the flour needed for the oxford garrison was ground inside or close to the walls. at present the thames is mainly visited as a source of rest and refreshment to tens of thousands of men "in cities pent," and of pleasure rather than profit. in a secondary degree it is useful as a commercial highway, the barge traffic being really useful to the people on its banks, where coal, stone for road-mending, wood, flour, and other heavy and necessary goods are delivered on the staithes almost at their doors. but when the old mills were first founded, and for eight centuries onwards, it was as a source of power, a substitute for steam, that the river was valued. the times will probably alter, and the thames currents turn mill wheels again to generate electric light for the towns and villages on its banks. the chance of this coming about is enough to make any one who owns a mill right on the water keep it, even though not useful at present. first the old roads with auto-cars, then the old mills with hydraulic lighting and low-power dynamos will come to the front again. whereof take the old story of the oxford river as full and sufficient witness, and antony wood for storyteller. "oxford," he says, "owed its prosperity to its rivers," of which there were apparently as many branches and streams then as now. the rivers were "beneficial to the inhabitants, as anon shall be showed," though the cherwell was "more like a tide" than a common river sometimes, and once nearly overflowed all the physic garden. that garden stands there still. so does the cherwell still behave "more like a tide than a river," and the scene at the torpid races a few years ago is evidence that the rivers have not diminished in volume. what, then, was the "great commodity" given by them to the city? first and least, a water which was good for dyeing cloth and for tanning leather; secondly, and by far the greatest benefit, it turned the wheels of at least a dozen important mills. as mills were always a monopoly, as much opposition was raised to the making of a new one as would now be evoked by the proposal to construct a new railway. it was meddling with vested interests of a powerful kind, but there were so many rivers at oxford that each turned one or two mills without injuring any one's water rights. of all these mills, the greatest advantage to the city came from the castle mill. notwithstanding its name, this was _not_ the property of the castle of oxford, though it stood within arrow-shot of its towers, and was thus protected from pillage in time of war. it stands under the remaining tower, the water tower, of the castle still, and on exactly the same site, and on the branch of the thames which from the most ancient days has been the waterway by which barges and merchandise came from the country to the city, bringing goods from abingdon or corn and fuel from the upper river. and it is still called by its old name of the weir stream. "there is one river called weyre, where hath bin an hythe, at which place boatmen unload their vessels, which also maketh that antient mill under the castle seldom or never to faile from going, to the great convenience of the inhabitants." so says antony wood, adding that it stood before the norman conquest. after that it was forfeited to the norman kings, and then held in half shares by the burgesses of the town and the abbots of oseney, that once wealthy and now vanished abbey, which stood close by where the railway station now is. they shared the fishery also, and apparently this partnership prevented friction between the town and the monks, as each could undersell the other, and prices for flour and fish were kept down at a reasonable figure. henry viii. gave the abbey's share to the new bishopric of oxford, but the funds of the bishopric were embezzled by some means, and the town ultimately bought the mill for â£566. st. george's tower, the only remaining fragment of the castle, is built of stones and mortar, so compact that though the walls have stood since robert d'oily reared it, late in the reign of the conqueror, the stones and mortar had to be cut out as if from a mass of rock when a water-pipe was recently taken through the walls. it is now the water tower which holds the supply for oxford prison. old holywell mill was on a branch of the cherwell, and stood just behind magdalen walks, whence a charming view was had of its wheel and lasher. it belonged to the abbey of oseney, who gave it to merton college in exchange for value. now it is a handsome dwelling-house, below which the mill stream rushes. [illustration: botley mill. _from a photograph by taunt & co_.] [illustration: eel bucks. _from a photograph by taunt & co_.] merton college seems to have had a fancy for owning mills, for it also acquired by exchange the king's mill. only the house and lasher are left to show where this old mill stood. it had a narrow but very strong mill stream, which in winter used to come down in a sheet of solid water like green jade, a beautiful object among the walks and willows of mesopotamia. it was an outpost of the king's forces when oxford was held for the royalists. botley mill, though on the westernmost of the many streams into which the thames divides at oxford, was outside the walls. it dates from before the conquest. this belonged to the abbey of abingdon, in the chronicles of which are some records of an injury done to the "aqueduct, which is vulgarly called the lake." this name is still the local term for all side streams and artificial cuts from the upper thames. the men of a now vanished village of seckworth broke the banks of the "lake" when odo, bishop of bayeux, was being besieged in rochester castle. the lord of the manor was subsequently sued for this by the abbot of abingdon, and had to pay ten shillings damages. doubtless the men of seckworth had to contribute to pay for their indulgence in this mischief, but it looks as if the abbot's miller had been cheating them. the birds that stay in the vision of the lots and lives, when the souls chose their careers on a fresh register before taking another chance in the world above, ulysses chose that of a stay-at-home proprietor, with a resolve, born of experience, never again to roam. if plato had made a myth of the birds, he might have alleged some such reason to explain how it is that while most of them are incessant wanderers, ever flitting uncertain between momentary points of rest, so few remain fixed and constant, as if they had sworn at some distant date never more to make trial of the wine-dark sea. in the still, november woods, when the vapours curl like smoke among the dripping boughs, leaving a diamond on each sprouting bud where next year's leaf is hid; by the moorland river, on bright december mornings, when the grayling are lying on the shallows below the ripple where the rock breaks the surface; by the frozen shore where the land-springs lie fast, drawn into icicles or smeared in slippery slabs on the cliff faces, and hoar frost powders the black sea-wrack; on the lawns of gardens, where the winter roses linger and open dew-drenched and rain-washed in the watery sunbeams--there we see, hear, and welcome the birds that stay. then and there we note their fewness, their lameness, and feel that they are really fellow-countrymen, native to the soil. the list of these home-loving birds is short; and those commonly seen are only a few of the total. in a winter stroll by the upper thames, the absence of the birds which flocked along the banks in summer and spring, when the may was in blossom and the willow covered with cotton fleck, is among the first seasonal changes noticed. the chiff-chaffs, turtledoves, sedge-warblers, whitethroats, coots, sandpipers, and all the little river birds are gone. so are the greater number of the blackbirds, thrushes and missel-thrushes. all the fisherman sees, his daily companions by the deserted river, are the wren creeping in the flood-drift, the tits working over the alder bushes to see if any seeds are left in the cones, and the kingfishers. the grayling fisherman on the northern streams has the water ousels for his constant and charming companions, true to the mountain river as in the days of merlin and vivien, busy as big black-and-white bees as they flit up-stream and down-stream, flying boldly into the waterfalls, dropping silently from mossy stones into the clear brown eddies, singing when the sunbeams shine and warm the crag-tops, and even floating and singing on the water, like aquatic robins. the ousels must have been the sacred birds of tana, the water goddess, the ever attached votaries of her dripping and rustic shrines. by the winter shore, untrodden by any but the fisher going down at the ebb to seek king-crab for bait, or by his children, gathering driftwood on the stones, one little bird stays ever faithful to the same short range of shore. this is the rock-pipit--the "sea-lark" of browning's verse. but that is a summer song. it is not only when the cliff- "sets his bones, to bask i' the sun," but in the short winter days, that the sea-lark keeps constant to the fringe of ocean. it is the most narrowly local and stay-at-home of all birds, never leaving the very fringe and margin, not of sea, but of land, haunting only the last edge and precipice of the coast, nesting on those upright walls of granite or chalk, and creeping, flying, and twittering among the crumbling stones, the water-worn boulders, and the tufts of sea-pink and samphire. when the winter storms slam the roaring billows against the cliff faces and the spray flies up a hundred feet from the exploding mass, the little sea-larks only mount to higher levels of the cliff, never coming inland or forsaking its salt-spattered resting-place. compared with these home-loving birds, all the gulls are wanderers, even though they do not desert our shores and come fifty miles up the thames. of the rock-fowl, the puffins fly straight away to the mediterranean, and the guillemots and razorbills go out to sea and leave their nesting crags. only the cormorants stay at home, flying in to roost on the same lofty crag every autumn and winter night, from the fishing grounds which the sea-crows have frequented for longer years even than the "many-wintered crow" of inland rookeries has his fat and smiling fields. the discovery that rooks, with their reputation for staunch attachment to locality, are regular and irrepressible migrants, crossing from denmark and holland to england, and from england to ireland, has been followed by other curious revelations about the mobility of what were believed to be stationary birds. our own beloved garden robin, whom we feed till he becomes a sturdy beggar, though he pays us with a song, stays with us, as we know, because he applies regularly for his rations. but he sends all his children away to seek their fortunes elsewhere, and on our coasts flights of migrant robins, whom either their parents, or the bad weather, have sent from norway over the foam, arrive all through the autumn. even the jenny-wrens migrate to some extent. because we see birds of certain kinds near our farms, gardens, and hedges it does not follow that these are those which were there in summer and spring. such common finches as the greenfinches and chaffinches migrate in immense flocks, and over vast distances, considering their short wings and small size. in the gardens and shrubberies round the houses the parent robins stay. so do some of the blackbirds, the thrushes (except in very hard weather), the hedge-sparrow, the nuthatch (more in evidence in winter than at any other time, and a firm believer in eleemosynary nuts), all the tits, except the long-tailed tit, a little gipsy bird wandering in family hordes, and the crested and marsh tits (dwellers in the pine forest and sedge-beds), and the wood pigeon. occasionally that shy bird, the hawfinch, is seen on a wet, quiet day picking up white-beam kernels and seeds. except this, every one of the garden birds comes to be fed, and is well known and appreciated. it is in the woods and the hedges of the rain-soaked meadows that the general absence of bird life in winter is most marked, and the presence of the few which stay most appreciated. those who, on sport intent, go round the hedges in november and december, or wait in rides while the woods are driven, or lie up quietly in the big covers for a shot at wood pigeons in the evening, are almost startled by the tameness and indifference of the birds, eagerly feeding so as to make the most of the short, dark days. when the hedges are beaten for rabbits the bullfinches appear in families, their beautiful grey backs and exquisite rosy breasts looking their very best against the dark-brown, purply twigs. another home-staying bird of the hedgerows, or rather of the hedgerow timber, is the tree-creeper. it has no local habitation, being a bird which migrates in a drifting way from tree to tree, and so bound by no ties to mother-earth. but it is in the woods that the stay-at-home birds are most in evidence in winter. there they find abundant food, and there they make their home. the woodpeckers, the magpie, and the jay, the brown owl, the sparrow-hawk, the kestrel, the pheasant, the long-tailed tit, and all the rest of the tribe; and in the clearings where the teazle grows, the goldfinches feed. the barn owl and brown owl both stay with us. so does the long-eared owl. but the short-eared owl is a regular migrant, coming over in flights like woodcock. no one has satisfactorily answered the question why there are sedentary species and migratory species so closely allied in habits and food that the quest for a living must be ruled as outside the motive for migration. if the long-eared owl can remain and find a living all the year round in the copses on the downs, why should not the short-eared owl make a practice of what is its occasional custom, and nest in the fens and marshes? if the kingfisher can find a living and abundant fish in our rivers and brooks, why does the dabchick migrate? the migration is only a partial one, for many remain on the thames all the year round, especially near the eyots by tilehurst; but it vanishes from most of the northern pools and returns almost on the same date. perhaps a conclusion might be hazarded from the behaviour of wild migratory birds which have become semi-domesticated. in canada, the largest and best known of the wild geese is the black-necked canadian goose. it is a regular migrant. the indians believe it brings little birds on its back when it comes. at holkham, where a large flock of these is acclimatised, but lives under perfectly wild conditions, the canadian geese never attempt to migrate, though they often fly out on to the sands at ebb-tide. they show less disposition to leave the estate than the herons in the park. yet during the winter they feed every day with flocks of wild geese in the marshes. these geese fly every spring away to the lapland mountains or the tundras, and could show the canada geese the way northwards if they wished to follow. the conclusion is that the canada geese have no desire for change; and the reason that other birds do not migrate is probably the same. ancient hedges in the upper thames valley, both in may and autumn, one of the prettiest sights is the great hedges which divide the meadows. in spring, those above oxford look as though covered with snow, and in early october they are loaded with hips and haws, just turned red, with blackberries, elderberries (though the starlings have eaten most of these), with crab apples, with hazel nuts, scarlet wild guelder-rose berries, dog-wood berries, and sloes. except the fields themselves, our hedges are almost the oldest feature with which englishmen adorned rural england. they have gone on making them until the last parish "enclosures," some of which were made as late as thirty years ago, and when made they have always been regarded as property of a valuable kind. when christ's hospital was founded in ipswich in tudor days, partly as a reformatory for bad characters, "hedge-breakers" were more particularly specified as eligible for temporary domicile and discipline. "hedges even pleached" were always a symbol of prosperity, care, and order. "her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined," a token that something was amiss in our country economy. one untidy habit, which the writer remembers as very common, has been discontinued in this connection. twenty years ago the linen drying on the hedge, which shakespeare evidently regarded as a "common object of the country," was constantly seen. it was always laid on well-trimmed hedges, or otherwise it would have been torn. now it is always hung on lines, possibly because the hedges are not so well trimmed and kept. bad times in farming have greatly helped the beauty of hedges. they are mostly overgrown, hung with masses of dog-rose, trailed over by clematis, grown up at bottom with flowers, ferns, and fox-gloves, festooned with belladonna, padded with bracken. the surrey hedges are mostly on banks, a sign that the soil is light, and that a bank is needed because the hedge will not thicken into a barrier. but these, like most others, are set with the charming hedgerow timber that makes half england look like a forest at a distance of a mile or so. it is difficult to reconstruct our landscape as it was before the hedges were made. but any one curious as to the comparative antiquity of the fields can perhaps detect the nucleus or centre where enclosure started. those having the ditch on the outer side are always the earlier, the ditch being the defence against the cattle that strayed on the unenclosed common or grazings outside. the finest garden hedges in england are at hall barn, in buckinghamshire. they must be thirty feet high, are immensely thick, and are clipped so as to present the smooth, velvety appearance peculiar to the finest yew and box hedges. the colour and texture of these walls of ancient vegetation, contrasting with the vivid green lawns at their feet, are astonishingly beautiful. one of the peculiar charms of such hedges is that where yew of a different kind or age, or a bush of box, forms part of the mass, it shows like an inlay of a different material, and the same effect is given merely by the trick that some yews have of growing their leaves or shoots at a different angle from that favoured by others. these surfaces give the variety of tint which is shown in such fabrics as "shot" or "watered" silk. here there is a splash of blue from the box, or of invisible dull green, or of golden sheen, from different classes of yew. box hedges of great size are less common than those of yew, and less durable, for the box is easily rent from the stem when old. but these two, the yew and the box, are the "precious" hedges, the silver and gold, of the garden-maker. next, representing the copper and brass, are the hedges of beech and holly. both are commonly planted and carefully tended as borders and shelters to the less important parts of gardens; as screens also to block out the humdrum but necessary portions of the curtilage, such as the forcing-pits for early plants, minor offices, timber yards, and the like; and to shelter vegetable gardens (for which the dutch use screens of dried reeds). holly makes the best and most impenetrable of all hedges when clipped, but it is not beautiful for that reason. clipped holly grows no berries; it accumulates dust and dirt, and has a dull, lifeless look. beech, on the other hand, should be in greater esteem than it is. if clipped when the sap is rising it puts on leaves which last all the winter. from top to bottom the wall of russet shines warm and bright. its leaves are harmless in decay, for they contain an antiseptic oil, and no leaves of spring are more tenderly green or in more ceaseless motion at the lightest breeze. privet makes the last and least esteemed of these "one-tree" hedges. yet it is the most tractable of all hedge material, and was almost invariably used to form the intricate "mazes," once a favourite toy of the layers-out of stately gardens. keeping these hedges in good repair and properly clipped and trimmed is one of the minor difficulties of the country. in large gardens there are always one or two professional gardeners who understand the topiary art. but it often happens that a quite modest garden possesses a splendid hedge of yew or box, the pride of the place, which needs attention once or twice every year. these hedges have frequently been clipped by the same man, some old resident in the village, for thirty or forty years. clipping that hedge is part of his regular extra earnings to which he looks forward, and a source of credit and renown to him in his circle. he knows every weak place, what parts need humouring, what stems are crowding others between the furry screen of leaves, and where the wind got in and did mischief in the last january gale. when in the course of nature the old hedge-trimmer dies, there is no one to take his place. the men do not learn these outside accomplishments as they once did, and the art is likely to be lost, just as ornamental thatching and the making of the more decorative kinds of oak paling are in danger of disappearing. mending, or still worse remaking, field-hedges is a difficult, expensive, and withal a very highly skilled form of labour. the workers have for generations been very humble men, who have scarcely been honoured for their excellent handiwork as they deserved. they appear in art only in john leech's pictures of hunting in leicestershire, in his endless jokes on "mending the gaps" towards the close of the hunting season. in february and march the scenes shown in leech's pictures are reproduced on most of the thames valley farms in berkshire and oxfordshire. the men wear in front an apron of sacking, torn and plucked by thorns. the hands are gloved in leather mits with no fingers; in them the hedger holds his light, sharp billhook, shaped much like the knife of the forest tribes of southern india. when a whole fence has to be relaid the art of "hedge carpentry" is exhibited in its perfection. few people not brought up to the business, which is only one minor branch of the many-sided handiness of a good field labourer, the kind of man whom every one now wants and whom few can find, would have the courage to attempt it. a ditch full of brambles, often with water at the bottom, has to be cleared. then the man descends into the ditch, and strips the bank of brambles and briars. that is only the preliminary. when he has piled all the brambles in heaps at regular intervals along the brow of the ditch, he walks thoughtfully from end to end of the fence, and considers the main problem, or lets the idea sink into his mind, for he never talks, and probably never frames for himself any form of words or conscious plan. in front, with the bases of the stems bare where the bank is trimmed and slashed, stands the overgrown hedge which he is to cut, bend over, relay, and transform, to make another ten or twelve years of growth till it reaches the unmanageable size of that which stands before him. most of it is great bushes of blackthorn, hard as oak, with thorns like two-inch nails, and sharper. these bushes, grow up in thick rods and stocks, spiny and intractable, from the bank to a height of perhaps twelve feet. the rest of the fence-stuff is whitethorn, nearly as ill to deal with as the blackthorn, and perhaps a few clumps of ash and wild rose. slashing, hewing, tearing down, and bending in, he works steadily down the hedge day by day. all the time he is using his judgment at every stroke. some he hews out at the base and flings behind him on the field. much he cuts off at what will be the level of the hedge. but all the most vigorous stems of blackthorn and whitethorn he half cuts through and then bends over, twisting the heads to the next stocks or uprights, or, where there are no stocks, driving in stout stakes cut from the discarded blackthorns. when finished the newly mended hedge consists of uprights, mostly rooted in their native bank, and fascine-like bundles--the heads of these uprights, which are bent and bound horizontally to the other uprights or stakes. this is the universal "stake and bond" hedge of the shires, impenetrable to cattle, unbreakable, and imperishable, because the half-cut bonds, the stakes, and the small stuff all shoot again, and in a few years make the famous "bullfinch" with stake and bond below, and a tall mass of interlacing thorns and small stuff above. during the last era of prosperous farming there was a mania for destroying hedges and cutting down the timber. if ever prosperity returns it will smile on a better-informed class of occupier and owner. it is now seen that the hedges were of the greatest value to shelter cattle, sheep, and horses, and benefited to some extent even the sown crops, especially at the blossoming time. as cattle are now the farmer's main reliance, it will be long before he grubs up or destroys the welcome shelter given by the hedges from sun, rain, and storm. the english mocking bird one winter an unusual number of peewits visited the flats near wittenham and burcote, and remained there for several months. one or two starlings which haunted the house in which we stayed, and slept in their old holes in the thatch, picked up all the various peewits' calls and notes, and used to amuse themselves by repeating these in the apple-trees on sunny mornings. the note was so exact a reproduction that i often looked up to see where the plover was before i made out that it was only the starling's mimicry. a correspondent of the _newcastle journal_, writing from yeare, near wooler, in northumberland, recently described the performances of a wild starling which has settled near his house. it is such an excellent mimic of other birds' notes that no one can help noticing its performances. a record has been kept of the variety entertainments provided by the bird. besides its own calls, whistles, and song, it reproduces the song of the blackbird and thrush absolutely correctly, and mimics with equal nicety the calls of the curlew, the corncrake, and the jackdaw. it is appropriate that this eulogy of the starling should appear in a newcastle paper, for bewick when residing there always regretted the absence of these birds from the town, and hoped that they might in time become numerous, as in the south and west. starlings are such intelligent, interesting, and really remarkable birds that if they were rare they would be among the most prized of pets. their open-air vocal performances are quite as remarkable as their latest admirer says. they are the british mocking-birds, able, when and if they choose, to reproduce almost any form of song. they do this partly, no doubt, because their throats are adaptable, but more from temperament and a kind of objective mind not very common in birds. like parrots, starlings are given to spending a good deal of every fine morning in contemplating other people, including other birds, and then in thinking them over, or talking them over to themselves. any one who is sitting or working quietly near a room where a parrot is in its cage alone can fairly follow the train of thought in the parrot's mind. it is evidently recalling episodes or things which form part of its daily mental experiences. it begins by barking like the dog, then remembers the dog's mistress, and tells it to be quiet, as she does. then it hears the housemaid, and imitates a window-sash being let down, or some phrase it has picked up in the servants' quarters. if it has been lately struck with some new animal noise or unusual sound, it will be heard practising that. starlings do exactly the same thing. when the sun begins to be hot on any fine day, summer or winter, the cock bird goes up usually alone, to a sunny branch, gable, or chimney, and there indulges in a pleasant reverie, talking aloud all the time. its own modes of utterance are three. one is a melodious whistle, rather low and soft; another is a curious chattering, into which it introduces as many "clicks" as a zulu talking his native language; and the third is a short snatch of song, either its own, or one which has become a national anthem or morning hymn common to all starlings, though it may originally have been a "selection" from other birds' notes. then, or amongst the rest of the ordinary notes, the starling inserts or practises its accomplishments. not all starlings do this, and only a few attain great eminence in that line. obviously it is only personal feeling that induces them to do it, and they get no encouragement from other starlings, though when kept in cages, as they very seldom are now, and rewarded and taught, they might develop the most striking talents. it should be added that, like all good bird-mimics, they are ventriloquists. they can reproduce perfectly the sound of another bird's note, not as that bird utters it, but as it is heard, faint and low, softened by distance. they can also sing over bars of bird-songs in a low tone perfectly correctly, and repeat them in a high one. to give a rather striking example. last spring the writer was in the valley of the eden, opposite eden-hall. the vale is a wide one, and on the north-east side are high fells, cross fell among others. on these the curlews breed, and occasionally fly right over the valley at a great height to the hills above edenhall, uttering their long, musical call. when heard, this call is generally uttered several hundred feet above the valley. a curlew was heard flying above, and repeating its cry, but was not discernible. again the call was heard, but no curlew seen, though such a large bird must have been visible. in the line of sound was a starling sitting on a chimney-pot. again the curlew called, the long-drawn notes sounding from exactly the same place in the sky. it was the starling, reproducing with perfect accuracy the call, as it was used to hear it from the high-flying curlews crossing the valley. apparently the tradition that they were good talkers has died out in rural england. it was always one of the firm beliefs of east anglia that if a starling's tongue were slit with a thin sixpence it would learn to talk at once, but that otherwise it would only mimic other birds. the operation, like most other traditional brutalities, was absolutely unnecessary. talking starlings were common enough, and must have been for many years previous to the time when they were no longer valued as cage-birds. has not sterne in his "sentimental journey" immortalised the poor bird whose one and leading sentiment, had he been able to find words for it, was "i can't get out! i can't get out!"? * * * * * from early spring until after midsummer the starlings have young broods in more varied places and positions than probably any other birds in england. they like the homes of men, and build with equal pleasure in thatched roofs, under tiles, in the eaves and under the leads of churches (though a recent edict by the bench of bishops has forbidden them the towers by causing wire netting to be placed over the louvre boards), and also in places the most remote from mankind. in the most solitary groves on beaulieu heath, under the ledges of stark cornish precipices, and in ruins on islets in mountain lochs in scotland, they tend their hungry nestlings with the same assiduous care. the good done by the starlings throughout the spring, summer, and autumn is incalculable. the young are fed entirely on insect food, and as the birds always seek this as close to home as possible, they act as police to our gardens and meadows. they do a little mischief when nesting and in the fruit season, partly because they have ideas. it was alleged recently that they picked off the cherry blossoms and carried them off to decorate their nests with. later they are among the most inveterate robbers of cherry orchards and peckers of figs, which they always attack on the ripest side. but they have never developed a taste for devouring corn, like the rice-birds and starlings of the united states. they have a good deal in common with those bright, clever, and famous mimics, the indian mynahs, which they much resemble physically. this was the bird which bontius considered "went one better" than ovid's famous parrot:- "psittacus, eois quamvis tibi missus ab oris jussa loquar; vincit me sturnus garrulus indis." the mynahs have also the starling's habit of building in houses, and especially in temples. there is a finish about the mynah's and the starling's mimicry which certainly beats that of the parrots. in their attendance on sheep and cattle the starlings have another creditable affinity. they are very like the famous rhinoceros-birds of africa, to which also they are related. the rhinoceros-birds always keep in small flocks, every member of which sits on the back of the animal, whether antelope, buffalo, or rhinoceros, on which it is catching insects. the starlings do not keep so closely to the animal's body, though they frequently alight on the back of a sheep or cow and run all over it. but when seeking insect food among cattle the little groups of starlings generally keep in a pack and attend to a single animal. mr. j.g. millais, watching deer in a park with his glasses, saw a starling remove a fly from the corner of a deer's eye. when they have run round it, and over it, and caught all the flies they can there, they rise with a little unanimous exclamation, and fly on to the next beast. their winter movements are also interesting. by day they associate with other birds, mainly with rooks. gilbert white thought they did this because the rooks had extra nerves in their beaks, and were able to act as guides to the smaller birds searching for invisible food. probably it is only due to the sociable instinct. towards night they nearly always repair in innumerable flocks to some favourite roosting-place, either a reed-bed or a wood of evergreens, where they assemble in thousands. one of these communal sleeping-places is the duck island in st. james's park. in hard weather they feed on the saltings and round the shore, especially where rotten seaweed abounds, with great quantities of insect life in it. at such times they roost in the crevices of the great sea cliffs. under culver cliff, for instance, they may be seen flying along the shore and coming in to bed in the frost fog with the cormorants and other fishers of the deep. flowers of the grass fields just before hay-time, the crowning glory of the thames-side flats is given by the flowers growing in the grass. their setting, among the uncounted millions of green grass stems, appeals not only by the contrast of colour, but by the sense of coolness and content which these sheltered and softly bedded blossoms suggest. the meadows which they adorn are best-loved of all the fields of england; but they would never be as dear to englishmen as they are were it not for the flowers which deck them. the blossoms and plants found in the tall grasses differ from those on lawns and grazing pastures. they are taller, more delicate, and of a more graceful growth. the daisy, so dear to pastoral poets, is not a flower of the hayfield. the myriads of springing stems choke the daisy flowers, which love to lie low, on their flat and shallow-rooted stars of leaves. the daisy is a lawn plant that loves low turf, and only in early spring on the pasture-fields does it whiten the unmown grasses. the turf glades of the new forest, grazed short by cattle for eight hundred years, are very properly called "lawns"; and on these the daisies grow in thousands, showing that they are true lawns, and not grassfields mown yearly by the scythe. what makes a flower of the grasses it is difficult to say. bulbs flourish among them, and clovers, trefoils, and vetch. white ox-eye daisies love the grass, and many orchids, and in shady places white cow-parsley, and blue wild geraniums, and all the buttercups. others, like the yellow snapdragon and the scarlet poppy, will have none of it, but love a dry and dusty fallow or a cornfield that has run to waste, shimmering with heat and drought. up the valley of the pang, you may see acres of poppies on a fallow as scarlet as a field-marshal's coat, and not one in the meadows by the stream. even before the sheltering grass stems shoot upward and around them, drawing all the flower-life skywards as trees draw other trees upright towards the light, there are plants which are found only growing in the meadows, springing from the turf carpet, and happy in no other setting. chief of these are the wild daffodils or lent-lilies, the ornaments of old orchards and of the green meadows of devon and the isle of wight. why they, like the snowdrops, and in other parts of europe the narcissi, should choose the turf in which to flower, instead of the woods, where grass does not grow, is one of the secrets of the flower-world. so, too, the wild hyacinths grow not in the meadows, though the fritillaries, the chequered red or pale "snake flowers," are grass-lovers, and grow only in the alluvial meadows by the streams and brooks of the valleys. early though the fritillaries are, they are a real "grass flower," flourishing best where there is some early succulent growth around them, for they like the shelter so given. this they enjoy even early in the year, because their favourite home is in meadows over which flood-waters run in winter, and there the grass grows fast. with the cowslip comes the early common orchis, with its red-purple flower, and later the masses of buttercups, and the ox-eye daisies. both these flowers are increasing in our meadows, the former to the detriment of the grass itself, and to the loss of the butter-makers, for the cows will not eat the buttercups' bitter stems. like the ox-eye daisy, the buttercup is a typical meadow flower, tall, so that it tops the grasses and catches the sun in its petals, thin-foliaged, for no real grass-growing flower has broad or remarkable leaves, and with a habit of deep, underground growth far below the upper surface of the matted grass roots. you cannot easily pull up a buttercup root, or that of any flower of the meadows. the stems break first, for they draw their sustenance from a deep stratum of earth. most of the meadow flowers and blossoms in the mowing grass belong to the beautiful, rather than to the useful, order of plants. they are fitted to weave a garland from rather than to distil into simples and potions. as gerard says of the butterfly orchis, "there is no great use of these in physicke, but they are chiefly regarded for the pleasant and beautiful flowers wherewith nature hath seemed to play and disport herselfe." herein they differ from the roadside plants and the blossoms of waste-lands and woods, for these, especially the former, swell the list of the medicinal plants, the garden not of flora, but of aesculapius. it is these which have been gathered for centuries by the wise men and wise women of the villages from the apennines to exmoor, while, if we may infer from the story of agriculture, the flowers of the grassfields are in a sense modern and artificial. they owe their numbers to the discovery of the art of haymaking. before men learnt to cut, dry, and stack hay, which, after fermenting partly in the stacks under pressure, becomes a manufactured food, it may be concluded that there were no such flower-spangled fields, in this country at least, as now form such a striking feature of rural england. cattle and sheep wandered all over the common pastures, and ate the grass down, or trampled it under foot. consequently, it never grew long, or formed the protecting bed in which the flowers now lie, and many of the meadow plants could seldom have flowered at all. the hungry cattle would graze down all the soft, juicy young buds and leaves, wandering at will over the valleys, under charge only of the herdsman. when haymaking became general the cattle were confined in spring and early summer, and the fields of "mowing grass" appeared, and nourished year by year the plants peculiar to this form of cultivation. the proof that this is so may be seen in the new forest. there the private fields, carefully protected during the spring, from the tread or bite of cattle, and mown yearly in the summer, have all the wealth of flowers peculiar to our hay-meadows. outside, in the forest itself, these flowers hardly exist, except by some pool-side, or on the meadow-like border of a bog. they are only natural in the second sense, because our mowing grass is a natural product of enclosed ground, when cattle are excluded. some flowers just invade the meadows, venturing out a few yards from the hedges or woods, but never spreading broadcast over the sun-warmed central acres. such are the blue bird's-eye, which just colours the mowing grass in shady spots and patches near the fence, and occasionally the bee-orchis and the butterfly-orchis. the latter does not grow tall in the meadows as it does in the woods, but affects a humbler growth. blue wild geraniums also flourish in patches in the meadows, and sometimes cranesbill and campion. but campions do not seed well among the thick grasses and seldom hold their own, as they do where a copse has been cut down, or on a hedgeside. and, though it is not a flower, there is the "quaking grass" beloved of children, though useless as cattle food, and a sign of bad pasturage, but the only grass which cottage people gather to keep, as a memento of the hayfields. [illustration: orchis. _from photographs by e. seeley_.] flowering plants form a large part of the actual herbage from which the hay is made. the bottom of a good crop of mowing grass springs from a tangle of clover and leguminous plants, all owning blossoms, and many of them of brilliant hues and exquisite perfume. chief among these is the red meadow-clover, the pride of the hayfields. few plants can match its perfume, or the cool freshness of its leaves. with this is mixed the little hop-clover, and the sucklings, and other tiny gold-dust blossoms. meadow vetchling, and the tall meadow crowfoot, with rich yellow blooms and dainty leaves, are set off by the pinks of the clover and the crimson of stray sainfoin clusters. all these blossoms with the various flowers of the grasses, tend to ripen and come to perfection together, the heats of june bringing the whole multitude on together as in a natural forcing-pit. it is then that the mowing grass is said to be "ripe," when all the blossoms are shedding their pollen, and giving hay-fever to those who enter the fields. it must be cut then, wet or fine, or the quality and aroma of the hay passes away beyond recovery. perhaps it is an accident that most of our meadow flowers are white or yellow. the two most striking exceptions are from foreign soil, the purple-blue lucerne and the crimson sainfoin. but yellow is not the universally predominant hue of the flowers of grasses, for in switzerland and the italian alps the hayfields are as blue with campanulas as they are here yellow with buttercups. the turf on our chalk downs shows flowers more nearly approaching in tint the flora of the alps. the hair-bells with their pale blue, and the dark-purple campanulas, give the complement of blue absent in the lower meadows, while the tiny milkwort is as deep an ultramarine as the alpine gentians themselves. but the turf of the chalk downs, never rising to any height, and without the forcing power of the valley grasses, yields no such wealth of colour or perfume as the meadow flowers lavish on our senses in the early weeks of june. riverside gardening "and a river went out of eden to water the garden." a recent addition to the country house is the "water garden," in which a running brook is the centre and _motif_ of the subsidiary ornaments of flowers, ferns, trees, shrubs, and mosses. nature is in league with art in the brook garden, for nowhere is wild vegetation so luxuriant, and the two forces of warmth and moisture so generally combined, as by the banks of running streams. the brook is its own landscape gardener, and curves and slopes its own banks and terraces, sheltered from rough winds and prone to the sun. many houses near the thames, especially those under the chalk hills which fringe much of the valley, have near them some rill or brook running to the main river. on the sides of the chalk hills, though not on their summits, these streams cut narrow gullies and glens. wherever, in fact, there is hilly, broken ground, the little rills form these broken ravines and gullies, often only a few yards in width from side to side. usually these brooklet valleys are choked with brambles or fern, and filled with rank undergrowth. often the stream is overhung and invisible, or dammed and left in soak, breeding frogs, gnats, and flies. the trees are always tall and beautifully grown, whatever their age, for the moisture and warmth force vertical growth; the smaller bushes--hawthorn, briar, and wild guelder-rose--also assume graceful forms unhidden, for they always bow their heads towards the sun-reflecting stream. part of the charm of the transformation of these brookside jungles into the brookside garden lies in the gradual and experimental method of their conversion. every one knows that running water is the most delightful thing to play with provided in this world; and the management of the water is the first amusement in forming the brook garden. when the banks have been cleared of brambles to such a distance up the sides of the hollow as the ground suggests, and all poor or ill-grown trees have been cut away to let in the only two "fertilisers" needed--air and sun--the dimensions of the first pool or "reach" in the brook garden are decided upon. this must depend partly on the size and flow of the stream. if it is a chalk spring, from six feet to six yards wide, its flow will probably be constant throughout the year, for it is fed from the reservoirs in the heart of the hills. then it needs little care except to clear its course, and the planting of its banks with flowers and stocking of its waters with lilies, arums, irises, and trout is begun at once. but most streams are full in winter and low in summer. on these the brook gardener must take a lesson from the beavers, and make a succession of delightful little dams, cascades, and pools, to keep his water at the right level throughout the year. where there is a considerable brook these dams may be carried away in winter and ruin the garden. stone or concrete outfalls are costly, and often give way, undermined by the floods. but there is a form of overflow which gives an added sparkle even to the waterfall, and costs little. each little dam is roofed with thin split oak, overlapping like the laths of a venetian blind when closed. this forms the bottom of the "shoot," and carries the water clear of the dam into the stream below. as the water runs over the overlapping laths it forms a ripple above each ridge, and from the everlasting throb of these pleats of running water the sunlight flashes as if from a moving river of diamonds. beside these cascades, and only two inches higher than their level, are cut "flood-overflows" paved with turf, to let off the swollen waters in autumn rains. with the cutting out of undergrowth and the admission of light the rank vegetation of the banks changes to sweet grass, clovers, woodruffe, and daisies, and the flowers natural to the soil can be planted or will often spring up by themselves. in spring the banks should be set thick with violets, primroses, and the lovely bronze, crimson, and purple polyanthuses. periwinkle, daffodils, crocuses, and scarlet or yellow tulips will all flourish and blossom before the grass grows too high or hides their flowers. for later in the year taller plants, which can rise, as all summer wood-plants do, above the level of the grasses, must be set on the banks. clumps of everlasting peas, masses of phloxes, hollyhocks, and, far later in the year, scarlet tritomas (red-hot pokers) look splendid among the deep greens of the summer grass and beneath the canopy of trees. for it must be remembered that the brookside garden is in nearly every case a shaded garden, beneath the tall trees natural to such places. all beautiful flowering shrubs and trees, such as the guelder-rose, the pink may, the hardy azaleas, and certain of the more beautiful rhododendrons will aid the background of the brook garden, and flourish naturally in its sheltered hollow. there is one "new" rhododendron, which the writer saw recently in such a situation, but of which he does not recollect the name, which has masses of wax-like, pale sulphur flowers, which are mirrored in a miniature pool set almost at its foot. this half-wild flower garden pertains mainly to the banks of the brook gully, and not to the banks of the brook itself. it is in the latter, by the waterside, that the special charm of these gardens should be found. it is the nature of such places to have a strip of level ground opposite to each of the curves of the stream. all the narcissi, or chalice-flowers, naturally love the banks of brooks- "those springs on chaliced flowers that lies." these will grow in great tufts and ever-increasing masses, multiplying their bulbs till they touch the water's edge. not only the old pheasant's-eye narcissus, but all the modern and splendid varieties in gold, cream, white, and orange, grow best by the brookside. by these, but on the lower ground almost level with the water, big forget-me-nots, butterburs, and wild snake's-head lilies should be set, and all the crimson and white varieties of garden daisy. lily-of-the-valley, despite its name, likes more sun than our brook garden admits except in certain places; but certain of the lilies which flourish in the garden beds grow with an added and more languid grace on the green bank of our flower-bordered brook, and the american swamp-lily finds its natural place. then special pools will be formed for the growth of those plants, foreign and english, which love to have their roots in water-soaked mud or the beds of running streams, while leaves and flowers rise far above into the light. other pools should become "beds" for the water-flowers that float upon the surface. in the slang of the rock garden the plants living and flourishing on upright rocks are called "verticals." if we must have a slang for the flora of the brook garden we will term them "horizontals"--the plants that lie flat on the water surface, and only use their stems as cables to anchor them to the bottom of the stream. of these we may plant, in addition to the white water-lily and the yellow, the crimson scented water-lily and the wild water-villarsia. white water-crowfoot, water-soldier, and arrowheads will form the fringe of the pool. but the crowning floral honour of the brook garden is in the irises set in and beside its waters, chief among which are the glorious irises of japan--purple, blue, rose-colour, and crimson--the pink english flowering rush, big white mocassin flowers, new zealand flax, and pink buckbean, and bog arum. the great white arum of the greenhouse is quite hardy out of doors if it is planted eighteen inches below water, and blossoms in the brook. [illustration: water violet and wild iris. _from photographs by e. seeley_.] the brook garden is like a colony. it is always extending its range, following the course of the stream. each year adds a little more to the completeness of the lower pools, and each year some yards of the upper waters and their banks are brought into partial harmony with the lower reaches. in one perfect example of this kind of garden, under the berkshire downs, the succession of trout-pools, water gardening, half-wild banks, and turf-walk stretches for nearly a mile among the fields in a narrow glen, unseen from either side, except for its narrow riband of tree-tops among the fields; but within its narrow limits it is glorious with flowers, cascades, pools full of trout, set with water-plants in blossom, and the haunt of innumerable birds. even the wild ducks ascend to the topmost pools, and are constantly in flight down the narrow winding vistas of grass, water, and trees, which they, like the kingfishers and water-hens, seem to think are set out for their especial pleasure. cottages and camping out this is supposed to be a "business" country, but one wonders why new wants which accompany any change of daily habit are so slowly realised. take, for instance, the annual migration to the thames valley, which has assumed proportions never reached before. beyond the enlargement of the riverside inns, little has been done to meet this new taste of english families for rustic life in place of the seaside; and though the thousands of visitors to the "happy valley" of our largest river do contrive to enjoy a maximum of fresh air and outdoor life, this is often accompanied by a needless sacrifice of comfort. if any improvements in the conditions of life by the river can be suggested and put into practice, these will certainly benefit other districts. the profits accruing to intelligent provision for such a demand should also be considerable. but the first condition is that the wants and wishes of those who take their pleasure in this way should be properly understood. the boating part of the river life is quite well organised; indeed, it would be difficult to improve upon it. its convenience and elasticity is remarkable. the way in which the leading boatbuilders provide craft of all descriptions, which may be left by their hirers at any point on the river, to be brought back to oxford or reading by train, is beyond all praise. it is a triumph of good sense and management. but boating is only part of the amusement of the holiday, just as bathing is at the seaside. the real object with which an ever-growing number of visitors have adopted the river life is in order to spend the utmost length of time out of doors and in beautiful scenery. to this end they need accommodation of a special kind. the large hotel, with its inducements to spend much time over meals and indoors, is wholly out of place for such a purpose. what is needed is a cottage which can be rented either wholly or in part, or actual camp life under tents. the latter is now not confined to boating-men travelling up or down the river. it is enjoyed partly as an annexe to up-river houseboats; more often as "camping out" for its own sake, the tents being pitched near the river, but in complete detachment from any other habitation, fixed or floating. in these tents whole families of the well-to-do classes now elect to live, sometimes for weeks; rising early, bathing in the river, sometimes cooking their own food, or more often employing a servant or local man-of-all-work to do this, taking their meals in the open, and using the tents only to sleep in, or as a shelter from rain. even little children now share the delights of this _al fresco_ life, which realises their wildest dreams of adventure, and is by general consent as wholesome as it is entrancing. whether their elders derive as much pleasure as they might from the same environment is doubtful. the business is not properly organised, and only half understood by the greater number of those who are nevertheless so well pleased by the experiment that they are anxious to repeat it. sporadic camping out involves too much fetching and carrying. tradesmen do not "call" at isolated tents in a riverside meadow, and all commodities have to be fetched by the campers. on the other hand, sociable camping out, when several groups set up their tents in proximity, needs proper arrangement. philosophers may see in it the evolution of the social life from its primitive elements, with the growth of division of labour and reciprocal good offices. english families would usually prefer the sporadic tent, if it were not for the hard work involved. but if camping out is to be a real success, such understandings and arrangements must be made. where this is not done the result is a failure, obvious to the passer-by. separate and unsightly fires for cooking, and untidiness, because there are no "hours" for performing the light but necessary domestic work, are common objects of individualism on the camping ground. yachts, which are self-maintaining, never have clothes hanging in the rigging after 8 a.m. when in harbour, and the self-respecting camp must not fall behind this example. the camp in the country should have its communal kitchen in a wooden movable house, in which meals can be cooked, and from which it should be possible to purchase food as required. here is an opening for commercial enterprise. the tourist agencies might rent camping grounds and supply tents on hire, with kitchens and all proper necessaries for living under canvas. they do this with great success for travellers in the east, and at a moderate cost. in england tents, if not so luxurious as those provided from egypt for life in palestine, are very cheap, and need no transport animals. but such a firm could easily make them removable by arranging for them to be called for and taken up river a few stages, as the boats are. the hire could be fixed at so much per tent, and a camp servant could also be provided. commissionaires and ex-soldiers with good characters could be found employment in the early autumn, when they now find it difficult to earn a wage. they thoroughly understand not only the management of tents, but the duties of a camp. rain-proof tents with movable board floors would be provided from london in uncertain weather on the receipt of a wire, for life under canvas is quite pleasant even if the hours are not all serene, if the interior is kept dry. though a new departure in this country camping out is part of the ordinary and well-understood amusements of the eastern cities of the united states. the whole state of maine is practically a state reserve for this, the most popular form of holiday-making in america. its forests, rivers, and lakes are one vast playground and public sporting domain, which is enjoyed almost entirely by means of camping out and boating. the rivers teem with state-reared trout, of which as many are allowed to be caught as can possibly be consumed by the party. the woods are free to shoot in, with a limit for deer and caribou; state-provided guides are employed at a fixed wage. at regular intervals along the rivers are the camping grounds, each under the control of a camp agent, who arranges for the comfort and convenience of the travelling host of tent-dwellers. each "base" is properly organised and supplied, and visitors can purchase necessaries, in addition to the fish and birds which fall to rod and gun. ladies and children are among those who enjoy the pastime most keenly, amusing themselves by the river and among the woods while the husbands hunt or fish. the "residential cottage" is perhaps the safer basis for the complete outdoor life, though it tends to reduce the number of hours spent in the open. habit is too strong when once we are under a roof. it is evidence of the habitable nature of many of our much-abused cottages that in the thames-side villages a great proportion are now occupied for several months in the year by people who, though willing to pay for simple accommodation, will not tolerate dirt, squalor, or want of sanitation. to their surprise they have found hundreds of cottages, homely, but not uncomfortable, kept with scrupulous neatness, and furnished by no means badly. nearly all have ample kitchen accommodation, fair beds, and an equipment of glass, china, and crockery, which shows how cheap and good are the necessaries of life in england. the well-to-do agricultural labourer and his wife, whose children are out in the world, the village artisans, small tradesfolk, and "retired" couples are the owners or occupiers, and now let their rooms at from â£1 to â£1 10s. per week, from june till the middle of september. the results are good in every way. visitors are pleased at what seems a cheap holiday, and the letters of the rooms save money for the winter, and realise in a pleasant way that their later years have fallen on good times. it is also an encouragement to landowners to build good and picturesque cottages. for the first time they see their way to charging a fair rent on their outlay. the town comes to help the country, and the country sees in the movement a hopeful future. netting stags in richmond park about the opening of the year i went to see the big stags netted in richmond park for transfer to windsor. last season this unique and ancient hunting had to be put off till february. there was too much "bone" in the ground to make riding safe. when the frost gave, the stags were more than usually cunning, and were helped by more than their usual share of luck. one fine stag charged the toils at best pace, and, happening to hit a rotten net, burst through, and went off shaking his antlers as proudly as if he had upset a rival in a charge. another took to the lake, and after playing robinson crusoe on the island for some time, swam across to the wood, took a standing leap out of the shallow water on the brink over the paling, and laid up in penn wood. it was on a lovely mellow january morning, after just a touch of frost, with haze and mist veiling the distant woods, a winter sun struggling to make itself seen, and all the birds, from the mallards on the lakes to the jackdaws in the old oaks, beginning to talk, but with their minds not quite made up as to whether they should take a morning flight or stop where they were, when the business of setting up the toils began. this, which is probably managed in exactly the same way as when queen dido arranged to give a day's sport to good aeneas, is carried out according to the ancient and unvarying tradition of this royal and ancient park. nor were we allowed to forget that in this case, too, the stags were being taken by the servants of a queen. everything was ready for the transport of the stags to windsor, and in the foreground was a good strong wooden cart, painted red and blue, and inscribed in the largest capitals with the words, "her majesty's cart." the art and practice of taking the stags in the toils is carried out in this wise. a body of mounted men, under the orders of the superintendent of the park, ride out to find the herds of red deer. they then ride in and "cut" out the finest stags, and, spreading out in a broad line, chase them at the utmost speed of horse towards that quarter of the park where the nets are spread. some two hundred yards in front of the nets two deerhounds are held, and slipped as the stag gallops past--not to injure or distress him, but to hurry him up and distract his attention from the long lines of nets in front. the stags were known to be full of running, and resourceful; consequently the number of riders who had been asked to help was rather larger than usual. even so they had to make a wide sweep of the southern park before they found their deer, and had a racing burst of more than a mile and a half before they brought them round. meantime, while they are away on their quest, let us inspect the ancient contrivance of the toils. they are heavy nets of rope, thick as a finger, and with meshes not more than ten inches square--very strong, and to our eyes almost too solid and visible. partly to render them less conspicuous, the line--at least one hundred yards long--is set in a long, narrow depression or shallow drain, running from a wood on the richmond side of penn pond down to a small pool. just in the centre of this line is a most ancient pollard oak, the crown of which will hold eight men easily, ready to spring down to earth and seize the deer as the nets fall on him. in this most appropriate watch-tower the keeper in command at the toils, and several of his helpers, ensconced themselves. the richmond stags, though so constantly in the sight of the crowds of visitors to the park, are among the boldest and gamest of all park stags. one, who was more especially the object of the day's chase, jumped a paling 6 ft. 3 in. high the day before, merely for amusement. those sometimes transferred to the paddocks at ascot for hunting with the royal buckhounds were noted for their courage and straight running. perhaps the most famous was old volunteer, whose latest exploit was to give a run of nearly thirty miles, at the end of which he was not taken. having had his day out, and not being taken up in the cart as usual, he made his way home by night, jumped into his paddock, and was found there next morning! holloaing, long and loud, was now heard from the east. keen was the keeper's glance as he looked, not to the sound, but along his line of nets, the top at least eight feet from the ground, lightly hitched on thick saplings, while an ample fold of some four feet more lay upon the ground. before and behind, the dead and tangled bracken broke the line; the props were of natural wood, and the tawny nets themselves made no break in the general colour of the hillside. then the shouting came louder down the wind. where were they? not coming "up the straight" certainly, for no stags were visible and the hounds were not slipped. suddenly from above us three big red stags came galloping obliquely down the hill, not as they are represented in pictures with muzzles up and horns back, but at high speed for all that; and though they carried their horns erect, their sides were heaving and the smoke coming out of their nostrils. they saw the nets, but determined to push through them. one charged them gallantly head first, and as the thick meshes fell tumultuously over his head and back, the second jumped the falling toils twenty yards to his left, taking them most gracefully, as if he were doing a circus trick. down from the tree sprang the keeper and his men, and seized the helpless stag, while the second, which had jumped and won, stood panting and looking over his shoulder to see what curious game this was. the third broke back and disappeared. perhaps the most strange thing was the calm self-possession of the netted stag. the astonishing catching power of a net held him enmeshed at all points. his muzzle was held by one mesh, his horns by three or four; all four feet were caught also. in addition, about eight men kindly caught hold of his horns, legs, and back, to prevent him hurting himself. this he was far too clever to do. he just lay quiet, calmly regarding the fun with his upper eye, and wondering when the deuce they were going to take him "out of that." in a very few minutes his feet were buckled together by soft straps, and a saw trimmed off his antler tops, for which we felt sorry, but there was not room for them in the "compartment" he was to travel in. it is only when a stag lies close before you on the ground that you realise that he is not a "slab-sided," flat-ribbed animal, but a bulky, well-rounded beast. it took six men to lift him on to the bed of fern in "her majesty's cart," and when there he quickly twisted round, and lay couched, bound but not subdued, calmly regarding the scene over the side of his cart. a nice lot of chopped mangold root had been put in his box, and we hope he enjoyed his lunch in the train on his way to windsor. [illustration: a netted stag. _from a drawing by lancelot speed_.] the next drive was far more rapid, and its results more exciting. the stags were again brought round from above penn pond, then through the oak grove below white lodge, and came galloping up the long side of the slope, straight for the nets. then the brace of deerhounds, which, like the keeper, seemed to know the game thoroughly, were slipped, and most beautiful they looked, one laying out, lithe and low, just parallel with the haunch of one stag, the other driving the brace below. the single stag charged the nets and was enveloped as before, but the other brace broke back and escaped. four in all were taken during the day, without accident or mishap. one of the keepers did have an accident of a rather curious kind, when assisting to catch stags at buckhurst park in kent. he was galloping as hard as he could, driving a stag, when his horse cannoned up against another deer which was lying crouched in the fern, as deer sometimes do. the horse went a complete somersault, and its rider was badly bruised and hurt, though no bones were broken. richmond old deer park if henry vii.'s palace at richmond still stood by the riverside, we should have a second hampton court at half the distance from london. it was almost the first of the fine tudor palaces in this country, built very stately, with a prodigious number of towers, turrets, cupolas, and gilded vanes, on a site as fine as that of wolsey's competing pile higher up the river. but though the palace has gone, the park is left. it is the precinct now called the old deer park, in which not one in ten thousand of those who visit and enjoy the park on the hill which we call richmond park has ever set foot, except in the corner furthest from the river to see a horse-show or a cricket-match. old it certainly is. the park on the hill, venerable as it looks now, is only a thing of yesterday in comparison with it. charles i. made the latter, and the penn ponds were dug by the princess amelia. the old deer park was a royal demesne when the saxon kings had their palace at sheen, before it was given its new name of richmond by the first tudor, after the castle in yorkshire from which he took his title when a subject. in the middle of this ancient and forgotten park, forgotten because it is neither reserved for the pleasure of the sovereign nor thrown open for the enjoyment of his subjects, it was lately proposed to build a scientific laboratory, to supplement the work of the observatory, which is mainly employed in magnetic observations and in testing thermometers and chronometers. the proposal is an instance of the mischief which may be done by precedent, and of the way in which royal favour may be misused quite unconsciously by persons who forget that the circumstances which lent grace and propriety to a concession at one time may be so altered later that to presume on it is an error of judgment. george iii. instructed chambers, the architect, who had been doing work for him at kew, to erect an observatory in the old park. it was a thoughtful act, at a time when there were no public funds for the encouragement of science, and when the study of astronomy was still regarded partly as something peculiarly under royal patronage because its practical use was to keep and make records to ensure the safe navigation of his majesty's ships. the application to erect new buildings was refused, for a place like the old deer park, if kept open and wild, and not built upon, has a present and future value to the health and happiness of millions of people beyond any calculation or power of words. it does not need much imagination to make this forecast. but as few people have ever made what, in the old words of forest law, was called a "perambulation" of the park, some description of its present condition and appearance may help to form an opinion. it is the largest and finest riverside park in england. it covers nearly four hundred acres, but this great area, as large as hyde park, is shaped and placed so as to gain the maximum of beauty and convenience from its surroundings. on the london side it has for neighbour the whole depth of kew gardens, from the road at the back to the river at the front--two hundred and eighty acres of garden and wood. but whoever first acquired the land for the park, whether norman or saxon, very rightly thought that the feature to be desired was to make the most of the river-front, where the thames, pushing into middlesex, cuts "a huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle, out." whether by accident or design, the park is like a half-open fan, narrowest at the back, which is the ugly or plain side, near the road, and with its widest part unbosoming on the thames. from back to front it is some half-mile deep; but the thames front extends for a mile along one of the most beautiful river scenes in england. on the kew gardens border it lies against what was, until a few years ago, the wild and private part of kew. to this it served as an open park, where all the birds drew out to sun themselves and feed. so they do still. along the margin are scattered old beech trees, and a wilderness of long grass and flowers, where wood-pigeons, thrushes, pheasants, crows, jays, and all the smaller birds of the gardens may be seen sunning themselves. the narrow end or "stick" of the "fan," near the road, is leased to a cricket club, and cut off from the greater area by a belt of young plantation. in this a brood of partridges hatches nearly every year, though what becomes of the birds later is only conjectured. beyond this cross-belt the whole area of the park stretches out, ever widening, and with an imperceptible fall, to the thames. it is studded here and there with very large and very ancient trees, and is one of the largest and least broken areas of ancient pasture, whether for deer or cattle, in england. until lately the old observatory was the only building upon it, and the turf was unbroken. but recent years have added two disfigurements. one is a large red building with skylights, connected with the games and athletic sports, which have found a more or less permanent home in the upper part of the park, where the annual horse-shows are held, uses for which that part of the ground is well suited. the other is a permanent and very deplorable blemish, made purposely, in the interests of the popular game of the hour. the greater part of this fine park has been leased to a private golf club. golf, as every one knows, originally flourished on sand dunes, which are about as completely the natural opposite of an old flat park of ancient pasture as can be found in this country. the golf club have been allowed to do what they can to remedy this defect of nature by converting the old park into a sand dune, and this they have done by digging holes and throwing up dozens, or scores, of bunkers. but the margins of the park are quite unspoilt, and the river-front is the wildest and the freest piece of nature left near london. it is completely bounded by an ancient moat, beyond which lies the towing-path, and beyond that the river and the ancient and picturesque front of isleworth. the path between the moat and the river is set with ancient trees, mostly horse-chestnuts and beech, in continuous line. under their branches and between their stems the visitor in the park sees a series of pictures, framed by trees and branches, of the queen anne houses and rose-gardens of isleworth, the old church with its tower and huge sun-dial, the ferry and the old inn of the "london apprentice," the poplars and willows of the isleworth eyots, the granaries and mills where the little hounslow stream falls in, and further twickenham way the gardens of the fine villas there, while towards london the pavilions and park of syon house begin. at the present moment the margin of the old deer park and its moat give a mile of beauty and refreshment. no one has troubled to mow the grass or cut the weeds, or clear the moat, or meddle with the hedge beyond it. so the moat, which is filled from the river when necessary, and is not stagnant, is full of water-flowers, and quite clear, and fringed with a deep bed of reeds and sedges. in it are shoals of dace, and minnow, and gudgeon, and sticklebacks, and plenty of small pike basking in the sun. the largest and bluest forget-me-nots, and water-mints, and big water-docks and burdocks flourish in the water, and the hedge beyond is full of sweet elder in flower, and covered with wild hops. huge elms, partly decaying, and a dark grove of tall beeches line the park near the moat, and besides water and flowers there is shade and the motion of leaves. if the proposal to build on such a site leads to a better knowledge of what this ancient park really is, and its value to the amenities of the capital, it will have done good, not harm. the late queen recently presented the cottage in the reserved part of kew gardens and its precincts for the use of the public. it would seem that a similar sacrifice has been made by royalty in the case of the old deer park, but that the public are excluded by the office of woods and forests, which has charge of it, and the park neglected and disfigured. if it were put on the same footing as richmond park upon the hill, and communication were open between the park and kew gardens at proper hours, an unequalled domain, still the property of the crown, but enjoyed within reasonable limitations by every subject, would be open from kew green practically to kingston. the line from the boundary of the old deer park is taken on by richmond green, and the towing-path to the terrace gardens, formerly the property of the duke of buccleuch, and now of the richmond corporation, thence by the terrace and the open slope under it to richmond park, through sudbrook park to ham common, a series of varied scenery unrivalled even in the valley of the thames. fish in the london river the capture of a 4-lb. grilse in the thames estuary in december, 1901, raised some hopes that we might in course of time see salmon at london bridge. mr. r. marston, a great authority, in an article on "the thames a salmon river," in the _nineteenth century_, has given many reasons why he fears that this will not be realised. the question is not so much whether the salmon can come up, as whether the smolts, or young salmon, could get down through the polluted water. but the experiments made are interesting and deserve every encouragement, and it may be hoped that money will be forthcoming to make more. as regards other fish than salmon, their return has been going on steadily since 1890; and their advance has covered a distance of some twenty miles--from gravesend to teddington. the first evidence was the reappearance of whitebait, small crabs, and jelly-fish at gravesend in 1892. in 1893 the whitebait fishermen and shrimp-boats were busy ten miles higher than they had been seen at work for many years. the condenser tubes of torpedo-boats running their trials down the river were found to be choked with "bait," and buckets of the fish were shown at the offices of the london county council in spring gardens. it was claimed that this evidence of the increased purity of the water was mainly due to the efforts of the main drainage committee of the london county council. there is abundant evidence that this claim was correct, for instead of allowing the whole of the london sewage to fall into the thames at barking and crossness, the county council used a process to separate all the solid matter, and carried it out to sea. the results of the first year's efforts were that over two million tons were shipped beyond the nore, ten thousand tons of floating refuse were cleared away, and the liquid effluent was largely purified. it was predicted at the time that if this process was continued on the same scale it would not be long before the commoner estuary fishes appeared above london bridge, even if the migratory salmon and sea-trout still held aloof. unfortunately there has been some deviation from the methods of dealing with the sewage, a change from which we believe that some of the officials concerned with the early improvements very strongly dissented, that has to some extent retarded the advance of the fish. but in 1895 a sudden "spurt" took place in their return. whitebait became so plentiful that during the whole of the winter and spring the results were obvious, not only to naturalists, but on the london market. whitebait shoals swarmed in the lower thames and the medway, and became a cheap luxury even in february and march. they were even so suicidally reckless as to appear off greenwich. supplies of fresh fish came into the market twice daily, and were sold retail at sixpence per quart. the thames flounders once more reappeared off their old haunt at the head of the bishop of london's fishery near chiswick eyot. only one good catch was made, and none have been taken since; but this had not been done for twelve years, and there is a prospect of their increase, for, in the words of old robert binnell, water bailiff of the city of london in 1757, we may "venture to affirm that there is no river in all europe that is a better nourisher of its fish, and a more speedy breeder, particularly of the flounder, than is the thames." eels were also taken in considerable numbers between hammersmith and kew; but the main supply of london eels came from holland even in the days of london salmon. in a very old print of the city, with traitors' heads by the dozen on london bridge, "eale schippes," exactly like the dutch boats lying at this moment off billingsgate, are shown anchored in the river. besides the estuary fish which naturally come _up_ river, dace and roach began to come _down_ into the tideway, and during the whole summer the lively little bleak swarmed round chiswick eyot. later in the year the roach and dace were seen off westminster, and several were caught below london bridge, and in 1900 roach were seen and caught at woolwich, but were soon poisoned and died. in august the delicate smelts suddenly reappeared at putney, where they had not been seen in any number for many years. later, in september, another migration of smelts passed right up the river. many were caught at isleworth and kew, and finally they penetrated to the limit of the tideway at teddington, and good baskets were made at teddington lock. [illustration: bream and roach. _from a photograph by e. seeley_.] this additional evidence of the satisfaction of the fish with the county council does not quite satisfy us that the london river is yet clean enough to give passage to the migratory salmon. it is encouraging to the county council, who deserve all the credit they can get; but there is little doubt that the best evidence that the river is fit for the salmon would be the spontaneous appearance of the salmon themselves. since the middle of june, 1890, large shoals of dace, bleak, roach, and small fry have appeared in all the reaches, from putney upwards. a few years ago hardly any fish were to be seen below kew during the summer, and these were sickly and diseased. last year they were in fine condition, and dace eagerly took the fly even on the lower reaches. every flood-tide hundreds of "rises" of dace, bleak, and roach were seen as the tide began to flow, or rather as the sea-water below pushed the land-water before it up the river. at high water little creeks, draw-docks, and boat-landings were crowded with healthy, hungry fish, and old riverside anglers, whose rods had been put away for years, caught them by dozens with the fly. sixty dozen dace were taken, mainly with the fly, in a single creek, which for some years has produced little in the way of living creatures but waterside rats. i counted twenty-two "rises" in a minute in a length of twenty yards inside the eyot at chiswick. during one high tide in july a sight commonly seen in a summer flood on the isis or cherwell was witnessed not sixty yards from the boundary stone of the county of london. the tide rose so far as to fringe several lawns by the river with a yard or two of shallow water, and the fish at once left the river and crowded into this shallow overflow, their backs occasionally showing above it, to escape the muddy clouds in the tidal water. there were hundreds of fish in the shoals, of all kinds and sizes, from dace nine inches long, with a few roach, to sticklebacks. these fish are probably the descendants of spawn laid in the _tidal_ parts of the river, on the gravel-beds and weeds. doubtless the quantity of fresh water from the spring rains contributed something to the result, but the spawn must have hatched far more successfully than usual. [illustration: a grampus at chiswick. _from a drawing by lancelot speed_.] rivermen on the tidal thames always distinguish between eels and "fish." the former are also increasing greatly. the sole survivor of the "peter boats" left on the river is saved from disappearing like the rest of the race by eel-fishing. formerly these boats, whose owners lived and slept on board them for six months in the year, were quite successful in catching eels and flounders. in the chiswick parish registers a number of those married or buried are entered as being "fishermen," which clearly means that that was their business in life. the number of professed eel catchers' boats gradually dwindled to one, and the owner of this catches a fair quantity of most excellent eels, those taken off mortlake, opposite the finish of the university boat-race, being especially fine in flavour. another eel-like fish, formerly taken in great numbers, and of the finest quality, but now almost forgotten, is also returning. this is the lampern. lamperns, unlike eels, come into the rivers to spawn, and go back to the sea later or to the brackish waters. men employed in scooping gravel out of the river at hammersmith, lately noticed numbers of lamperns coming up on to the gravel-beds at low-water, and moving the gravel into little hollows, previously to dropping their spawn. twelve years ago the great body of the migrating lamperns were all poisoned by the river, and lay in tens of thousands in the mud at blackwall point. as they have now succeeded in getting up to spawn, the shoals may be seen next year in something like their old numbers. the flounders have not yet reappeared to stay. porpoises come up above london nearly every year. the first i saw were two above hammersmith bridge early on that momentous may morning in 1886, when mr. gladstone's first home rule bill was thrown out. i had been up with a friend to hear the result of the division, and had seen the wild joy which followed its announcement in the lobby, and then walked home at dawn, and so met the early porpoises. a few years later a fine grampus was found one night lying half dead by the bows of one of the torpedo-boat destroyers at chiswick. its "lines" struck the expert minds there as so good that it was carefully measured, and the results were found to correspond almost exactly with a mathematical curve--i think called a curve of sines. the hollow over the blow-hole was filled up with mud and measured over, and here there was a little discrepancy. the mud was removed, and the measurement taken over the surface of the hollow, and the figures found to be what were expected. chiswick eyot it has been said that thames eyots always seem to have been put in place by a landscape gardener. chiswick eyot is no exception to the rule. it covers nearly four acres of ground, and lies like a long ship, parallel with the ancient terrace of chiswick mall, from which it is separated by a deep, narrow stream, haunted by river-birds, and once a famous fishery. a salmon, perhaps the last, was caught between the eyot and putney in 1812, though the rent of the fishery used to be paid in salmon, when it was worked by the good cavalier merchant, sir nicholas crispe. the close-time for the fishery was observed regularly at the beginning of the century, the fishing commencing on january 1st, and ending on september 4th. there are those who believe that with the increased purification of the thames, the next generation may perhaps throw a salmon-fly from chiswick eyot. in the early summer of 1895 a fine porpoise appeared above the island. at half-past eight it followed the ebb down the river, having "proved" the stream for forty miles from its mouth, and being apparently well pleased with its condition. at putney it lingered, as might be expected of a thames porpoise, opposite a public-house. two sportsmen went out in a boat to shoot it; instead, they hit some spectators on the bank. flowers abound on the eyot. the irises have all been taken, but what was the lowest clump, opposite syon house, has lost its pride of place, for now there are some by the grove park estate below kew bridge. the centre of the eyot is yellow with patches of marsh-marigold in the hot spring days. besides the marsh-marigolds there are masses of yellow camomile, comfrey, ragged robin, and tall yellow ranunculus, growing on the muddy banks and on the sides of the little creeks among the willows, and a vast number of composite flowers of which i do not know the names. common reeds are also increasing there, with big water-docks, and on the edge of the cam-shedding of the lawn which fronts my house some of the tallest giant hemlocks which i have ever seen, have suddenly appeared. i notice that in papworth's views of london, published in 1816, arrowhead is seen growing at the foot of the duke of buckingham's water-gate, which is now embedded at the back of the embankment gardens at charing cross. there is still plenty of it opposite hammersmith mall, half a mile below chiswick eyot. the reach opposite and including the eyot is the sole piece of the natural london river which remains interesting, and largely unspoilt. i trust that if urban improvers ever want to embank the "mall" or the eyot, public opinion will see its way to keeping this unique bit of the london river as it is. already there have been proposals for a tram-line running all the length of the mall, either at the front or behind it. the island belongs to the ecclesiastical commissioners. there is a certain sense of the country about the eyot, because it is rated as agricultural land, though its lower end is inside the london boundary. the agriculture pursued on it is the growing of osiers. these, frequently inundated by high tides, and left dry when the ebb begins, are some of the finest on the thames. at the present moment (january 5, 1902) they are being cut and stacked in bundles. in the spring the grass grows almost as fast between the stumps as do the willow shoots. this is cut by men who make it part of the year's business to sell to the owners of the small dealers' carts and to costers. formerly, when cows were kept in london, it was cut for their use. during the year of the great exhibition milk was very scarce, and this grass, which was excellent for the stable-fed cows, fetched great prices. in the summer the willows, full of leaf, and exactly appropriate to the flat lacustrine outline of the eyot and the reach, are full of birds, though the reed-warbler does not always return. he was absent last year. he is locally supposed to begin his song with the words "chiswick eyot! chiswick eyot!" which indeed he does pretty exactly. early on summer mornings i always see cuckoos hunting for a place to drop an egg. in the summer of 1900 a young cuckoo was hatched from a sedge-warbler's nest, and spent the rest of the summer in the gardens opposite this and the next houses. all day long it wheezed and grumbled, and the little birds fed it. in the evenings it used to practise flying, and at last flew off for good. chiswick fishermen "please, sir, a man wants to know if he can see you, and he has brought a very large fish," was the message given me one very hot evening at the end of july, at the hour which the poet describes as being "about the flitting of the bats," plenty of which were just visible hawking over the willows on the eyot. thinking that it was an odd time for a visit from a fishmonger, i was just wondering what could be the reason for such a request when i remembered a talk i had had at the ferry a week or two before on the subject of the continued increase of fish in the london thames. it turned out to be as i expected; my visitor was one of the last local fishermen, and brought with him a splendid silver eel, weighing nearly 4 lb., taken in his nets that evening just opposite chiswick eyot. it was the largest eel taken so low down for some years, and when held up at arm's length, was a good imitation of one of madame paula's pythons in the advertisement. he was anxious that i should come out for an evening's netting and see for myself how clear the water now is, and how good the fish. the previous summer, about the same date, i had asked him to see what he could catch in an evening as specimens; he had returned with over ninety fish, dace, roach, eels, barbel, and smelts, many of which were exhibited alive the next day before a good many people interested in the purification of the thames. as a further proof i forwarded the big eel to the previous chairman of the london county council, under whose sceptre the marked improvement in the river began first to be felt, and begged his acceptance of it as a tribute from the river. then i arranged to be at the old ferry next day at 6.30 p.m. it was the end of a blazing hot london day when i went down the hard to the water's edge, among the small, pink-legged boys, paddling, and the usual group of contemplative workmen, who smoke their pipes by the landing place. the river was half empty, and emptying itself still more as the ebb ran down. the haze of heat and twilight blurred shapes and colours, but the fine old houses of the historic "mall," the tower of the church, and the tall elms and taller chimneys of the breweries, which divide with torpedo boats the credit of being the staple industries of chiswick, stood out all black against the evening sky; the clashing of the rivetters had ceased in the shipyard, but the river was cheerfully noisy; many eights were practising between the island and the surrey bank, coaches were shouting at them, a tug was taking a couple of deal-loaded barges to a woodwharf with much puffing and whistling, and bathers, sheltered by the eyot willows, were keeping up loud and breathless conversations. "not exactly the kind of surroundings the fishermen seeks," you will say; but, apparently, london fish get used to noise. our boat was what i, speaking unprofessionally, should call a small sea-boat, but i believe she was built years ago at strand-on-the-green, the pretty old village with maltings and poplar trees that fringes the river below kew bridge. she was painted black and red, and furnished with a shelf, rimmed with an inch-high moulding inboard and drained by holes, to catch the drip from the net as it was hauled in. we were at work in two minutes. the net was fastened at one end to two buoys; these dropped down with the ebb, and formed a fixed, yet floating, point--if that is not a bull--from which the boat was rowed in a circle while one of the brothers who own the boat payed out the net. thus we kept rowing in circles, alternately dropping and hauling in the net, as we slipped down what was once the bishop of london's fishery towards fulham. there are still no flounders on the famous bishop's muds, but other fish were in evidence at once. though the heat had made them go to the bottom, we had one or two at every haul. the two fishermen were fine specimens of strong, well-built englishmen. the pace at which they hauled in the net, or rowed the boat round, was great; the rower could complete the circle--a wide one--in a minute, and the net was hauled in in less time, if the hauler chose to. dace were our main catch--bright silvery fish, about three to the pound, for they do not run large in the tideway; but they were in perfect condition, and quite as good to eat, when cooked, as fresh herring. for some reason the jews of london prefer these fresh-water fish; they eat them, not as the old catholics did, on fasts, but for feasts. they will fetch 2d. each at the times of the jews' holidays, so our fisherman told me, and find a ready sale at all times, though at low prices. formerly the singularly bright scales were saved to make mother-of-pearl, or rather, to coat objects which were wished to resemble mother-of-pearl. after each haul the fish were dropped into a well in the middle of the boat. a few roach were taken, and an eel; but the most interesting part of the catch was the smelts. these sea-fish now ascend the thames as they did before the river was polluted. we took about a dozen, some of very large size; they smelt exactly like freshly-sliced cucumber. i stayed for an hour, till the twilight was turning to dark, and the tugs' lights began to show. we had by then caught seventy fish, or rather more than one per minute; a hundred is a fair catch on a summer evening. in winter very large hauls are made; then the fish congregate in holes and corners. in summer they are all over the river. when the net happens to enclose one of these shelter holes, hundreds may be taken. consequently the two fishermen work regularly all through the winter. sometimes their net is like iron wire, frozen into stiff squares. in a recent hard winter the ice floated up and down the london thames in lumps and floes; yet they managed to fish, and made a record catch of two thousand in one tide. i believe that if the conservancy and the county council go on as they are doing, we shall see the flounder back in the river above bridges, and that possibly sea-trout may adventure there too; though unless the latter can get up to spawn, there can be no regular run of sea-trout. but they probably also act like grey mullet, and run up the estuaries merely for a cruise.[1] [illustration: smelts. _from a photograph by e. seeley_.] the last of the "peter-boat" men mentioned in a previous chapter, has other claims to notice than that of being the only survivor of an ancient outdoor industry. he has given evidence before more than one committee of the house of commons on the state of the river and the condition of its waters, and is the oldest salesman in that curious survival of antiquity, the free eel market held at blackfriars stairs on sunday mornings; and, in addition, he has added to his original industry another branch of "fishing" of a different kind, of which he is acknowledged to be the greatest living exponent. he is an expert at grappling and "creeping" for objects lying on the bed of the river, work for which his life-long acquaintance with the contours of the bottom and the tides and currents makes him particularly well fitted. consequently he is now regularly employed by many firms and shipping companies to fish up anything dropped overboard, whether gear or cargo, which is heavy enough to sink. the oddest thing about this double business is that all the summer, while he lies and sleeps in his "peter-boat" at chiswick, he is in receipt of telegrams whenever an accident of this kind chances to happen, summoning him down river, to the docks or the pool, and these telegrams are delivered to him (i think by the ferryman) on his "peter-boat." but the regular time for this other thames "fishery" is in winter. then the eels "bed," _i.e._, bury themselves in the mud, and the eel man goes either "gravelling," that is, scooping up gravel from the bottom to deepen any part of the channel desired by the conservancy, or doing these odd salvage jobs. getting up sunken barges is one side of the business. these are raised by fastening two empty barges to them at low tide, when the flood raises all three together, owing to the increased buoyancy. but of "fishing" proper he has had plenty. he hooked and raised the steamship _osprey's_ propeller, which weighed six tons. this was done by getting first small chains and then large ones round it, and fastening them to a lighter. half-ton anchors, casks of zinc, pigs of lead, copper tubes, ironwork, ship-building apparatus, and the like, are common "game" in this fishery. other commodities are casks of pitch, cases of pickles, boxes of champagne, casks of sardines in tins, bales of wool, and even cases of machinery. this form of thames fishery increases rather than diminishes. years ago he picked up under london bridge a case of watches valued at â£1,500. he was only paid for the "job," as the loss was known and it was not a chance find. another and more sportsmanlike incident was an "angling competition," among himself and others in that line, for some cases of rings which a jew, who became suddenly insane, threw into the river off a steamer. he caught one case, and another man grappled the other. sometimes in fishing for one thing he catches another which has been in the water for months, as, for instance, a whole sack of tobacco, turned rotten. i do not know who "that young woman who kept company with a fishmonger" was, though he assumes that i do. but he certainly rescued her, and a gentleman who jumped off london bridge, and several upset excursionists on various parts of the river. also, as will be guessed, he has caught or picked up a good many corpses. i hear, though not from him, that on the surrey side five shillings is paid for a body rescued, and on the middlesex side only half-a-crown; so surrey gets the credit of the greater number of the thames dead. his life-saving services have been very considerable, though he does not make much account of them. he was instrumental in saving two women and six men on one occasion, and on another "three men and a soldier." the distinction is an odd one, but it holds good in the riverine mind. [1] at the close of the season 1901-1902 in march, one of the men tells me that it has been the best year he has known. he caught sixteen eels one night with the net only. very fine bream have also appeared as low as hammersmith. birds on thames reservoirs now that every large town and many small ones are adding new reservoirs, often of great size, to hold their water supply, these artificial lakes play an important and increasing part in the wild life, not only of the country, but of cities, and even of london itself. immense reservoirs have been made near staines, and others are being added close to the london river. these quiet sheets of water, carefully protected from intrusion for fear of any pollution of the water, form artificial sanctuaries which not only fill with fish, which the water companies encourage, to eat the weeds and insects bred in the weeds, but attract wild-fowl of very many kinds in ever-increasing numbers. in hertfordshire the artificial lakes near tring made to supply the grand junction canal are carefully preserved, and have a large and resident population of wild-fowl (we believe a bittern bred there recently, and the great crested grebe is common), and some of the new london reservoirs are rapidly attracting a stock of wild-fowl. thus civilisation is in some measure restoring the balance of wild life, and offers to the most persecuted of our birds a quiet and secure retreat. i was able at the close of february, 1902, to witness a striking example of the results of wild-bird protection in increasing some species of wild-fowl which for half a century had steadily dwindled and disappeared, and were practically unknown anywhere in the neighbourhood of london. the scene was on the very large new reservoirs which lie between the grounds of the ranelagh club and the thames, on what was some seven years ago a tract of market gardens and meadows. the construction of these lakes was so ably planned and carried out that in two years from the turning of the first sod four wide pools, covering in all one hundred acres of ground, were ready to be filled, and at the end of 1898 the ground was metamorphosed into the largest area of water in the london district, with the exception of the serpentine. it is so rare for changes of this magnitude to take place in any other way than by covering what was open ground with bricks and mortar, that the advent of a kind of reservoir flora and fauna so close to the greatest city of the world was looked for with some curiosity. all the waste ground not covered by the water or filtering-beds produced quantities of brilliant flowers, as waste ground enclosed and left to itself generally does. the banks and broad walks between the lakes were sown with good grass, which was regularly made into hay. the reservoirs themselves soon filled with fish, which came down the mains from hampton, where the water is taken in from the river. what these reservoir fish found to live upon at first is not clear. no weeds are allowed to grow either in the water or on the banks, which are concreted. but the bottom becomes covered with the suspended matter deposited from the unfiltered water, and probably a considerable number of the minute _entomostraca_ beloved of all fish breed in this. the barnes reservoirs do contain a growth of weed, which is carefully removed every year. whatever their sustenance may be, these reservoirs are very full of fish, both the old ones at barnes and the new lakes near ranelagh. the supply of fish, and the open and strictly private extent of water, then attracted a number of wild duck or water birds of some kind, which the writer was invited to see and identify, as it did not seem probable that they could be the ordinary wild duck, which are vegetable feeders, and would need an artificial supply of grain, which is provided on the serpentine, but is not given to any of these reservoir ducks. they have appeared entirely uninvited. the scene over the lakes was as sub-arctic and lacustrine as on any finland pool, for the frost-fog hung over river and reservoirs, only just disclosing the long, flat lines of embankment, water, and ice; the barges floating down with the tide were powdered with frost and snow-flakes, and the only colour was the long, red smear across the ice of the western reservoir, beyond which the winter sun was setting into a bank of snow clouds. it was four o'clock, and nothing apparently was moving, either on the ice or the water, not even a gull. in the centre of the north-eastern reservoir was what was apparently an acre of heaped-up snow. on approaching nearer this acre of snow changed into a solid mass of gulls, all preparing to go to sleep. if there was one there were seven hundred, all packed together for warmth on the ice. it is on or about these reservoirs that the london gulls now sleep. sometimes they are there in thousands; but the sealing of so much of the water with ice had sent a great proportion of them down the river to the more open water of the essex marshes. beyond the gulls, which rose and circled high above in the fog with infinite clamour, were a number of black objects, which soon resolved themselves into the forms of duck and other fowl. rather more than seventy were counted, swimming on the water near the bank or sitting on the ice. these were the self-invited wild duck, so tame that with very little trouble they were approached near enough for their colour and form to be distinctly visible. the result of a look through the glasses was something of a surprise. they were not mallard, teal, or widgeon; but three-quarters of the number were tufted ducks, a diving-duck species, which haunts both estuaries and fresh water, but preferably the latter. it is a very handsome little black-and-white duck, seen in great numbers on certain large lakes in nottinghamshire, and has greatly increased of late years in the county of norfolk. but so far it has not appeared in any numbers either on the surrey ponds or in middlesex, and its assembling on this london reservoir is a remarkable proof of the tendency of wild-fowl to increase in this country. the cock birds were in brilliant winter plumage, with large crests, white breasts, and white "clocks" on their wings. some were sleeping, some diving, and others swimming quietly. when approached, the whole flock rose at once, and flew with arrow-like speed round the lakes and twice or thrice back over the heads of their visitors, of whom they were not at all shy, being used to the sight of the man who keeps the reservoirs' banks in order. they swept now overhead, now just above the ice, like a flock of sea-magpies or ice-duck playing before some north atlantic gale. as several birds had not risen, we ventured still nearer, and saw that most of these were coots, some ten or eleven, which did not fly, but ran out on to the ice. two large birds remaining, which had dived, then rose to the surface, and to our surprise and pleasure proved to be great crested grebes. these birds, which a few years ago were so scarce even in norfolk that mr. stevenson despaired of the survival of the species as a native bird, have bred for three seasons in richmond park. but their presence so close to london shows that we need not despair of seeing wild-crested grebes appear on the serpentine. these birds are so wedded to the water that they rarely fly. but this pair rose and flew, not away from, but towards us, passing within fifteen yards. with their long necks stretched out, feet level with the tail, and plumage apparently painted in broad, longitudinal stripes, they presented a very singular appearance. the east of london owns a crowded wild-fowl sanctuary at wanstead park, which quite a different class of ducks frequent. it is now the property of the public, and very carefully administered by trustees. the lake there is very narrow and winding, which causes it to freeze easily. on the other hand, it is full of long, densely wooded islands, some almost enclosing pools of water. these islands shelter the birds, and when the lake is covered with ice the islands are crowded with wild duck and widgeon. wanstead is a curious example of the faith of wild-fowl in a sanctuary, for the lake is so narrow that you could toss a stone among the fowl from the bank. suburban houses are close by on all sides but the meadows by the little river roding. yet the fowl come to the lake as confidently as they do to great sanctuaries like holkham. as there is a large heronry and rookery on the trees on the islands, the variety of life there is very great. the writer saw in weather like that in the second week of february, 1902, about a hundred and fifty wild duck, thirty or forty widgeon, a few teal, a pochard, and a great number of water-hens. mallard, teal, dabchicks, and moorhens breed there regularly, and in hard weather a number of rarer birds drop in. snipe are often seen by one of the shallower ponds, and occasionally such divers as goosanders appear and give an exhibition of fish-catching. these, like the tufted ducks and grebes, are entirely self-supporting. the wild duck are pensioners, being fed artificially, though they are wild birds, or descended from birds which were wild, just as are the london wood-pigeons. the carrion crow those familiar with the valley of the thames and with the wild population both of the riverside and of the adjacent hills, will set down the carrion crow as the typical resident bird of the whole district. on the london thames as high as teddington it keeps mainly to the line of the river itself, on the banks of which and on the market gardens and meadows it finds abundant food, while the elms of large suburban residences give it both shelter and a safe nesting place. the bird is also commonly mistaken for a rook, and so shares the privileges of those popular birds. higher up the river it swarms all along the oxfordshire and berkshire banks where not killed down by keepers, and a perfect army of them has for years invaded and been settled in the elm-bordered meadows of the vale of white horse. thence it has spread on to the downs, where since the gradual abandonment of cultivation on the highest ground, and the removal of the scattered population of carters and keepers from a very large area, it now has matters all its own way. but it always haunted these heights, as the name "crow down," recurring more than once on the ordnance maps, shows. the "crow down" with which the writer is less acquainted is on the very high, wild land north of lambourn. there they have grown so confident that a nest was found in a thorn bush not ten feet high, at a place called worm hill, a good old saxon name denoting that snakes abound there. there is no doubt that the crows kill and eat the young snakes, one having been seen carrying a snake in its beak recently. the habits of the carrion crow are so independent and peculiar, and its resourcefulness so great, that it is not to be wondered at that it holds its own well within and around london, while the rook is gradually being edged out. it is generally regarded as a criminal bird, which it is to some extent in the spring. from that point of view the following facts may be cited against the crow. he is keenly on the look-out for all kinds of eggs about the time that his own nest is building. consequently he is a real enemy to pheasants, wild ducks, plovers, moorhens, and other birds which lay in open places before there is cover. nothing is more exasperating than these exploits to people who know where birds are nesting on their property, and wish to see them hatch safely. a wild duck's nest in a large copse was found by some persons picking primroses. in that copse was a crow's nest. the crows found out that the primrose-pickers had discovered something interesting, and a few hours later the "quirk! quirk!" of the crows announced that they were enjoying life to an unusual degree. it was found that they had removed all seven eggs from the duck's nest. in an adjacent reclaimed harbour they took the eggs of ducks, plovers, redshanks, and even larks. in the vale of white horse they seem to take most of the early wild pheasant's eggs, besides stealing hen's eggs from round the farms. they are particularly fond of hunting down the sides of streams and canals in the early morning, where they find three dainties to which they are particularly partial,--moorhen's eggs, frogs, and fresh-water mussels. they swallow the frogs _in situ_, and carry the moorhen's eggs and mussels off to some adjacent post to eat them comfortably. the shells of both eggs and mussels litter the ground under these dinner-tables. in holland they are so mischievous that little "duck-houses" are made by the side of all the ornamental canals in private grounds for the ducks to nest in, a convenience of which they, being sensible birds, avail themselves. these duck-houses, or laying bowers, are still regularly made by the half-moon canal at hampton court, a survival probably of the days of william of orange's dutch gardeners. [illustration: the stepping stones at benfleet. _from a photograph by r. b. lodge_.] during the day they are very quiet birds, keeping much to the trees; but towards evening in march and april, their disagreeable croaking caw may be heard from all quarters where they are numerous. just at dusk they become less wary than in the day. the writer for many years used to organise a few evening "drives" of the crows to try to thin them down before their ravenous families were hatched. several guns used to hide in different parts of the valley near nests, and on to this "blockhouse line" the crows were driven. a few were generally shot before they discovered the plot. solicitude for the nest seldom leads them into danger, but one pair met their fate in this way. the first bird came flying to the nest, in which there were eggs, as soon as a shot was heard in the distance. it was killed, and hardly had the spark of the flash disappeared when the other bird dropped down out of the gloom straight on to the eggs, and met the same fate. forty young chickens were taken by a pair of crows from a farm in one spring. it was objected by some young ladies who were "interested" in the farm that the crows were "such sneaks." they used to come at luncheon-time up a line of trees extending from the wood to the farm. they were not in the least afraid of any one with a cart, apparently knowing that the horse could not be left, but would go straight for the chicken yard. a pair of sparrow-hawks near would seize a chicken now and then, but in a bold way as if they had a right to them. a few crows contrive to nest in kensington gardens. in the early mornings they always hunt the west banks of the long water, and are credited with taking a good many ducks' eggs, as well as ducklings. crows make one of the best nests constructed by the larger english birds. usually it is placed, not out on the small branches, where rooks prefer to build them, but on the fork made by a large bough starting from the main trunk. this aids in concealment, and is a protection against shot, though probably the birds do not reckon on this contingency. the bottom of the nest is made of large, dead sticks. upon and between these smaller twigs, often torn off green from willow-and elm-trees, or stolen from faggots of recent cutting, are laid and woven. then a fine deep basin is made, woven of roots, grass, and some wiry stalk like esparto, the secret of where to find which seems a special possession of crows, and on this often a lining of bits of sheep's wool and cow's hair. there are sometimes as many as six eggs, and rarely less than four. they are quite beautiful objects, of a bright blue-green marked variously, but in a very decorative way, with blotches and smears of olive and blackish-brown. two or three clutches of these eggs, with some of the splendid purple-red kestrels' eggs, and sparrow-hawks of bluish white, blotched with rich chestnut, make a very handsome show after a day's bird-nesting on the hills. the first eggs are laid very early, sometimes by the second week in april. a nest recently analysed consisted mainly of green ash taken from faggots and cuttings in the wood. one piece was a yard long, and as thick at the base as the little finger. the nest was _felted_ with cow's hair, and quite impenetrable to shot. these nests last for years, and often have a series of tenants, kestrels, squirrels, brown owls, or hobbies. if the first nest is destroyed, the crow makes another. in his conjugal relations the carrion crow is a model bird. he pairs for life, and is inseparable from his mate. if one croaks, the other answers instantly, but usually they keep within sight of one another all day. in the evening the pair, seldom more than a few yards apart, may be seen hunting diligently in the meadows for slugs, which, so long as the weather is not too dry, form the regular supper of the birds. a remarkable instance of the crow's courage in defence of its mate occurred some years ago on salisbury plain when a party were out rook-hawking. a falcon was flown at one of a pair of crows on favourable, open ground. the two birds mounted in the usual spiral until the falcon stooped, bound to the crow, and the pair came to the ground together. just as the horseman rode in to take up the hawk the other crow descended straight upon the falcon, knocked her off its prostrate mate, and the two flew off together to cover before the falcon had realised whence the onset came. this crow not only showed great courage in facing both the falcon and the sportsman, but timed its interference with the greatest judgment and precision. probably a tame crow would make an amusing pet. its intelligence must be very considerable, though the shape of its head does not so clearly indicate brain as does that of a raven. among the crows which haunt the banks of the london river there are some highly educated pairs. one has maintained itself on the reach opposite ham house for thirteen years, if the evidence used to identify them is reliable. these birds were noticed at that distance of time ago to have learnt to pick up food floating on the water. to see a big black crow hovering like a gull, and picking up bread from the bosom of the thames, is so unusual that it always excites remark, and the writer was informed only last summer that these ham house crows were seen doing this constantly. not many years ago a crow nested in a plane-tree in st. paul's churchyard, and a pair also reside on the island in battersea park. but the great headquarters of london crows are the grounds of ranelagh, and the reservoirs and market gardens of barnes and chiswick. they flock to the manure heaps in the latter, where the gulls now join them, and several pairs spend all day nearly all the year round on the reservoir banks at barnes, and on chiswick eyot. the eyot crows seems to find a good living there, and never leave it till their young, which are annually hatched in a tree at some distance on the middlesex side, can fly. but the crows haunting the great barnes reservoirs, where the tufted ducks now assemble in winter, are a bad lot. last winter they were seen to single out and attack any gull separated from the flock which usually came there to roost. a sick or wounded gull was soon caught, killed, and eaten, the small black-headed gulls being no match for the crows. it was characteristic of their cunning that by the river itself they did not molest the gulls. london's buried elephants the amount of river gravel left in the part of the thames valley on which west london is built is extraordinary. it is all round, and mostly red, and as there are no rocks like the stone which makes up most of this gravel anywhere in the modern valley, it is puzzling to know where it came from. i went to see the digging of the foundations of the new south kensington museum, and the great excavation, which was like the ditch of a fortress, and the stuff thrown out, which was like the rampart, was all dug in, or made of, river gravel. in this the men had found, lying higgledy-piggledy, with no two bones "belonging," quantities of bones of the beasts which used to graze on what i suppose was the kensington "veldt," or perhaps flats by the riverside, during the time when the river's drift and brick earth was being deposited. the clerk of the works was much interested in these discoveries, and had caused them to be carefully collected. these were bones of the great stags then common, of the elephant, and of the primaeval horse, creatures which lived here before the channel was cut between england and france, though not, perhaps, before man had appeared in what is now the thames valley, for flint implements are often found with the bones. dr. woodward, to whom some of the remains were taken, said that they reminded him of the great discovery of similar remains in the brick earth at ilford, in essex, thirty-seven years ago, when he personally saw, dug from the brickfields of that almost suburban parish, the head and tusks of one of the largest mammoth elephants in the world. these river-gravel and brick-earth buried bones are rather earlier than those found in the peat and marl. the latter belonged to creatures which, though they no longer exist in england, are still found in temperate europe--beavers, bears, bison, and wolves. but the thames gravel and the london clay are in places full of the bones of another, and earlier, though by no means primaeval, generation of mammals, some of which are extinct, while others are found at great distances from this country, in remote parts of the earth. judging from the places where they are found and from the position of the bones, large animals must have swarmed all over what is now london, just as they do on the athi plains and near the rivers and forests through which the uganda railway runs. there was the same astonishing mixture of species, a mixture which puzzles inquirers rather more than it need. hippopotamus bones are found in great numbers, and with the hippopotamus remains those of creatures like the reindeer and the musk ox, now found only on the arctic fringe and frozen rim of the north, which lived on the same area and with them the arctic fox. judging from the great range of climate which most northern animals can endure, there is no reason to think this juxtaposition of a creature only found in warm rivers and of what are now arctic animals is very strange. the london "hippo" was just the same, to judge from his bones, as that of the nile or congo. but the reindeer of north america, under the name of the woodland cariboo, comes down far south, and in the arctic summer that of europe endures a very high temperature. the arctic fox does the same. if there were arctic animals in kensington and westminster, that is no evidence that they lived in an arctic climate. looking over the list of bones, skulls, teeth, and tusks found, it is interesting to try to reconstruct mentally the fauna of greater london just previous to the coming of man. there were, to begin with, some african animals, either the same as are found on the central african plains, and were found on the veldt of south africa, or of the same families. the present condition of the country between mount kilimanjaro and the victoria nyanza shows quite as great a mixture of species. there, for instance, are all the big antelopes, rhinoceroses, zebras, lions, elephants, hyaenas, and wild dogs, and though there are glaciers on kilimanjaro and the great mountains near the central valleys, the river running out of the great rift valley is full of crocodiles and hippopotami. there is heather and, higher up, also ice and snow on the mountains, from whose tops the waters come that feed these crocodile-haunted streams. so on the london "veldt" there were lions, wild horses (perhaps striped like zebras), three kinds of rhinoceroses--two of which were just like the common black rhinoceros of africa, though one had a woolly coat--elephants, hyaenas, hippopotami, and that most typical african animal the cape wild dog! all these, except the elephants and hippos, can stand some degree of cold; and there is not the slightest reason why the two last may not have flourished in some deep river valley, very many degrees hotter than the hills above. to take an instance still remaining nearer to europe than the great rift valley. the jordan valley is very deep and very hot. many species of birds are there found which are resident in india, and not anywhere nearer. it is a kind of hot slice of india embedded in the palestine hills. the very large deer and immense bison and wild oxen probably fed on the same low veldt as the african animals. the bison were the same as those found in lithuania, but far larger. numbers of the skulls, of quite gigantic size, have been found in the brick earth. in the british museum there is a tooth of the mammoth found in 1731, at a depth of 28 feet below the surface, in digging a sewer in pall mall. this pall mall mammoth might well figure in mr. e. t. reed's prehistoric series in _punch_. another tooth was found in gray's inn lane. the mammoth was evidently not confined to the present region of clubland. besides these european and african groups of animals, a third class ranged the london plains, probably at a greater height and in a still colder temperature than the large grass-eating mammals mentioned. these creatures, whose bones are found plentifully in the drift, are now living in a country even more specialised than the african veldt. they are the creatures of the tartar steppes and the cold plains of central asia. their names are the suslik (a central asian prairie dog), the pika, a little steppe hare, and an extremely odd antelope, now found in thibet. this is a singularly ugly beast with a high roman nose, and wool almost as thick as that of a sheep when the winter coat is on. it must have been quite common in those parts, for i have had the cores of two of their horns brought to me during the last few years. these dry bones are not made so astonishingly interesting by their setting in the gravel as are some far more ancient remains in england. the gravel is a mere rubbish-bed, like a sea-beach, in which all things have lost their connection. i was recently shown a set of fossils far more ancient, possibly not less than 2,000,000 years old, which were all found and may be seen exactly as they lay and lived when they were on the bottom of a prehistoric river which flowed through hampshire, across what is now the channel, over south france, and then fell into the mediterranean. this river crosses the channel at hordwell cliffs on the solent. there is the whole section, of a great stream two miles wide, with the gravel at its edges, the sediment and sand a little lower down the sides, and the mud at the bottom. on each lie its appropriate shells. some are like those in the thames to-day, but many more like those of a river in borneo. they are so thick that out of a single ounce of the mud 150 little shells were obtained. in this, too, were found the tooth of a crocodile and the bones of a spiny pike, and in other masses of clay the very reeds and bits of the trees that grew there. these sedges of the primitive ages were quite charming. even some of their colour was preserved, and all their delicate fluting and fibre, in the fine clay. one of the branches of a tree, now turned to lignite, had possessed a thick pith. this pith had decayed, and water had trickled down the hollow like a pipe. the water was full of iron pyrites, and had first lined the tube with iron crystals and then filled up the whole hollow with a frosted network of the same. there is a striking contrast between the presence and realism of these once living things still preserving the outer forms of life and the vast and inconceivable distances of "geological time." swans, black and white a few pairs of black swans have been placed upon the river. some of these rear broods of young ones, and appear to be quite acclimatised. the black swan was known to the traders of our own east india company nearly a century before captain cook and sir joseph banks discovered botany bay. the first notice of it appears in a letter, written about the year 1698, by a mr. watson to dr. m. lister, in which he says, "here is returned a ship which by our east india company was sent to the south land, called hollandia nova," and adds that black swans, parrots, and many sea-cows were found there. in 1726, two were brought alive to batavia, which were caught on the west coast of australia, near hartop bay, but no good account of their habits was ever written till gould put together the facts he had seen and learnt on the spot. the habits in their native land of birds which we only see acclimatised and domesticated, sometimes give a clue to what can be done to domesticate other breeds. this swan is only found in australia, and only locally there, in the south and west. there it takes the place occupied by the brent goose in our northern latitude, both as a water bird and as a source of food to the natives. "wherever there are rivers, estuaries of the sea, lagoons, and pools of water of any extent the bird is generally distributed," says gould. "sometimes it occurs in such numbers that flocks of many hundreds can be seen together, particularly on those arms of the sea which, after passing the beachline of the coast, expand into great sheets of shallow water, on which the birds are seldom disturbed either by the force of boisterous winds or the intrusion of the natives. in the white man, however, the black swan finds an enemy so deadly, that in many parts where it was formerly quite numerous it has been almost, if not entirely, extirpated. "this has been particularly the case on some of the larger rivers of tasmania, but on the salt lagoons and inlets of d'entrecasteaux's channel, the little-frequented bays of the southern and western shores of that island and the entrance to melbourne harbour at port phillip, it is still numerous." this was written in 1865, when to voyagers to the new continent the black swans of melbourne harbour were sometimes a first and striking reminder that they had reached a new world. one of the most deadly means of killing off the black swans was to chase them in boats, and either to net or club them, when they had shed all their flight feathers. this is what mr. trevor battye saw the samoyeds doing to the brent geese on kolguev island. thousands were driven into a kind of kraal, and killed for winter food. next to the pelagic sealer, the whalers and ordinary seal-hunters are the worst scourges of the animal world. they killed off, for instance, every single one of the antarctic right whales, and nearly all the cape and antarctic fur seals. but it is not generally known that they succeeded in almost killing off the black swans in some districts. they caught and killed them in boatloads, not for the flesh, but to take the swans' down. black swans have white wings, though as they are nearly always pinioned here, a stupid habit which our people have learnt from the ancient and time-honoured brutality of "swan upping," we never see them flying. they are then very beautiful objects, with their plumage of ebon and ivory. in australia they begin to lay in october, and the young are hatched and growing in january. they are very prolific birds, laying from five to eight light-green eggs with brownish buff markings. some years ago a splendid brood of six jolly little nigger cygnets were hatched out by the black swans at kew. but the most successful breeder of black swans in this country was mr. samuel gurney, who began his stock with a pair on the river wandle, at carshalton. he bought them in leadenhall market, in 1851. they did not breed till three years later, and laid their first egg on january 1st. this is very interesting, because it shows that so far these birds were not acclimatised, but kept more or less to the seasons of reproduction proper to their native land. they were laying in what is the australian summer and our mid-winter. it was a most severe winter, and the young ones were hatched out in a severe frost, which had lasted all the time that the birds were sitting in the open. the cygnets lived--it is not stated how many there were--and later on, the parents continued to breed, till in 1862, eight years after, they had hatched ninety-three young ones, and reared about half the number. the most extraordinary thing about the original pair was that they seem to have taken on both our seasons and their own, laying both in our spring and in the australian spring, and so hatching two broods a year. they bred sixteen times in seven years--or probably seven and a half--and in that time laid one hundred and eleven eggs. the interest of this story is very considerable, because it shows the imperfect and exhausting efforts which nature causes animals to make to adapt their breeding time to a new climate. black swans which are descended from young birds bred in this country conform to the ordinary nesting-time of our hemisphere. i notice that among the white swans on the thames the cock-bird will fight to preserve his lady from intrusion, but he never thinks of taking her any breakfast, or of bringing her food of any kind, even though he may be fed most liberally himself. his only idea of helping her actively is by minding house while she goes off to feed and also while she is making her toilet. not long ago, a swan who had a nest by the thames so far forgot his mate as to fall in love with a young lady, whom he constantly tried to persuade to come and join him on the river. she was in the habit of feeding both swans every day, but as the lady swan was on the nest for the greater part of the time, the cock swan came in for most of the attention. in time he became tame enough to feed from her hand, and would come out on to the bank; but he preferred to sit on the water and to be fed from a boat-raft. after being fed he wanted to see more of his friend, but could not understand why she preferred stopping on such an uncomfortable place as the land when all she need do to enjoy his society, and to be happier herself, was to step down into the water. he would swim away slowly, looking over his shoulder to see if she was coming. as she usually wore a white dress, there is very little doubt that the swan thought she only wanted a few feathers to be quite a presentable swan, and suited for life on the river. when he found that she did not follow, he would return, and stretching out his neck would take hold of her dress and pull her towards the water, not in anger, but with a kind and pressing insistence, as showing her what was best. this he did usually when he had finished the food she brought, and when she left the bank would swim up and down, waiting to see if she were coming back. the time-honoured brutality of swan-upping is now mitigated by law, its cruelty being obvious. it would be far better to leave them the use of their wings, which would enable them to seek food at a distance in winter, and to escape the ice, which sometimes breaks their legs. several of these flightless swans were starved to death in 1902. canvey island down near thames mouth is the curious reclamation from the river mud known as canvey island. it is separated from the land by a "fleet," in which the danes are recorded to have laid up their ships in the early period of their invasions, and the village opposite on the mainland is called benfleet. though on the river, it is a half-marine place, with the typical sea-plants growing on the saltings by the shore. in summer i noticed that the graves below the grey sea-eaten, storm-furrowed walls of the church have wreaths of sea-lavender laid upon them. but there is not the same rich carpet of sea-flowers as at wells or blakeney. nor is the deposit so rich, so soft, so ready to be covered with smiling meadows as those of north norfolk, built up from the mud-clouds of the fen. canvey island itself is a heavy, indurated soil in parts, now well established, and producing fine crops. but is it the kind of ground which would pay a fair return on the cost of "inning it" to-day? the wheat is good, the straw long, and the ears full. the oats are less good, perhaps because the soil is too heavy. the beans are strong and healthy; clover, which does not mind a salty soil, thrives there; and there are strong crops of mangold. but it is not like the fenland; it cracks under the sun, "pans" upon the surface, and is not adapted for inexpensive or for intensive cultivation. such was the writer's impression from a careful view of the farms in the middle of harvest. but as a fact in the history of english agriculture, and in its relation to the past story of the thames mouth, and its possibilities as a future health resort, this work of the enterprising dutchmen in the beginning of the seventeenth century is full of interest. in 1622 sir henry appleton, the owner of the marsh, agreed to give one-third of it to joas croppenburg, a dutchman skilled in the making of dikes, if he "inned" the marsh. this the dutchman did off hand, and enclosed six thousand acres by a wall twenty miles round. like many parts of the fens, the island was peopled for a time by dutchmen engaged on the works, and croppenburg is said to have built there a church. two small dutch cottages remain, built in 1621. the general aspect of the island is like that part of holland near the mouth of the "old" rhine, but less closely cultivated and cared for. [illustration: the lobster smack inn, canvey island. _from a photograph by r. b. lodge_.] [illustration: the stepping stones at benfleet. _from a photograph by r. b. lodge_.] it has always been a separate region. never yet has it entered the heads of its proprietors to join it permanently to the mainland. for three centuries its visitors and people have driven or walked over a tide-washed causeway at low water, or ferried over at high tide. you do so still, in a scrubbed and salty boat, while an ancient road-mender is occupied in the oddest of all forms of road maintenance. he stirs and swirls the mud as the tide goes down, to wash it out of the hollow way, otherwise it would be turned into warp-land every day, and become impassable. the dutchmen's roads are sound and straight enough on the island. outside the wall the samphire and orach beds are wholly marine. inside the dikes and ditches are filled with a purely sweet-water vegetation. further seawards, or rather riverwards, at a place called "sluis," they are fringed with wild rose and wild plum, and the ditches are deep in rushes, in willow herb, in purple nightshade, water-mint, and reeds. camden gives a curious account of the island in his day. it was constantly almost submerged. the people lived by keeping sheep on it. there were four thousand of a very excellent flavour. evidently this was the origin of _prã©-salã©_ mutton in england. camden saw them milking their sheep, from which they made ewe-milk cheeses. when the floods rose the sheep used to be driven on to low mounds which studded the central parts of the marsh, and these mounds are there still. some are covered with wild-plum bushes. one, in the centre of the island, is the site of the village of canvey; and on one, at the time of the writer's last visit, two fine old essex rams were sleeping in the sun. there was no flood; the island had not known even a partial one for some years. but true to the instincts of their race, they had occupied the highest ground, though it was only a few feet above the levels. there are few land-birds on canvey island, because there are few trees. some greenfinches, a whinchat or two, almost no pipits or larks, and very few sparrows. the shore-birds are numerous and increasing, for the essex county council strictly protect all the eggs and birds during the breeding season. enormous areas of breeding ground are now protected in the wide fringe of private fresh-water marshes of this river-intersected shore. plovers, redshanks, terns, ducks, especially the wild mallards, are increasing. so are the black-headed gulls; even the oyster-catchers are returning. after nesting the birds lead their young to the southern point of canvey island. it is too near the growing and popular southend for the birds to be other than shy. but as they are not allowed to be shot till the middle of august, they are able to take care of themselves. at the flow of the tide, before the shooting begins, the visitor who makes his way to this distant and unpeopled promontory sees the birds in thousands. out at sea the ducks were this year as numerous as in the old days before breechloaders and railways. stints and ringed plover, golden plover and redshanks were flitting everywhere from island to island on the mud and ooze; curlews were floating and flapping over the "fleets"; and all were in security. as the tide flowed, they crowded on to the highest and last-covered islets, whence, as the inexorable tide again rose, they took wing and flew swiftly to the essex shore. the sluis, looking across to the kentish shore, is the home of the seagulls. many quaint ships lie anchored there--dutch eel-boats, which call for refreshment after selling the cargo; barges; hoys from the medway bound to harwich; and fishing-smacks and timber-brigs. round these the seagulls float, as tame almost as london pigeons. they prefer company, at least the lesser gulls do; the big herring gulls and black-backed gulls keep aloof. [illustration: hauling the nets for whitebait. _from photographs by r. b. lodge_.] the hope of reclaiming land from the waves exercises a peculiar fascination over most minds. it presents itself in more than one form as a most desirable activity. it is something like creation--a form of making earth from sea. the clothing of the fringe of ocean's bed with herbage, the reaping of a harvest where rolled the tide, the barring out of the dominant sea, the vision, not altogether illusive, of planting industrious and deserving men on the ground so won, all these are alluring ideas. the undertaker, to use the word in vogue in the stuart days when such enterprises were in high favour, always leaves a name among posterity, generally an honoured name, and in nearly every case one associated with courage, perseverance, and in some measure with benevolence. the picturesque and sentimental side will always remain to the credit of the reclaimers of the waste of neptune's manor. but if the balance of profitable expenditure, or of good done to others, is weighed between winning land from the sea and expenditure in improving the cultivation of land already accessible, the award should probably be given to the latter. intensive cultivation and the improvement of the millions of acres which we now possess is a more thankworthy task, demands more brains, and should give greater results than the gaining of a few thousands of acres now covered by water. this conclusion is not the one which any lover of enterprise or of picturesque endeavour would prefer. it is a pity that it is so. perhaps in days to come when wheat is once more precious the sea wastes may once more be worth recovery. but even so they are not desirable spots on which to plant a population. they are by natural causes on the way to nowhere, and out of communication with the towns and villages. brading harbour, in the isle of wight, is an exception, for it ran up inland. lord leicester's marshes at holkham are narrow though long, and, while splendidly fertile, are all well within reach of the farms and villages. but to scatter farms and labourers' cottages on the dreary flats of a place like canvey island is not likely to appeal to the wishes of modern agriculturists, who feel the dulness of rural life acutely already. the growth of the jewish colonies not far off on the mainland, where poor hebrews continually reinforce a community devoted to field and garden labour and content to begin by earning the barest living, seems to indicate that a population from the poorest urban class might be found for reclaimed land. but the industrious town artisans of english blood have not yet found life so intolerable as to be ready to try the experiment. the london thames as a waterway mary boyle, in "her book," speaking of the time when her father had an appointment at the navy board and a residence in somerset house, says, "it was our great delight to go by water on sunday afternoon to westminster abbey, and there is no doubt we occasionally cut a grand figure on the river; for when my father went out he had a splendid barge, rowed by boatmen clad entirely in scarlet, with black jockey caps, such as in those picturesque old days formed part of that beautiful river procession in honour of the lord mayor, on the 9th of november, over the disappearance of which pageant i have often mourned." it was not until the early days of the present reign that neglect and dirt spoiled our river as an almost royal waterway; and we believe that as late as the days of archbishop tait the primate's state barge used to convey him from lambeth palace to the house of lords opposite. state barges and river processions were the standing examples of state pageantry, thoroughly popular and remembered by the intensely conservative people of london; and it is a tribute to the feeling that the use of the river was a necessary part of london life, that the lord mayor and his suite on the 9th of november used to take boat at blackfriars bridge, and went thence by water to westminster hall, returning in their state barges to the bridge, where their coaches were waiting for them. we may credit the founders of the earliest illustrated paper with a knowledge of the popular sentiment of the day. when the _illustrated london news_ was established the title-page of that paper showed the thames, with the procession of state barges in the foreground, and the then new and popular river steamers passing by them. in addition to cleanliness something in the form of a restoration of old conditions of water-level and other improvements by modern engineering will also be required if the river is to become a popular waterway. among the main drawbacks to its present use is the great difference in level between high and low water. the old london bridge, with its multiplied arches and pillars, acted as a lock. it admitted the flood tide more easily than it released the ebb. the consequence was that when the tide began to fall the waters above were pent in by the bridge, and the river was kept at a level of three feet higher than it was below the obstruction. even now at flood tide it is a splendid and imposing river. but the very improvements which add to its dignity when the tide is flowing, have caused it to remain almost waterless for a longer period during each day. the dredging and deepening of the channel forces the waterway to contract its flow, while the embanking of its sides enables the tide to slip down at great speed. for four hours in each tide the thames is not so much a river as a half-empty conduit. it is not in the least probable that this will be allowed to continue. the success of the half-tide lock at richmond has been beyond all expectation. it has secured a perpetual river, whether on the ebb or flow, with a mean level suited for boating and traffic at all hours. a scheme for another lock of the same kind at wandsworth is now accepted in principle and nearly completed in detail. when this is built the long stretch of river from wandsworth, past putney, ranelagh, hammersmith, barnes, and kew, will retain a permanent and constant supply, augmented at the flood tide, but never falling below a certain level at the ebb. then must follow the final and complete measure for making the london river the greatest natural amenity in the metropolis, a half-tide lock at london bridge, to hold up the water opposite the historic and magnificent frontage of st. paul's, the temple, westminster and lambeth, and upwards to above the embankments at chelsea. the result would be an immense fresh-water lake, with an ebb and flow to keep it sweet and pure, but remaining for the greater part of the twenty-four hours at a fixed level, and during this period of rest only moved by a very gentle downward stream, or else practically still when the water sank level with the sills of the lock. this would make it not only easy for boats propelled by steam, sail, or oars to move on it at all hours, without hindrance from the present strong up or down currents, but also absolutely safe. any craft, from the outrigger and canada canoe, to the improved river steamers which would at once be launched upon its waters, could float with ease and safety on the london thames. the scene in the near future can be imagined from the analogy of henley, though the larger scale of the london river makes the forecast more difficult to bring into proportion. the intentionally decorative side, given on the upper river by the houseboats, will doubtless be supplied by a new service of public or municipal passenger steamers, able to ply continuously at all hours, independently of the tide, as fast as safety permits, and absolutely punctual because the stream will be under control. these should be as brilliantly carved, gilded, coloured, and furnished as possible, surplus profits only going to the municipal coffers after the boats have been repaired yearly and thoroughly redecorated. the scheme is not in the least visionary. the chairman of one of the tramway companies obtained recently complete estimates for a fast, luxurious, and beautiful service of thames passenger boats, which he was convinced would pay even now; and though he did not succeed in inducing the shareholders to accept the idea of this alternative investment, there is no doubt that on the improved river the improved steamers would pay. a simultaneous and necessary addition would be the building of numerous broad, accessible, and beautiful stairs and landing places. instead of the narrow gangway through which files of passengers slowly creep there must be long platforms, on to which the crowds on board the vessels step, as from a train, all along the length of the ships, so that the touch and departure may be rapid. the decline of traffic on the river is largely due to the narrowness and fewness of these points of access, which were gradually closed as the river was deserted for the road, while their blocking or neglect discouraged efforts to improve or multiply boats and steamers. in 1543 there were twelve large and handsome flights of stairs down to the river between blackfriars and westminster. in 1600, besides these there were public and private gateways of large size, covered docks for state and private barges, and every convenience for access to the water. there were stairs and stages at essex house, arundel house, somerset house, york house (the water-gate of which still remains, with a frontage of embankment and garden between it and the river of to-day), bedford house, durham house, whitehall, and westminster. the latter were "the king's stairs." there are few constructions which lend themselves better to architectural treatment than water-gates and stairways. they would become one of the features of the embankment. on the river itself the city companies would once more launch their state barges, and the houses of parliament would have a flotilla of decorative steam or electric launches. permanent moorings, now difficult to maintain near the bank on account of the runaway tide, would hold boats, launches, and single-handed sailing yachts. no one will grudge the county council a state barge; while the new municipalities which border on the river--westminster, southwark, fulham, kensington, and the rest--will endeavour to interest their members in the great waterway by following the example of the thames conservancy and sending their representatives for official voyages to survey its banks and note suggestions for improvements in their actual setting and surroundings. no doubt in winter all the minor pleasure traffic would cease. but there is no reason whatever why a service of ornamental and well-equipped screw steamers plying at very short intervals, and with absolute punctuality, should not continue all the winter through. they would be entirely unlike the "penny boat." double-storied deckhouses, glazed and warmed, would afford the passengers more room, purer air, and a more rapid means of transport than the omnibus, and a far more agreeable mode of crossing from one side of the river to the other than by railway bridges, tunnels, or the architecturally beautiful, but crowded, stone bridges used for ordinary traffic. the thames as a national trust a movement is on foot among various societies interested in the preservation of outdoor england to take measures jointly for the protection of the beauties of the thames. the subject is one which attracts more interest yearly, and the time has now come when the nation should make up its mind on the subject of such splendid properties as it possesses in "real estate" like the thames and the new forest, with especial regard to their value for beauty and enjoyment. it would be unfair to expect too much from the thames conservancy in this direction. that body exists to maintain the navigation of the river, and to see that no impediments are put in the way of its use as a waterway. its duties are, in the first instance, those of a highway board, which deals with a river instead of a road. it has to buoy wrecks, and see that they are raised. it controls the speed of steamers and launches, not, in the first place, because they are a nuisance to pleasure boats, but because the "wash" destroys the banks, and this costs money to repair. it arranges for the dredging of shallows in the fairway, for the embankment of the shores, and for the repair and maintenance of the locks. its business is to do this as cheaply as is consistent with efficiency, and to lay no unavoidable burden on the trade of the river. the preservation of its amenities is not, strictly speaking, the object for which the conservancy exists. yet it has done much in this direction, by obtaining from time to time powers not originally in its jurisdiction. it may be said to be on its way to become a guardian of the amenities of the river, though these, which are fast becoming far more important than its use as a means of traffic, were at first only accidentally objects of solicitude to the conservators, and such attention as is by them devoted to this end is mainly confined to the upper thames, and not to the london river. legislation to preserve natural beauty, or prevent disfigurement, has practically only been possible in recent years, and the wish to do so, though shared by most classes, is not yet so pronounced as it ought to be. what the conservancy has been able to do, under these circumstances, has been done, partly on grounds of health, which are recognised in legislation, and partly to preserve the fishery. it has endeavoured to keep the river from the most disgusting forms of pollution, and lately from being made the receptacle for minor but objectionable refuse. it has certainly prevented the upper thames being made into a sewer, and also stopped pollution by paper mills and factories. london's need of pure drinking water has given immense assistance to the forces which were working to keep our rivers clean. all the tributaries of the thames are now under surveillance, and no village or little country town may use them to pour sewage into. country villagers may grumble at being forced to keep water clean for londoners to drink. but this act has done more to preserve the amenities of the countryside than any other of this generation. it is so far-reaching, and so frankly expresses the principle of placing public rights in the "natural commodity" of pure water in our rivers before private convenience in saving expense, that it is a hopeful sign of the times. while the existence of this extensive control is a guarantee for the increasing pureness of the upper thames, it is also a precedent for regulating and increasing the supervision of this national property in the most beautiful, the largest, and the most pleasant highway in our country, whose very pavement is a means of delight to the eye, of pleasure to the touch, and of refreshment to all the senses. the minor regulations for its maintenance are still more encouraging, for some of these aim directly at preserving beauty, or objects of natural interest, for their own sake. the oldest are those which protect the fishery. there is one close-time for the coarse fish, another for the trout, and a limit of size to the meshes of the nets which may be used. such minor disfigurements as the throwing of ashes from steam-launches into the water or of kitchen _dã©bris_ from houseboats are forbidden. recently the conservators have taken powers more frankly directed to the preservation of natural beauty, though even in these cases what may be called direct "taste legislation" has not been exercised. they have not asked for leave to say definitely: "this or that object is hideous or disfiguring, and cannot be allowed by the side of our national highway." but they have said, "this or that object which grows on or lives by the side of our river-road is beautiful, and gives pleasure to the public, and therefore it shall not be destroyed." the result has been that the birds on the river and its banks may no longer be shot, and certain flowers are not permitted to be plucked. the conservancy is also able indirectly to exercise some control over riverside building operations, and very recently compelled an alteration of design in the use of a building site on a reach of the upper thames. [illustration: fishing boats at leigh. _from photographs by r. b. lodge_.] it may be asked why, if so much has already been done, we should not rest contented with the present control of the river, trusting that a gradual increase of powers will be granted to the conservancy, so that little by little they may be able to meet all requirements for the preservation of the thames as our national river, just as the new forest is preserved on the grounds that it was "of unique beauty and historic interest." the answer is that, in the first place, this is not the proper business of the conservancy, but only an incidental duty; and, in the next, that with the best of goodwill, as is shown by what they have done, the conservators have only been able to mitigate, not to control, a vast amount of disfigurement and abuse of the river in the past. they were not created _ad hoc_, and the body has not the position which would enable them to take a strong line, or powers for expenditure on purely non-remunerative business, such as might be necessary if a millowner had to be bought out if about to sell his property for conversion into a gasworks, like the factory of the brentford gas company just opposite the palace at kew, or the foul soapworks which for years disfigured the banks and polluted the air at barnes. they have not the funds to maintain a proper police to stop the minor pollution of the river, or to scavenge it properly, and anywhere below kew bridge they are entirely unable to cope with bankside disfigurements. else we cannot believe that for years the bank opposite the terrace at barnes and the villas above it would have been given up to the shooting of dustbin refuse for hundreds of yards, or that chiswick and richmond would have been permitted to pour "sewage effluent" into what are still two of the finest reaches on the london river, or that we should see advertisements of "a site on the river--suitable for a nuisance trade," advertised, as was recently done, in a daily paper. if the london public, for instance, will only make up its mind in time that the thames is something really necessary to its enjoyment of life; that it is the most beautiful natural area which they can easily reach; that on it may be had the freshest air, the best exercise, good sport (if the fishery were replenished and the water kept clean), and constant rest and refreshment for mind and body--it would no doubt succeed in inducing parliament to put the river under a strong commission with an adequate endowment. but the preservation of the thames is more than a local, or even a london, question. it is a national property and of national importance, and should be managed from this point of view. mr. richardson evans has made out a good case for national _property_ in scenery generally. but here the case is stronger, because the river _is_ a national property already, and anything which decreases its amenities for private ends damages the property. like very much other real estate, its value depends now not on its return to the nation as a highway (above london, that is), but purely as a "pleasure estate." supposing any private owner to be in possession of a beautiful stretch of river, is it conceivable that, if he could, he would not get a law passed to prevent gasworks, or hideous advertisements, or rowdy steamers, or stinking dust-heaps, or sewage works from spoiling any part of it? would he let people throw in dead cats and dogs, or set up cocoa-nut shies on the banks?--all of which things have been done, and are done, between syon house and putney bridge, on the way by river from london itself to london's fairest suburbs, richmond and twickenham. or would he allow himself to be shut off from access to his own river, or forbidden to walk along the path by its side, supposing that one existed? yet the public, whose rights of way on the thames are as good as those of any private owner on his own waters, either suffer these things to go by default, or at most permit and only faintly encourage a body which was not created to care for this purpose, to undertake it because there is no other authority to do so. it is no use to leave these things to the local authority, however competent. there is always the danger that local authorities--even those representing interests normally opposed to each other--may agree to press local interests at the expense of the public. what is needed is that both the new forest and the thames shall be created national trusts. both are as valuable, as unique, and as important as the british museum, and should be controlled by trustees of such standing and position that their decision on matters of taste and expediency in managing and maintaining the natural amenities of the national forest and the national stream would be beyond question. the decisions of the trustees of the british museum are scarcely ever questioned by public opinion. could not the national river be placed under similar guardianship? jacob faithful, by captain marryat. ________________________________________________________________________ captain frederick marryat was born july 10 1792, and died august 8 1848. he retired from the british navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to writing. in the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which are among the very best of english literature, and some of which are still in print. marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his stories. he says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he never knew what he was going to write. he certainly was a literary genius. "jacob faithful" was published in 1834, the fifth book to flow from marryat's pen. the story tells the life and adventures of a boy who was born and brought up on a lighter (small river-barge) on the river thames as it flows through london. it gives an extremely interesting contemporary picture of life in london and on the river in the early part of the nineteenth century. this e-text was transcribed in 1998 by nick hodson, and was reformatted in 2003, and again in 2005. ________________________________________________________________________ jacob faithful, by captain frederick marryat. chapter one. my birth, parentage, and family pretensions--unfortunately i prove to be a detrimental or younger son, which is remedied by a trifling accident-i hardly receive the first elements of science from my father, when the elements conspire against me, and i am left an orphan. gentle reader, i was born upon the water--not upon the salt and angry ocean, but upon the fresh and rapid-flowing river. it was in a floating sort of box, called a lighter, and upon the river thames, at low water, when i first smelt the mud. this lighter was manned (an expression amounting to bullism, if not construed _kind_-ly) by my father, my mother, and your humble servant. my father had the sole charge--he was monarch of the deck: my mother, of course, was queen, and i was the heir-apparent. before i say one word about myself, allow me dutifully to describe my parents. first, then, i will portray my queen mother. report says, that when she first came on board of the lighter, a lighter figure and a lighter step never pressed a plank; but as far as i can tax my recollection, she was always a fat, unwieldy woman. locomotion was not to her taste--gin was. she seldom quitted the cabin--never quitted the lighter: a pair of shoes may have lasted her for five years for the wear and tear she took out of them. being of this domestic habit, as all married women ought to be, she was always to be found when wanted; but although always at hand, she was not always on her feet. towards the close of the day, she lay down upon her bed--a wise precaution when a person can no longer stand. the fact was, that my honoured mother, although her virtue was unimpeachable, was frequently seduced by liquor; and although constant to my father, was debauched and to be found in bed with that insidious assailer of female uprightness--_gin_. the lighter, which might have been compared to another garden of eden, of which my mother was the eve, and my father the adam to consort with, was entered by this serpent who tempted her; and if she did not eat, she drank, which was even worse. at first, indeed--and i may mention it to prove how the enemy always gains admittance under a specious form--she drank it only to keep the cold out of her stomach, which the humid atmosphere from the surrounding water appeared to warrant. my father took his pipe for the same reason; but, at the time that i was born, he smoked and she drank from morning to night, because habit had rendered it almost necessary to their existence. the pipe was always to his lip, the glass incessantly to hers. i would have defied any cold ever to have penetrated into their stomachs;--but i have said enough of my mother for the present; i will now pass on to my father. my father was a puffy, round-bellied, long-armed, little man, admirably calculated for his station in, or rather out of, society. he could manage a lighter as well as anybody; but he could do no more. he had been brought up to it from his infancy. he went on shore for my mother, and came on board again--the only remarkable event in his life. his whole amusement was his pipe; and, as there is a certain indefinable link between smoking and philosophy, my father, by dint of smoking, had become a perfect philosopher. it is no less strange than true, that we can puff away our cares with tobacco, when, without it, they remain a burden to existence. there is no composing draught like the draught through the tube of a pipe. the savage warriors of north america enjoyed the blessing before we did; and to the pipe is to be ascribed the wisdom of their councils and the laconic delivery of their sentiments. it would be well introduced into our own legislative assembly. ladies, indeed, would no longer peep down through the ventilator; but we should have more sense and fewer words. it is also to tobacco that is to be ascribed the stoical firmness of those american warriors, who, satisfied with the pipes in their mouths, submitted with perfect indifference to the torture of their enemies. from the well-known virtues of this weed arose that peculiar expression when you irritate another, that you "put his pipe out." my father's pipe, literally and metaphorically, was never put out. he had a few apophthegms which brought every disaster to a happy conclusion; and as he seldom or never indulged in words, these sayings were deeply impressed upon my infant memory. one was, "_it's no use crying; what's done can't be helped_." when once these words escaped his lips, the subject was never renewed. nothing appeared to move him: the abjurations of those employed in the other lighters, barges, vessels, and boats of every description, who were contending with us for the extra foot of water, as we drifted up or down with the tide, affected him not, further than an extra column or two of smoke rising from the bowl of his pipe. to my mother he used but one expression, "_take it coolly_;" but it always had the contrary effect with my mother, as it put her more in a passion. it was like pouring oil upon flame; nevertheless, the advice was good, had it ever been followed. another favourite expression of my father's when anything went wrong, and which was of the same pattern as the rest of his philosophy, was, "_better luck next time_." these aphorisms were deeply impressed upon my memory; i continually recalled them to mind, and thus i became a philosopher long before my wise teeth were in embryo, or i had even shed the first set with which kind nature presents us, that in the petticoat age we may fearlessly indulge in lollipop. my father's education had been neglected. he could neither write nor read; but although he did not exactly, like cadmus, invent letters, he had accustomed himself to certain hieroglyphics, generally speaking sufficient for his purposes, and which might be considered as an artificial memory. "i can't write nor read, jacob," he would say; "i wish i could; but look, boy, i means this mark for three quarters of a bushel. mind you recollects it when i axes you, or i'll be blowed if i don't wallop you." but it was only a case of peculiar difficulty which would require a new hieroglyphic, or extract such a long speech from my father. i was well acquainted with his usual scratches and dots, and having a good memory, could put him right when he was puzzled with some misshapen _x_ or _z_, representing some unknown quantity, like the same letters in algebra. i have said that i was heir-apparent, but i did not say that i was the only child born to my father in his wedlock. my honoured mother had had two more children; but the first, who was a girl, had been provided for by a fit of the measles; and the second, my elder brother, by stumbling over the stern of the lighter when he was three years old. at the time of the accident my mother had retired to her bed, a little the worse for liquor; my father was on deck forward, leaning against the windlass, soberly smoking his evening pipe. "what was that?" exclaimed my father, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and listening; "i shouldn't wonder if that wasn't joe." and my father put in his pipe again, and smoked away as before. my father was correct in his surmises. it _was_ joe who had made the splash which roused him from his meditations, for the next morning joe was nowhere to be found. he was, however, found some days afterwards; but, as the newspapers say, and as may well be imagined, the vital spark was extinct; and, moreover, the eels and chubs had eaten off his nose and a portion of his chubby face, so that, as my father said, "he was of no use to nobody." the morning after the accident my father was up early, and had missed poor little joe. he went into the cabin, smoked his pipe, and said nothing. as my brother did not appear as usual for his breakfast, my mother called out for him in a harsh voice; but joe was out of hearing, and as mute as a fish. joe opened not his mouth in reply, neither did my father. my mother then quitted the cabin, and walked round the lighter, looked into the dog-kennel to ascertain if he was asleep with the great mastiff--but joe was nowhere to be found. "why, what can have become of joe?" cried my mother, with maternal alarm in her countenance, appealing to my father, as she hastened back to the cabin. my father spoke not, but taking the pipe out of his mouth, dropped the bowl of it in a perpendicular direction till it landed softly on the deck, then put it into his mouth again, and puffed mournfully. "why, you don't mean to say he is overboard?" screamed my mother. my father nodded his head, and puffed away at an accumulated rate. a torrent of tears, exclamations, and revilings succeeded to this characteristic announcement. my father allowed my mother to exhaust herself. by the time when she had finished, so was his pipe; he then knocked out the ashes, and quietly observed, "it's no use crying; what's done can't be helped," and proceeded to refill the bowl. "can't be helped!" cried my mother; "but it might have been helped." "take it coolly," replied my father. "take it coolly!" replied my mother in a rage--"take it coolly! yes, you're for taking everything coolly: i presume, if i fell overboard you would be taking it coolly." "you would be taking it coolly, at all events," replied my imperturbable father. "o dear! o dear!" cried my poor mother; "two poor children, and lost them both!" "better luck next time," rejoined my father; "so, sall, say no more about it." my father continued for some time to smoke his pipe, and my mother to pipe her eye, until at last my father, who was really a kind-hearted man, rose from the chest upon which he was seated, went to the cupboard, poured out a teacupful of _gin_, and handed it to my mother. it was kindly done of him, and my mother was to be won by kindness. it was a pure offering in the spirit, and taken in the spirit in which it was offered. after a few repetitions, which were rendered necessary from its potency being diluted with her tears, grief and recollection were drowned together, and disappeared like two lovers who sink down entwined in each other's arms. with this beautiful metaphor, i shall wind up the episode of my unfortunate brother joe. it was about a year after the loss of my brother that i was ushered into the world, without any other assistants or spectators than my father and dame nature, who i believe to be a very clever midwife if not interfered with. my father, who had some faint ideas of christianity, performed the baptismal rites by crossing me on the forehead with the end of his pipe, and calling me jacob: as for my mother being churched, she had never been but once to church in her life. in fact, my father and mother never quitted the lighter, unless when the former was called out by the superintendent or proprietor, at the delivery or shipment of a cargo, or was once a month for a few minutes on shore to purchase necessaries. i cannot recall much of my infancy; but i recollect that the lighter was often very brilliant with blue and red paint, and that my mother used to point it out to me as "so pretty," to keep me quiet. i shall therefore pass it over, and commence at the age of five years, at which early period i was of some little use to my father. indeed i was almost as forward as some boys at ten. this may appear strange; but the fact is, that my ideas although bounded, were concentrated. the lighter, its equipments, and its destination were the microcosm of my infant imagination; and my ideas and thoughts being directed to so few objects, these objects were deeply impressed, and their value fully understood. up to the time that i quitted the lighter, at eleven years old, the banks of the river were the boundaries of my speculations. i certainly comprehended something of the nature of trees and houses; but i do not think that i was aware that the former _grew_. from the time that i could recollect them on the banks of the river, they appeared to be exactly of the same size as they were when first i saw them, and i asked no questions. but by the time that i was ten years old, i knew the name of the reach of the river, and every point--the depth of water, and the shallows, the drift of the current, and the ebb and flow of the tide itself. i was able to manage the lighter as it floated down with the tide; for what i lacked in strength i made up with dexterity arising from constant practice. it was at the age of eleven years that a catastrophe took place which changed my prospects in life, and i must, therefore, say a little more about my father and mother, bringing up their history to that period. the propensity of my mother to ardent spirits had, as always is the case, greatly increased upon her, and her corpulence had increased in the same ratio. she was now a most unwieldy, bloated mountain of flesh, such a form as i have never since beheld, although, at the time, she did not appear to me to be disgusting, accustomed to witness imperceptibly her increase, and not seeing any other females, except at a distance. for the last two years she had seldom quitted her bed--certainly she did not crawl out of the cabin more than five minutes during the week-indeed, her obesity and habitual intoxication rendered her incapable. my father went on shore for a quarter of an hour once a month, to purchase gin, tobacco, red herrings, and decayed ship-biscuits;--the latter was my principal fare, except when i could catch a fish over the sides, as we lay at anchor. i was, therefore, a great water-drinker, not altogether from choice, but from the salt nature of my food, and because my mother had still sense enough left to discern that "gin wasn't good for little boys." but a great change had taken place in my father. i was now left almost altogether in charge of the deck, my father seldom coming up except to assist me in shooting the bridges, or when it required more than my exertions to steer clear of the crowds of vessels which we encountered when between them. in fact, as i grew more capable, my father became more incapable, and passed most of his time in the cabin, assisting my mother in emptying the great stone bottle. the woman had prevailed upon the man, and now both were guilty in partaking of the forbidden fruit of the juniper tree. such was the state of affairs in our little kingdom when the catastrophe occurred which i am now about to relate. one fine summer's evening we were floating up with the tide, deeply laden with coals, to be delivered at the proprietor's wharf, some distance above putney bridge; a strong breeze sprang up and checked our progress, and we could not, as we expected, gain the wharf that night. we were about a mile and a half above the bridge when the tide turned against us, and we dropped our anchor. my father who, expecting to arrive that evening, had very unwillingly remained sober, waiting until the lighter had swung to the stream, and then saying to me, "remember, jacob, we must be at the wharf early tomorrow morning, so keep alive," went into the cabin to indulge in his potations, leaving me in possession of the deck, and also of my supper, which i never ate below, the little cabin being so unpleasantly close. indeed, i took all my meals _al fresco_, and, unless the nights were intensely cold, slept on deck, in the capacious dog-kennel abaft, which had once been tenanted by the large mastiff; but he had been dead some years, was thrown overboard, and, in all probability, had been converted into savoury sausages at 1 shilling per pound weight. some time after his decease, i had taken possession of his apartment and had performed his duty. i had finished my supper, which was washed down with a considerable portion of thames water, for i always drank more when above the bridges, having an idea that it tasted more pure and fresh. i had walked forward and looked at the cable to see if all was right, and then, having nothing more to do, i lay down on the deck, and indulged in the profound speculations of a boy of eleven years old. i was watching the stars above me, which twinkled faintly, and appeared to me ever and anon to be extinguished and then relighted. i was wondering what they could be made of, and how they came there, when of a sudden i was interrupted in my reveries by a loud shriek, and perceived a strong smell of something burning. the shrieks were renewed again and again, and i had hardly time to get upon my legs when my father burst up from the cabin, rushed over the side of the lighter, and disappeared under the water. i caught a glimpse of his features as he passed me, and observed fright and intoxication blended together. i ran to the side where he had disappeared, but could see nothing but a few eddying circles as the tide rushed quickly past. for a few seconds i remained staggered and stupefied at his sudden disappearance and evident death, but i was recalled to recollection by the smoke which encompassed me, and the shrieks of my mother, which were now fainter and fainter, and i hastened to her assistance. a strong, empyreumatic, thick smoke ascended from the hatchway of the cabin, and, as it had now fallen calm, it mounted straight up the air in a dense column. i attempted to go in, but so soon as i encountered the smoke i found that it was impossible; it would have suffocated me in half a minute. i did what most children would have done in such a situation of excitement and distress--i sat down and cried bitterly. in about ten minutes i moved my hands, with which i had covered up my face, and looked at the cabin hatch. the smoke had disappeared, and all was silent. i went to the hatchway, and although the smell was still overpowering, i found that i could bear it. i descended the little ladder of three steps, and called "mother!" but there was no answer. the lamp fixed against the after bulk-head, with a glass before it, was still alight, and i could see plainly to every corner of the cabin. nothing was burning--not even the curtains to my mother's bed appeared to be singed. i was astonished--breathless with fear, with a trembling voice, i again called out "mother!" i remained more than a minute panting for breath, and then ventured to draw back the curtains of the bed--my mother was not there! but there appeared to be a black mass in the centre of the bed. i put my hand fearfully upon it--it was a sort of unctuous, pitchy cinder. i screamed with horror--my little senses reeled--i staggered from the cabin and fell down on the deck in a state amounting almost to insanity: it was followed by a sort of stupor, which lasted for many hours. as the reader may be in some doubt as to the occasion of my mother's death, i must inform him that she perished in that very peculiar and dreadful manner, which does sometimes, although rarely, occur, to those who indulge in an immoderate use of spirituous liquors. cases of this kind do, indeed, present themselves but once in a century, but the occurrence of them is too well authenticated. she perished from what is termed _spontaneous combustion_, an inflammation of the gases generated from the spirits absorbed into the system. it is to be presumed that the flames issuing from my mother's body completely frightened out of his senses my father, who had been drinking freely; and thus did i lose both my parents, one by fire and the other by water, at one and the same time. chapter two. i fulfil the last injunctions of my father, and i am embarked upon a new element--first bargain in my life very profitable--first parting with old friends very painful--first introduction into civilised life very unsatisfactory to all parties. it was broad daylight when i awoke from my state of bodily and mental imbecility. for some time i could not recall to my mind all that had happened: the weight which pressed upon my feelings told me that it was something dreadful. at length, the cabin hatch, still open, caught my eye; i recalled all the horrors of the preceding evening, and recollected that i was left alone in the lighter. i got up and stood on my feet in mute despair. i looked around me--the mist of the morning was hanging over the river, and the objects on shore were with difficulty to be distinguished. i was chilled from lying all night in the heavy dew, and, perhaps, still more from previous and extraordinary excitement. venture to go down into the cabin i dare not. i had an indescribable awe, a degree of horror at what i had seen, that made it impossible; still i was unsatisfied, and would have given worlds, if i had had them, to explain the mystery. i turned my eyes from the cabin hatch to the water, thought of my father, and then, for more than half an hour, watched the tide as it ran up--my mind in a state of vacancy. as the sun rose, the mist gradually cleared away; trees, houses, and green fields, other barges coming up with the tide, boats passing and repassing, the barking of dogs, the smoke issuing from the various chimneys, all broke upon me by degrees; and i was recalled to the sense that i was in a busy world, and had my own task to perform. the last words of my father--and his injunctions had ever been a law to me--were, "mind, jacob, we must be up at the wharf early to-morrow morning." i prepared to obey him. purchase the anchor i could not; i therefore slipped the cable, lashing a broken sweep to the end of it, as a buoy-rope, and once more the lighter was at the mercy of the stream, guided by a boy of eleven years old. in about two hours i was within a hundred yards of the wharf, and well in-shore, i hailed for assistance, and two men, who were on board of the lighters moored at the wharf, pushed off in a skiff to know what it was that i wanted. i told them that i was alone in the lighter, without anchor or cable, and requested them to secure her. they came on board, and in a few minutes the lighter was safe alongside of the others. as soon as the lashings were passed, they interrogated me as to what had happened, but although the fulfilling of my father's last injunctions had borne up my spirits, now that they were obeyed a reaction took place. i could not answer them; i threw myself down on the deck in a paroxysm of grief, and cried as if my heart would break. the men, who were astonished, not only at my conduct but at finding me alone in the lighter, went on shore to the clerk, and stated the circumstances. he returned with them, and would have interrogated me, but my paroxysm was not yet over, and my replies, broken my sobs, were unintelligible. the clerk and the two men went down into the cabin, returned hastily, and quitted the lighter. in about a quarter of an hour i was sent for, and conducted to the house of the proprietor--the first time in my life that i had ever put my foot on _terra firma_. i was led into the parlour, where i found the proprietor at breakfast with his wife and his daughter, a little girl nine years old. by this time i had recovered myself, and on being interrogated, told my story clearly and succinctly, while the big tears coursed each other down my dirty face. "how strange and how horrible!" said the lady to her husband; "i cannot understand it even now." "nor can i; but still it is true, from what johnson the clerk has witnessed." in the meantime my eyes were directed to every part of the room, which appeared to my ignorance as a golcondo of wealth and luxury. there were few things which i had seen before, but i had an innate idea that they were of value. the silver tea-pot, the hissing urn, the spoons, the pictures in their frames, every article of furniture caught my wondering eye, and for a short time i had forgotten my father and my mother; but i was recalled from my musing speculations by the proprietor inquiring how far i had brought the lighter without assistance. "have you any friends, my poor boy?" inquired the lady. "no." "what! no relations onshore?" "i never was on shore before in my life." "do you know that you are a destitute orphan?" "what's that?" "that you have no father or mother," said the little girl. "well," replied i, in my father's words, having no answer more appropriate, "it's no use crying; what's done can't be helped." "but what do you intend to do now?" inquired the proprietor, looking hard at me after my previous answer. "don't know, i'm sure. take, it coolly," replied i, whimpering. "what a very odd child!" observed the lady. "is he aware of the extent of his misfortune?" "better luck next time, missus," repled i, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "what strange answers from a child who has shown so much feeling," observed the proprietor to his wife. "what is your name." "jacob faithful." "can you write or read?" "no," replied i, again using my father's words: "no, i can't--i wish i could." "very well, my poor boy, we'll see what's to be done," said the proprietor. "i know what's to be done," rejoined i; "you must send a couple of hands to get the anchor and cable, afore they cut the buoy adrift." "you are right, my lad, that must be done immediately," said the proprietor; "but now you had better go down with sarah into the kitchen; cook will take care of you. sarah, my love, take him down to cook." the little girl beckoned me to follow her. i was astonished at the length and variety of the _companion-ladders_, for such i considered the stairs, and was at last landed below, when little sarah, giving cook the injunction to take care of me, again tripped lightly up to her mother. i found the signification of "take care of any one" very different on shore from what it was on the river, where taking care of you means getting out of your way, and giving you a wide berth; and i found the shore reading much more agreeable. cook did take care of me; she was a kind-hearted, fat woman who melted at a tale of woe, although the fire made no impression on her. i not only beheld, but i devoured, such things as never before entered into my mouth or my imagination. grief had not taken away my appetite. i stopped occasionally to cry a little, wiped my eyes, and sat down again. it was more than two hours before i laid down my knife, and not until strong symptoms of suffocation played round the regions of my trachea did i cry out, "hold, enough." somebody has made an epigram about the vast ideas which a miser's horse must have had of corn. i doubt, if such ideas were existent, whether they were at all equal to my astonishment at a leg of mutton. i never had seen such a piece of meat before, and wondered if it were fresh or otherwise. after such reflection i naturally felt inclined to sleep; in a few minutes i was snoring upon two chairs, cook having covered me up with her apron to keep away the flies. thus was i fairly embarked upon a new element to me--my mother earth; and it may be just as well to examine now into the capital i possessed for my novel enterprise. in person i was well-looking; i was well-made, strong, and active. of my habiliments the less said the better; i had a pair of trousers with no seat to them; but this defect, when i stood up, was hid by my jacket, composed of an old waistcoat of my father's, which reached down as low as the morning frocks worn in those days. a shirt of coarse duck, and a fur cap, which was as rough and ragged as if it had been the hide of a cat pulled to pieces by dogs, completed my attire. shoes and stockings i had none; these supernumerary appendages had never confined the action of my feet. my mental acquisitions were not much more valuable; they consisted of a tolerable knowledge of the depth of water, names of points and reaches in the river thames, all of which was not very available on dry land--of a few hieroglyphics of my father's, which, as the crier says sometimes, winding up his oration, were of "no use to nobody but the owner." add to the above the three favourite maxims of my taciturn father, which were indelibly imprinted upon my memory, and you have the whole inventory of my stock-in-trade. these three maxims were, i may say, incorporated into my very system, so continually had they been quoted to me during my life; and before i went to sleep that night they were again conned over. "what's done can't be helped," consoled me for the mishaps of my life; "better luck next time," made me look forward with hope and, "take it coolly," was a subject of great reflection, until i feel into a deep sleep; for i had sufficient penetration to observe that my father had lost his life by not adhering to his own principles; and this perception only rendered my belief in the infallibility of these maxims to be even still more steadfast. i have stated what was my father's legacy, and the reader will suppose that from the maternal side the acquisition was _nil_. directly such was the case, but indirectly she proved a very good mother to me, and that was by the very extraordinary way in which she had quitted the world. had she met with a common death, she would have been worth nothing. burke himself would not have been able to dispose of her; but dying as she did, her ashes were the source of wealth. the bed, with her remains lying in the centre, even the curtains of the bed, were all brought on shore, and locked up in an outhouse. the coroner came down in a post-chaise and four, charged to the country; the jury was empanelled, my evidence was taken, surgeons and apothecaries attended from far and near to give their opinions, and after much examination, much arguing, and much disagreement, the verdict was brought in that she died through "the visitation of god." as this, in other phraseology, implies that "god only knows how she died," it was agreed to _nemine contradicente_, and gave universal satisfaction. but the extraordinary circumstance was spread everywhere, with all due amplifications, and thousands flocked to the wharfinger's yard to witness the effects of spontaneous combustion. the proprietor immediately perceived that he could avail himself of the public curiosity to my advantage. a plate, with some silver and gold, was placed at the foot of my poor mother's flock mattress, with, "for the benefit of the orphan," in capital text, placarded above it; and many were the shillings, half-crowns, and even larger sums which were dropped into it by the spectators, who shuddered as they turned away from this awful specimen of the effects of habitual intoxication. for many days did the exhibition continue, during which time i was domiciled with the cook, who employed me in scouring her saucepans, and any other employment in which my slender services might be useful, little thinking at the time that my poor mother was holding her levee for my advantage. on the eleventh day the exhibition was closed, and i was summoned upstairs by the proprietor, whom i found in company with a little gentleman in black. this was a surgeon who had offered a sum of money for my mother's remains, bed and curtains, in a lot. the proprietor was willing to get rid of them in so advantageous a manner, but did not conceive that he was justified in taking this step, although for my benefit, without first consulting me, as heir-at-law. "jacob," said he, "this gentleman offers 20 pounds, which is a great deal of money, for the ashes of your poor mother. have you any objection to let him have them?" "what do you want 'em for?" inquired i. "i wish to keep them, and take great care of them," answered he. "well," replied i, after a little consideration, "if you'll take care of the old woman, you may have her,"--and the bargain was concluded. singular that the first bargain i ever made in my life should be that of selling my own mother. the proceeds of the exhibition and sale amounted to 47 pounds odd, which the worthy proprietor of the lighter, after deducting for a suit of clothes, laid up for my use. thus ends the history of my mother's remains, which proved more valuable to me than ever she did when living. in her career she somewhat reversed the case of semele, who was first visited in a shower of gold, and eventually perished in the fiery embraces of the god: whereas my poor mother perished first by the same element, and the shower of gold descended to her only son. but this is easily explained. semele was very lovely and did not drink gin--my mother was her complete antithesis. when i was summoned to my master's presence to arrange the contract with the surgeon, i had taken off the waistcoat which i wore as a garment over all, that i might be more at my ease in chopping some wood for the cook, and the servant led me up at once, without giving me time to put it on. after i had given my consent, i turned away to go downstairs again, when having, as i before observed, no seat to my trousers, the solution of continuity was observed by a little spaniel, who jumped from the sofa, and arriving at a certain distance, stood at bay, and barked most furiously at the exposure. he had been bred among respectable people, and had never seen such an expose. mr drummond, the proprietor, observed the defect pointed out by the dog, and forthwith i was ordered to be suited with a new suit--certainly not before they were required. in twenty-four hours i was thrust into a new garment by a bandy-legged tailor, assisted by my friend the cook, and turn or twist whichever way i pleased, decency was never violated. a new suit of clothes is generally an object of ambition, and flatters the vanity of young and old; but with me it was far otherwise. encumbered with my novel apparel, i experienced at once feelings of restraint and sorrow. my shoes hurt me, my worsted stockings irritated the skin, and as i had been accustomed to hereditarily succeed to my father's cast-off skins, which were a world too wide for my shanks, having but few ideas, it appeared to me as if i had swelled out to the size of the clothes which i had been accustomed to wear, not that they had been reduced to my dimensions. i fancied myself a man, but was very much embarrassed with my manhood. every step that i took i felt as if i was checked back by strings. i could not swing my arms as i was wont to do, and tottered in my shoes like a rickety child. my old apparel had been consigned to the dust-hole by cook, and often during the day would i pass, casting a longing eye at it, wishing that i dare recover it, and exchange it for that which i wore. i knew the value of it, and, like the magician in aladdin's tale, would have offered new lamps for old ones, cheerfully submitting to ridicule, that i might have repossessed my treasure. with the kitchen and its apparatus i was now quite at home: but at every other part of the house and furniture i was completely puzzled. everything appeared to me foreign, strange, and unnatural, and prince le boo, or any other savage, never stared or wondered more than i did. of most things i knew not the use, of many not even the names. i was literally a savage, but still a kind and docile one. the day after my new clothes had been put on, i was summoned into the parlour. mr drummond and his wife surveyed me in my altered habiliments, and amused themselves at my awkwardness, at the same time that they admired my well-knit, compact, and straight figure, set off by a fit, in my opinion much too straight. their little daughter sarah, who often spoke to me, went up and whispered to her mother. "you must ask papa," was the reply. another whisper, and a kiss, and mr drummond told me i should dine with them. in a few minutes i followed them into the dining-room and for the first time i was seated to a repast which could boast of some of the supernumerary comforts of civilised life. there i sat, perched on a chair with my feet swinging close to the carpet, glowing with heat from the compression of my clothes and the novelty of my situation, and all that was around me. mr drummond helped me to some scalding soup, a silver spoon was put into my hand, which i twisted round and round, looking at my face reflected in miniature on its polish. "now, jacob, you must eat the soup with the spoon," said little sarah, laughing; "we shall all be done. be quick." "take it coolly," replied i, digging my spoon into the burning preparation, and tossing it into my mouth. it burst forth from my tortured throat in a diverging shower, accompanied with a howl of pain. "the poor boy has scalded his mouth," cried the lady, pouring out a tumbler of water. "it's no use crying," replied i, blubbering with all my might; "what's done can't be helped." "better that you had not been helped," observed mr drummond, wiping off his share of my liberal spargification from his coat and waistcoat. "the poor boy has been shamefully neglected," observed the good-natured mrs drummond. "come, jacob, sit down and try it again; it will not burn you now." "better luck next time," said i, shoving in a portion of it, with a great deal of tremulous hesitation, and spilling one-half of it in its transit. it was now cool, but i did not get on very fast; i held my spoon awry, and soiled my clothes. mrs drummond interfered, and kindly showed me how to proceed; when mr drummond said, "let the boy eat it after his own fashion, my dear--only be quick, jacob, for we are waiting." "then i see no good losing so much of it, taking it in tale," observed i, "when i can ship it all in bulk in a minute." i laid down my spoon, and stooping my head, applied my mouth to the edge of the plate, and sucked the remainder down my throat without spilling a drop. i looked up for approbation, and was very much astonished to hear mrs drummond quietly observe, "that is not the way to eat soup." i made so many blunders during the meal that little sarah was in a continued roar of laughter; and i felt so miserable, that i heartily wished myself again in my dog-kennel on board of the lighter, gnawing biscuit in all the happiness of content and dignity of simplicity. for the first time i felt the pangs of humiliation. ignorance is not always debasing. on board of the lighter, i was sufficient for myself, my company, and my duties. i felt an elasticity of mind, a respect for myself, and a consciousness of power, as the immense mass was guided through the waters by my single arm. there, without being able to analyse my feelings, i was a spirit guiding a little world; and now, at this table, and in company with rational and well-informed beings, i felt humiliated and degraded; my heart was overflowing with shame, and at one unusual loud laugh of the little sarah, the heaped up measure of my anguish overflowed, and i burst into a passion of tears. as i lay with my head upon the table-cloth, regardless of those decencies i had so much feared, and awake only to a deep sense of wounded pride, each sob coming from the very core of my heart, i felt a soft breathing warm upon my cheek, that caused me to look up timidly, and i beheld the glowing and beautiful face of little sarah, her eyes filled with tears, looking so softly and beseechingly at me, that i felt at once i was of some value, and panted to be of more. "i won't laugh at you any more," said she; "so don't cry, jacob." "no more i will," replied i, cheering up. she remained standing by me, and i felt grateful. "the first time i get a piece of wood," whispered i, "i'll cut you out a barge." "that boy has a heart," said mr drummond to his wife. "but will it swim, jacob?" inquired the little girl. "yes, and if it's _lopsided_, call me a lubber." "what's lopsided, and what's a lubber?" replied sarah. "why, don't you know?" cried i; and i felt my confidence return when i found that in this little instance i knew more than she did. chapter three. i am sent to a charity school, where the boys do not consider charity as a part of their education--the peculiarities of the master, and the magical effect of a blow of the nose--a disquisition upon the letter a, from which i find all my previous learning thrown away. before i quitted the room, sarah and i were in deep converse at the window, and mr and mrs drummond employed likewise at the table. the result of the conversation between sarah and me was the intimacy of children; that of mr and mrs drummond, that the sooner i was disposed of, the more it would be for my own advantage. having some interest with the governors of a charity school near brentford, mr drummond lost no time in procuring me admission; and before i had quite spoiled my new clothes, having worn them nearly three weeks, i was suited afresh in a formal attire--a long coat of pepper and salt, yellow leather breeches tied at the knees, a worsted cap with a tuft on the top of it, stockings and shoes to match, and a large pewter plate upon my breast, marked with number 63, which, as i was the last entered boy, indicated the sum total of the school. it was with regret that i left the abode of the drummonds, who did not think it advisable to wait for the completion of the barge, much to the annoyance of miss drummond, and before we arrived met them all out walking. i was put into the ranks, received a little good advice from my worthy patron, who then walked away one way, while we walked another, looking like a regiment of yellow-thighed field-fares straightened in human perpendiculars. behold, then, the last scion of the faithfuls, peppered, salted, and plated, that all the world might know that he was a charity-boy, and that there was charity in this world. but if heroes, kings, great and grave men, must yield to destiny, lighter-boys cannot be expected to escape; and i was doomed to receive an education, board, lodging, raiment, etcetera, free, gratis, and for nothing. every society has it chief; and i was about to observe that every circle has it centre, which certainly would have been true enough, but the comparison is of no use to me, as our circle had two centres, or, to follow up the first idea, had two chiefs--the chief schoolmaster and the chief domestic--the chief masculine and the chief feminine--the chief with the ferula, and the chief with the brimstone and treacle--the master and the matron, each of whom had their appendages--the one in the usher, the other in the assistant housemaid. but of this quartette, the master was not only the most important, but the most worthy of description; and as he will often appear in the pages of my narrative, long after my education was complete, i shall be very particular in my description of dominie dobiensis, as he delighted to be called, or dreary dobs, as his dutiful scholars delighted to call him. as in our school it was necessary that we should be instructed in reading, writing, and ciphering, the governors had selected the dominie as the most fitting person that had offered for the employment, because he had, in the first place, written a work that nobody could understand upon the greek particles; secondly, he had proved himself a great mathematician, having, it is said, squared the circle by algebraical false quantities, but would never show the operation for fear of losing the honour by treachery. he had also discovered as many errors in the demonstrations of euclid as ever did joey hume in army and navy estimates, and with as much benefit to the country at large. he was a man who breathed certainly in the present age, but the half of his life was spent in antiquity or algebra. once carried away by a problem, or a greek reminiscence, he passed away, as it were, from his present existence, and everything was unheeded. his body remained, and breathed on his desk, but his soul was absent. this peculiarity was well known to the boys, who used to say, "dominie is in his dreams, and talks in his sleep." dominie dobiensis left reading and writing to the usher, contrary to the regulations of the school, putting the boys, if possible, into mathematics, latin, and greek. the usher was not over competent to teach the two first; the boys not over willing to learn the latter. the master was too clever, the usher too ignorant; hence the scholars profited little. the dominie was grave and irascible, but he possessed a fund of drollery and the kindest heart. his features could not laugh, but his trachea did. the chuckle rose no higher than the rings of the wind-pipe, and then it was vigorously thrust back again by the impulse of gravity into the region of his heart, and gladdened it with hidden mirth in its dark centre. the dominie loved a pun; whether it was let off in english, greek, or latin. the last two were made by nobody but himself, and not being understood, were, of course, relished by himself alone. but his love of a pun was a serious attachment: he loved it with a solemn affection--with him it was no laughing matter. in person dominie dobiensis was above six feet, all bone and sinews. his face was long and his lineaments large; but his predominant feature was his nose, which, large as were the others, bore them down into insignificance. it was a prodigy--a ridicule; but he consoled himself-ovid was called naso. it was not an aquiline nose, nor was it an aquiline nose reversed. it was not a nose snubbed at the extremity, gross, heavy, or carbuncled, or fluting. in all its magnitude of proportions, it was an intellectual nose. it was thin, horny, transparent, and sonorous. its snuffle was consequential and its sneeze oracular. the very sight of it was impressive; its sound, when blown in school hours, was ominous. but the scholars loved the nose for the warning which it gave: like the rattle of the dreaded snake, which announces its presence, so did the nose indicate to the scholars that they were to be on their guard. the dominie would attend to this world and its duties for an hour or two, and then forget his scholars and his school-room, while he took a journey into the world of greek or algebra. then, when he marked _x_, _y_, and _z_, in his calculations, the boys knew that he was safe, and their studies were neglected. reader, did you ever witness the magic effects of a drum in a small village, when the recruiting party, with many-coloured ribbons, rouse it up with a spirit-stirring tattoo? matrons leave their domestic cares, and run to the cottage door: peeping over their shoulders, the maidens admire and fear. the shuffling clowns raise up their heads gradually, until they stand erect and proud; the slouch in the back is taken out, their heavy walk is changed to a firm yet elastic tread, every muscle appears more braced, every nerve, by degrees, new strung; the blood circulates rapidly: pulses quicken, hearts throb, eyes brighten, and as the martial sound pervades their rustic frames, the cimons of the plough are converted, as if by magic, into incipient heroes for the field;--and all this is produced by beating the skin of the most gentle, most harmless animal of creation. not having at hand the simile synthetical, we have resorted to the antithetical. the blowing of the dominie's nose produced the very contrary effects. it was a signal that he had returned from his intellectual journal, and was once more in his school-room--that the master had finished with his _x_, _y_, _z_'s, and it was time for scholars to mind their _p_'s and _q_'s. at this note of warning, like the minute-roll among the troops, every one fell into his place; half-munched apples were thrust into the first pocket--popguns disappeared--battles were left to be decided elsewhere--books were opened, and eyes directed to them--forms that were fidgeting and twisting in all directions, now took one regimental inclined position over the desk--silence was restored, order resumed her reign, and mr knapps, the usher, who always availed himself of these interregnums, as well as the scholars, by deserting to the matron's room, warned by the well-known sound, hastened to the desk of toil; such were the astonishing effects of a blow from dominie dobiensis' sonorous and peace-restoring nose. "jacob faithful, draw near," were the first words which struck upon my tympanum the next morning, when i had taken my seat at the further end of the school-room. i rose and threaded my way through two lines of boys, who put out their legs to trip me up in my passage through their ranks; and surmounting all difficulties, found myself within three feet of the master's high desk, or pulpit, from which he looked down upon me like the olympian jupiter upon mortals, in ancient time. "jacob faithful, canst thou read?" "no, i can't," replied i; "i wish i could." "a well-disposed answer, jacob; thy wishes shall be gratified. knowest thou thine alphabet?" "i don't know what that is." "then thou knowest it not. mr knapps shall forthwith instruct thee. thou shall forthwith go to mr knapps, who inculcateth the rudiments. _levior puer_, lighter-boy, thou hast a _crafty_ look." and then i heard a noise in his throat that resembled the "cluck, cluck" when my poor mother poured the gin out of the great stone bottle. "my little navilculator," continued he, "thou art a weed washed on shore, one of father thames' cast-up wrecks. `_fluviorum rex eridanus_,' [chuck, cluck.] to thy studies; be thyself--that is, be faithful. mr knapps, let the cadmean art proceed forthwith." so saying, dominie dobiensis thrust his large hand into his right coat pocket, in which he kept his snuff loose, and taking a large pinch (the major part of which, the stock being low, was composed of hair and cotton abrasions which had collected in the corners of his pocket), he called up the first class, while mr knapps called me to my first lesson. mr knapps was a thin, hectic-looking young man, apparently nineteen or twenty years of age, very small in all his proportions, red ferret eyes, and without the least sign of incipient manhood; but he was very savage, nevertheless. not being permitted to pummel the boys when the dominie was in the school-room, he played the tyrant most effectually when he was left commanding officer. the noise and hubbub certainly warranted his interference--the respect paid to him was positively _nil_. his practice was to select the most glaring delinquent, and let fly his ruler at him, with immediate orders to bring it back. these orders were complied with for more than one reason; in the first place, was the offender hit, he was glad that another should have his turn; in the second, mr knapps being a very bad shot (never having drove a kamschatdale team of dogs), he generally missed the one he aimed at, and hit some other, who, if he did not exactly deserve it at that moment, certainly did for previous, or would for subsequent, delinquencies. in the latter case, the ruler was brought back to him because there was no injury inflicted, although intended. however, be it as it may, the ruler was always returned to him; and thus did mr knapps pelt the boys as if they were cocks on shrove tuesday, to the great risk of their heads and limbs. i have little further to say of mr knapps, except that he wore a black shalloon loose coat; on the left sleeve of which he wiped his pen, and upon the right, but too often, his ever-snivelling nose. "what is that, boy?" said mr knapps, pointing to the letter a. i looked attentively, and recognising, as i thought, one of my father's hieroglyphics, replied, "that's half-a-bushel;" and i was certainly warranted in my supposition. "half-a-bushel! you're more than half a fool. that's the letter _a_." "no; it's half-a-bushel; father told me so." "then your father was as big a fool as yourself." "father knew what half-a-bushel was, and so do i: that's half-a-bushel." "i tell you it's the letter a," cried mr knapps, in a rage. "it's half-a-bushel," replied i, doggedly. i persisted in my assertion: and mr knapps, who dared not punish me while the dominie was present, descended his throne of one step, and led me up to the master. "i can do nothing with this boy, sir," said he, red as fire; "he denies the first letter in the alphabet, and insists upon it that the letter a is not a, but half-a-bushel." "dost thou, in thine ignorance, pretend to teach when thou comest here to learn, jacob faithful?" "father always told me that that thing there meant half-a-bushel." "thy father might, perhaps, have used that letter to signify the measure which thou speakest of, in the same way as i, in my mathematics, use divers letters for known and unknown quantities; but thou must forget that which thy father taught thee, and commence _de novo_. dost thou understand?" "no, i don't." "then, little jacob, that represents the letter a, and whatever else mr knapps may tell thee, thou wilt believe. return, jacob, and be docile." chapter four. sleight-of-hand at the expense of my feet--filling a man's pockets as great an offence as picking them, and punished accordingly--a turn out, a turn up, and a turn in--early impressions removed, and redundancy of feeling corrected by a spell of the rattan. i did not quit mr knapps until i had run through the alphabet, and then returned to my place, that i might con it over at my leisure, puzzling myself with the strange complexity of forms of which the alphabet was composed. i felt heated and annoyed by the constraint of my shoes, always an object of aversion from the time i had put them on. i drew my foot out of one, then out of the other, and thought no more of them for some time. in the meanwhile the boys next me had passed them on with their feet to the others, and thus were they shuffled along until they were right up to the master's desk. i missed them, and perceiving that there was mirth at my expense, i narrowly and quietly watched up and down till i perceived one of the head boys of the school, who sat nearest the dominie, catch up one of my shoes, and the dominie being then in an absent fit, drop it into his coat-pocket. a short time afterwards he got up, went to mr knapps, put a question to him, and while it was being answered, he dropped the other into the pocket of the usher, and tittering to the other boys, returned to his seat. i said nothing; but when the hours of school were over, the dominie looked at his watch, blew his nose, which made the whole of the boys pop up their heads, like the clansmen of roderick dhu, when summoned by his horn, folded up his large pocket-hankerchief slowly and reverently, as if it were a banner, put it into his pocket, and uttered in a solemn tone, "_tempus est ludendi_." as this latin phrase was used every day at the same hour, every boy in the school understood so much latin. a rush from all the desks ensured, and amidst shouting, yelling, and leaping every soul disappeared except myself, who remained fixed to my form. the dominie rose from his pulpit and descended, the usher did the same, and both approached me on their way to their respective apartments. "jacob faithful, why still porest thou over thy book--didst thou not understand that the hours of recreation had arrived? why risest thou not upon thy feet like the others?" "'cause i've got no shoes." "and where are thy shoes, jacob?" "one's in your pocket," replied i "and t'other's in his'n." each party placed their hands behind, and felt the truth of the assertion. "expound, jacob," said the dominie, "who hath done this?" "the big boy with the red hair, and a face picked all over with holes like the strainers in master's kitchen," replied i. "mr knapps, it would be _infra dig_ on my part, and also on yours, to suffer this disrespect to pass unnoticed. ring in the boys." the boys were rung in, and i was desired to point out the offender, which i immediately did, and who as stoutly denied the offence; but he had abstracted my shoe-strings, and put them into his own shoes. i recognised them and it was sufficient. "barnaby bracegirdle," said the dominie, "thou art convicted, not only of disrespect towards me and mr knapps, but further of the grievous sin of lying. simon swapps, let him be hoisted." he was hoisted: his nether garments descended, and then the birch descend with all the vigour of the dominie's muscular arm. barnaby bracegirdle showed every symptom of his disapproval of the measures taken; but simon swapps held fast, and the dominie flogged fast. after a minute's flagellation, barnaby was let down, his yellow tights pulled up, and the boys dismissed. barnaby's face was red, but the antipodes were redder. the dominie departed, leaving us together,--he adjusting his inexpressibles, i putting in my shoe-strings. by the time barnaby had buttoned up and wiped his eyes, i had succeeded in standing in my shoes. there we were _tete-a-tete_. "now, then," said barnaby, holding one fist to my face, while, with the other open hand he rubbed behind, "come out in the play-ground, mr _cinderella_, and see if i won't drub you within an inch of your life." "it's no use crying," said i, soothingly: for i had not wished him to be flogged. "what's done can't be helped. did it hurt you much?" this intended consolation was taken for sarcasm. barnaby stormed. "take it coolly," observed i. barnaby waxed even more wroth. "better luck next time," continued i, trying to soothe him. barnaby was outrageous--he shook his fist and ran into the play-ground, daring me to follow him. his threats had no weight with me; not wishing to remain indoors, i followed him in a minute or two, when i found him surrounded by the other boys, to whom he was in loud and vehement harangue. "cinderella, where's your glass slippers?" cried the boys, as i made my appearance. "come out, you water-rat," cried barnaby, "you son of a cinder!" "come out and fight him, or else you're a coward!" exclaimed the whole host, from number 1 to number 62, inclusive. "he has had beating enough already to my mind," replied i; "but he had better not touch me--i can use my arms." a ring was formed, in the centre of which i found barnaby and myself. he took off his clothes, and i did the same. he was much older and stronger than i, and knew something about fighting. one boy came forward as my second. barnaby advanced and held out his hand, which i shook heartily, thinking it was all over: but immediately received a right and left on the face, which sent me reeling backwards. this was a complete mystery, but it raised my bile, and i returned it with interest. i was very strong in my arms, as may be supposed; and i threw them about like sails of a windmill, never hitting straight out, but with semicircular blows, which descended on or about his ears. on the contrary, his blows were all received straightforward, and my nose and face were soon covered with blood. as i warmed with pain and rage i flung out my arms at random, and barnaby gave me a knock-down blow. i was picked up and sat upon my second's knee, who whispered to me as i spat the blood out of my mouth, "take it coolly, and make sure when you hit." my own--my father's maxim--coming from another, it struck with double force, and i never forgot it during the remainder of the fight. again we were standing up face to face; again i received it right and left, and returned it upon his right and left ears. barnaby rushed in--i was down again. "better luck next time," said i to my second, as cool as a cucumber. a third and a fourth round succeeded, all apparently in barnaby's favour, but really in mine. my face was beat to a mummy, but he was what is termed groggy, from the constant return of blows on the side of the head. again we stood up panting and exhausted. barnaby rushed at me, and i avoided him: before he could return to the attack i had again planted two severe blows upon his ears, and he reeled. he shook his head, and with his fists in the attitude of defence, asked me whether i had had enough. "_he_ has," said my second; "stick to him now, jacob, and you'll beat him." i did stick to him; three or four more blows applied to the same part finished him, and he fell senseless on the ground. "you've settled him," cried my second. "what's done can't be helped," replied i. "is he dead?" "what's all this?" cried mr knapps, pressing his way through the crowd, followed by the matron. "barnaby and cinderella having it out, sir," said one of the elder boys. the matron, who had already taken a liking for me, because i was good-looking, and because i had been recommended to her care by mrs drummond, ran to me. "well," says she, "if the dominie don't punish that big brute for this, i'll see whether i'm anybody or not;" and taking me by the hand, she led me away. in the meantime mr knapps surveyed barnaby, who was still senseless; and desired the other boys to bring him in and lay him on his bed. he breathed hard, but still remained senseless, and a surgeon was sent for, who found it necessary to bleed him copiously. he then, at the request of the matron, came to me; my features were indistinguishable, but elsewhere i was all right. as i stripped he examined my arms. "it seemed strange," observed he, "that the bigger boy should be so severely punished; but this boy's arms are like little _sledge-hammers_. i recommend you," said he to the other boys, "not to fight with him, for some day or other he'll kill one of you." this piece of advice was not forgotten by the other boys, and from that day i was the cock of the school. the name of cinderella, given me by barnaby, in ridicule of my mother's death, was immediately abandoned, and i suffered no more persecution. it was the custom of the dominie, whenever two boys fought, to flog them both; but in this instance it was not followed up, because i was not the aggressor, and my adversary narrowly escaped with his life. i was under the matron's care for a week, and barnaby under the surgeon's hands for about the same time. neither was i less successful in my studies. i learnt rapidly, after i had conquered the first rudiments; but i had another difficulty to conquer, which was my habit of construing everything according to my refined ideas; the force of association had become so strong that i could not overcome it for a considerable length of time. mr knapps continually complained of my being obstinate, when, in fact, i was anxious to please as well as to learn. for instance, in spelling, the first syllable always produced the association with something connected with my former way of life. i recollect the dominie once, and only once, gave me a caning, about a fortnight after i went to the school. i had been brought up by mr knapps as contumelious. "jacob faithful, how is this? thine head is good yet wilt thou refuse learning. tell me now, what does _c-a-t_ spell?" it was the pitch-pipe to _cat-head_, and answered i accordingly. "nay, jacob, it spells _cat_; take care of thy head on the next reply. understand me, head is not understood. jacob, thy head is in jeopardy. now, jacob, what does _m-a-t_ spell?" "_chafing-mat_," replied i. "it spells mat only, silly boy; the chafing will be on my part directly. now, jacob, what does _d-o-g_ spell?" "dog-kennel." "dog, jacob, without the kennel. thou art very contumelious, and deservest to be rolled in the kennel. now, jacob, this is the last time that thou triflest with me; what does _h-a-t_ spell?" "fur cap," replied i, after some hesitation. "jacob, i feel the wrath rising within me, yet would i fain spare thee; if _h-a-t_ spell fur-cap, pray advise me, what doth _c-a-p_ spell, then?" "_capstern_." "indeed, jacob, thy stern as well as thy head are in danger; and i suppose, then, _w-i-n-d_ spells windlass, does it not?" "yes, sir," replied i, pleased to find that he agreed with me. "upon the same principle, what does _r-a-t_ spell?" "_rat_, sir," replied i. "nay, jacob, _r-a-t_ must spell _rattan_, and as thou hast missed thine own mode of spelling, thou shalt not miss the cane." the dominie then applied it to my shoulders with considerable unction, much to the delight of mr knapps, who thought the punishment was much too small for the offence. but i soon extricated myself from these associations as my ideas extended, and was considered by the dominie as the cleverest boy in the school. whether it were from natural intellect, or from my brain having lain fallow, as it were, for so many years, or probably from the two causes combined, i certainly learned almost by instinct. i read my lessons once over and laid my book aside, for i knew it all. i had not been six months at the school before i discovered that, in a thousand instances, the affection of a father appeared towards me under the rough crust of the dominie. i think it was on the third day of the seventh month that i afforded him a day of triumph and warming of his heart, when he took me for the first time into his little study, and put the latin accidence into my hands. i learnt my first lesson in a quarter of an hour; and i remember well how that unsmiling, grave man looked into my smiling eyes, parting the chestnut curls, which the matron would not cut off, from my brows, and saying, "_bene fecisti, jacobe_." many times afterwards, when the lesson was over, he would fix his eyes upon me, fall back on his chair, and make me recount all i could remember of my former life, which was really nothing but a record of perceptions and feelings. he _could_ attend to _me_, and as i related some early and singular impression, some conjecture of what i saw, yet could not comprehend, on the shore which i had never touched, he would rub his hands with enthusiasm, and exclaim, "i have found a new book--an album, whereon i may write the deeds of heroes and the words of sages. _carissime jacobe_! how happy shall we be when we get into virgil!" i hardly need say that i loved him--i did so from my heart, and learned with avidity to please him. i felt that i was of consequence--my confidence in myself was unbounded. i walked proudly, yet i was not vain. my school-fellows hated me, but they feared me as much for my own prowess as my interest with the master; but still many were the bitter gibes and innuendoes which i was obliged to hear as i sat down with them to our meals. at other times i held communion with the dominie, the worthy old matron, and my books. we walked out every day, at first attended by mr knapps the usher. the boys would not walk with me without they were ordered, and if ordered, most unwillingly. yet i had given no cause of offence. the matron found it out, told the dominie, and after that the dominie attended the boys and led me by the hand. this was of the greatest advantage to me, as he answered all my questions, which were not few, and each day i advanced in every variety of knowledge. before i had been eighteen months at school, the dominie was unhappy without my company, and i was equally anxious for his presence. he was a father to me, and i loved him as a son should love a father, and as it will hereafter prove, he was my guide through life. but although the victory over barnaby bracegirdle, and the idea of my prowess procured me an enforced respect, still the dominie's goodwill towards me was the occasion of a settled hostility. affront me, or attack me openly, they dare not; but supported as the boys were by mr knapps the usher, who was equally jealous of my favour, and equally mean in spirit, they caballed to ruin me, if possible, in the good opinion of my master. barnaby bracegirdle had a talent for caricature, which was well-known to all but the dominie. his first attempt against me was a caricature of my mother's death, in which she was represented as a lamp supplied from a gin-bottle, and giving flame out of her mouth. this was told to me, but i did not see it. it was given by barnaby to mr knapps, who highly commended it, and put it into his desk. after which, barnaby made an oft-repeated caricature of the dominie, with a vast nose, which he shewed to the usher as _my_ performance. the usher understood what barnaby was at, and put it into his desk without comment. several other ludicrous caricatures were made of the dominie and of the matron, all of which were consigned to mr knapps by the boys as being the productions of my pencil; but this was not sufficient--it was necessary i should be more clearly identified. it so happened that one evening, when sitting with the dominie at my latin, the matron and mr knapps being in the adjoining room, the light, which had burned close down, fell in the socket and went out. the dominie rose to get another; the matron also got up to fetch away the candlestick with the same intent. they met in the dark, and ran their heads together pretty hard. as this event was only known to mr knapps and myself, he communicated it to barnaby, wondering whether i should not make it a subject of one of my caricatures. barnaby took the hint; in the course of a few hours this caricature was added to the others. mr knapps, to further his views, took an opportunity to mention with encomium my talent for drawing, added that he had seen several of my performances. "the boy hath talent," replied the dominie; "he is a rich mine, from which much precious metal is to be obtained." "i hear that thou hast the talent for drawing, jacob," said he to me, a day or two afterwards. "i never had in my life, sir," replied i. "nay, jacob; i like modesty but modesty should never lead to a denial of the truth. remember, jacob, that thou do not repeat the fault." i made no answer, as i felt convinced that i was not in fault; but that evening i requested the dominie to lend me a pencil, as i wished to try and draw. for some days, various scraps of my performances were produced, and received commendation. "the boy draweth well," observed the dominie to mr knapps, as he examined my performance through his spectacles. "why should he have denied his being able to draw?" observed the usher. "it was a fault arising from modesty or want of confidence--even a virtue, carried to excess, may lead us into error." the next attempt of barnaby was to obtain the cornelius nepos which i then studied. this was effected by mr knapps, who took it out of the dominie's study, and put it into barnaby's possession, who drew on the fly-leaf, on which was my name, a caricature head of the dominie; and under my own name, which i had written on the leaf, added, in my hand, _fecit_, so that it appeared, jacob faithful _fecit_. having done this, the leaf was torn out of the book, and consigned to the usher with the rest. the plot was now ripe; and the explosion soon ensued. mr knapps told the dominie that i drew caricatures of my school-fellows. the dominie taxed me, and i denied it. "so you denied drawing," observed the usher. a few days passed away, when mr knapps informed the dominie that i had been caricaturing him and mrs bately, the matron, and that he had proofs of it. i had then gone to bed; the dominie was much surprised, and thought it impossible that i could be so ungrateful. mr knapps said that should make the charge openly, and prove it the next morning in the school-room; and wound up the wrong by describing me in several points, as a cunning, good-for-nothing, although clever boy. chapter five. mr. knapps thinks to catch me napping, but the plot is discovered, and barnaby bracegirdle is obliged to loosen his braces for the second time on my account--drawing caricatures ends in drawing blood--the usher is ushered out of the school, and i am nearly ushered into the next world, but instead of being bound on so long a journey, i am bound "'prentice to a waterman." ignorant of what had passed, i slept soundly; and the next morning found the matron very grave with me, which i did not comprehend. the dominie also took no notice of my morning salute: but supposing him to be wrapt in euclid at the time, i thought little of it. the breakfast passed over, and the bell rang for school. we were all assembled; the dominie walked in with a very magisterial air, followed by mr knapps, who, instead of parting company when he arrived at his own desk, continued his course with the dominie to his pulpit. we all knew that there was something in the wind; but of all, perhaps, i was the least alarmed. the dominie unfolded his large handkerchief, waved it, and blew his nose, and the school was into profound silence. "jacob faithful, draw near," said he, in a tone which proved that the affair was serious. i drew near, wondering. "thou hast been accused by mr knapps of caricaturing, and holding up to the ridicule of the school, me--thy master. upon any other boy such disrespect should be visited severely; but from thee, jacob, i must add in the words of caesar, `_et tu brute_,' i expected, i had a right to expect, otherwise. _in se animi ingrati crimen vitia omnia condit_. thou understandest me, jacob-guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty, sir," replied i, firmly. "he pleadeth net guilty, mr knapps; proceed, then, to prove thy charge." mr knapps then went to his desk, and brought out the drawings with which he had been supplied by barnaby bracegirdle and the other boys. "these drawings, sir, which you will please to look over, have all been given up to me as the performance of jacob faithful. at first i could not believe it to be true; but you will perceive, at once, that they are all by the same hand." "that i acknowledge," said the dominie; "and all reflect upon my nose. it is true that my nose is of large dimensions, but it was the will of heaven that i should be so endowed; yet are the noses of these figures even larger than mine own could warrant, if the limner were correct, and not malicious. still have they merit," continued the dominie, looking at some of them; and i heard a gentle _cluck, cluck_, in his throat, as he laughed at his own mis-representations. "_artis adumbratae meruit cum sedula laudem_, as prudentius hath it. i have no time to finish the quotation." "here is one drawing, sir," continued mr knapps, "which proves to me that jacob faithful is the party; in which you and mrs bately are shown up to ridicule. who would have been aware that the candle went out in your study, except jacob faithful?" "i perceive," replied the dominie, looking at it through his spectacles, when put into his hand, "the arcana of the study have been violated." "but, sir," continued mr knapps, "here is a more convincing proof. you observe this caricature of yourself, with his own name put to it--his own handwriting. i recognised it immediately; and happening to turn over his cornelius nepos, observed the first blank leaf torn out. here it is, sir, and you will observe that it fits on to the remainder of the leaf in the book exactly." "i perceive that it doth; and am grieved to find that such is the case. jacob faithful, thou are convicted of disrespect and of falsehood. where is simon swapps?" "if you please, sir, may i not defend myself?" replied i. "am i to be flogged unheard?" "nay, that were an injustice," replied the dominie; "but what defence canst thou offer? _o puer infelix et sceleratus_!" "may i look at those caricatures, sir?" said i. the dominie handed them to me in silence. i looked them all over, and immediately knew them to be drawn by barnaby bracegirdle. the last particularly struck me. i had felt confounded and frightened with the strong evidence brought against me; but this re-assured me, and i spoke boldly. "these drawings are by barnaby bracegirdle, sir, and not by me. i never drew a caricature in my life." "so didst thou assert that thou couldst not draw, and afterwards provedst by thy pencil to the contrary, jacob faithful." "i knew not that i was able to draw when i said so; but i wished to draw when you supposed i was able--i did not like that you should give me credit for what i could not do. it was to please you, sir, that i asked for the pencil." "i wish it were as thou statest, jacob--i wish from my inmost soul that thou wert not guilty." "will you ask mr knapps from whom he had these drawings, and at what time? there are a great many of them." "answer, mr knapps, to the questions of jacob faithful." "they have been given to me by the boys at different times during this last month." "well, mr knapps, point out the boys who gave them." mr knapps called out eight or ten boys, who came forward. "did barnaby bracegirdle give you none of them, mr knapps?" said i, perceiving that barnaby was not summoned. "no," replied mr knapps. "if you please, sir," said i to the dominie, "with respect to the leaf out of my nepos, the jacob faithful was written on it by me on the day that you gave it to me; but the _fecit_, and the caricature of yourself, is not mine. how it came there i don't know." "thou hast disproved nothing, jacob," replied the dominie. "but i have proved something, sir. on what day was it that i asked you for the pencil to draw with? was it not on a saturday?" "last saturday week, i think it was." "well, then, sir, mr knapps told you the day before that i could draw?" "he did; and thou deniedst it." "how, then, does mr knapps account for not producing those caricatures of mine, which he says he has collected for a whole month? why didn't he give them to you before?" "thou puttest it shrewdly," replied the dominie. "answer, mr knapps, why didst thou, for a fortnight at the least, conceal thy knowledge of his offence?" "i wished to have more proofs," replied the usher. "thou hearest, jacob faithful." "pray, sir, did you ever hear me speak of my poor mother but with kindness?" "never, jacob, thou hast ever appeared dutiful." "please, sir, to call up john williams." "john, number 37, draw near." "williams," said i, "did you not tell me that barnaby bracegirdle had drawn my mother flaming at the mouth?" "yes, i did." my indignation now found vent in a torrent of tears. "now, sir," cried i, "if you believe that i drew the caricatures of you and mrs bately-did i draw this, which is by the same person?" and i handed up to the dominie the caricature of my mother, which mr knapps had inadvertently produced at the bottom of the rest. mr knapps turned white as a sheet. the dominie looked at the caricature, and was silent for some time. at last he turned to the usher. "from whom didst thou obtain this, mr knapps?" mr knapps replied in his confusion, "from barnaby bracegirdle." "it was but this moment thou didst state that thou hadst received none from barnaby bracegirdle. thou hast contradicted thyself, mr knapps. jacob did not draw his mother; and the pencil is the same as that which drew the rest--ergo, he did not, i really believe, draw one of them. _ite procul fraudes_. god, i thank thee, that the innocent have been protected. narrowly hast thou escaped these toils, o jacob--_cum populo et duce fraudulento_. and now for punishment. barnaby bracegirdle, thou gavest this caricature to mr knapps; from whence hadst thou it? lie not." barnaby turned red and white, and then acknowledged that the drawing was his own. "you boys," cried the dominie, waving his rod which he had seized, "you gave these drawings to mr knapps; tell me from whom they came." the boys, frightened at the dominie's looks, immediately replied in a breath, "from barnaby bracegirdle." "then, barnaby bracegirdle, from whom didst thou receive them?" inquired the dominie. barnaby was dumbfounded. "tell the truth; didst thou not draw them thyself, since thou didst not receive them from other people?" barnaby fell upon his knees, and related the whole circumstances, particularly the way in which the cornelius nepos had been obtained through the medium of mr knapps. the indignation of the dominie was now beyond all bounds. i never had seen him so moved before. he appeared to rise at least a foot more in stature, his eyes sparkled, his great nose turned red, his nostrils dilated, and his mouth was more than half open, to give vent to the ponderous breathing from his chest. his whole appearance was withering to the culprits. "for thee, thou base, degraded, empty-headed, and venomous little abortion of a man, i have no words to signify my contempt. by the governors of this charity i leave thy conduct to be judged; but until they meet, thou shalt not pollute and contaminate the air of this school by thy presence. if thou hast one spark of good feeling in thy petty frame, beg pardon of this poor boy, whom thou wouldst have ruined by thy treachery. if not, hasten to depart, lest in my wrath i apply to the teacher the punishment intended for the scholar, but of which thou art more deserving than even barnaby bracegirdle." mr knapps said nothing, hastened out of the school, and that evening quitted his domicile. when the governors met he was expelled with ignominy. "simon swapps, hoist up barnaby bracegirdle." most strenuously and most indefatigably was the birch applied to barnaby, a second time, through me. barnaby howled and kicked, howled and kicked, and kicked again. at last the dominie was tired. "_consonat omne nemus strepitu_" (for _nemus_ read schoolroom), exclaimed the dominie, laying down the rod, and pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his face. "_calcitrat, ardescunt germani coede bimembres_, that last quotation is happy." [cluck, cluck.] he then blew his nose, addressed the boys in a long oration--paid me a handsome compliment upon my able defence--proved to all those who chose to listen to him that innocence would always confound guilt--intimated to barnaby that he must leave the school, and then finding himself worn out with exhaustion, gave the boys a holiday, that they might reflect upon what had passed, and which they duly profited by in playing at marbles and peg in the ring. he then dismissed the school, took me by the hand, and led me into his study, where he gave vent to his strong and affectionate feelings towards me, until the matron came to tell us that dinner was ready. after this everything went on well. the dominie's kindness and attention were unremitting, and no one ever thought of caballing against me. my progress became most rapid; i had conquered virgil, taken tacitus by storm, and was reading the odes of horace. i had passed triumphantly through decimals, and was busily employed in mensuration of solids, when one evening i was seized with a giddiness in my head. i complained to the matron; she felt my hands, pronounced me feverish, and ordered me to bed. i passed a restless night the next morning i attempted to rise, but a heavy burning ball rolled as it were in my head, and i fell back on my pillow. the matron came, was alarmed at my state, and sent for the surgeon, who pronounced that i had caught the typhus fever, then raging through the vicinity. this was the first time in my life that i had known a day's sickness--it was a lesson i had yet to learn. the surgeon bled me, and giving directions to the matron, promised to call again. in a few hours i was quite delirious--my senses ran wild. one moment i thought i was with little sarah drummond, walking in green fields, holding her by the hand. i turned round, and she was no longer there, but i was in the lighter, and my hand grasped the cinders of my mother; my father stood before me, again jumped overboard and disappeared; again the dark black column ascended from the cabin, and i was prostrate on the deck. then i was once more alone on the placid and noble thames, the moon shining bright, and the sweep in my hand, tiding up the reach, and admiring the foliage which hung in dark shadows over the banks. i saw the slopes of green, so pure and so fresh by that sweet light, and in the distance counted the numerous spires of the great monster city, and beheld the various bridges spanning over the water. the faint ripple of the tide was harmony, the reflection of the moon, beauty; i felt happiness in my heart; i was no longer the charity-boy, but the pilot of the barge. then, as i would survey the scene, there was something that invariably presented itself between my eyes and the object of my scrutiny; whichever way i looked, it stood in my way, and i could not remove it. it was like a cloud, yet transparent, and with a certain undefined shape. i tried for some time, but in vain, to decipher it, but could not. at last it appeared to cohere into a form--it was the dominie's great nose, magnified into that of the scripture, "as the tower which looketh towards damascus." my temples throbbed with agony--i burned all over. i had no exact notions of death in bed, except that of my poor mother, and i thought that i was to die like her; the horrible fear seized me that all this burning was but prefatory to bursting out into flame and consuming into ashes. the dread hung about my young heart and turned that to ice, while the rest of my body was on fire. this was my last recollection, and then all was blank. for many days i lay unconscious of either pain or existence: when i awoke from my stupor, my wandering senses gradually returning, i opened my eyes, and dimly perceived something before me that cut across my vision in a diagonal line. as the mist cleared away, and i recovered myself, i made out that it was the nose of dominie dobiensis, who was kneeling at the bed-side, his nose adumbrating the coverlid of my bed, his spectacles dimmed with tears, and his long grey locks falling on each side, and shadowing his eyes. i was not frightened, but i was too weak to stir or speak. his prayer-book was in his hand, and he still remained on his knees. he had been praying for me. supposing me still insensible, he broke out in the following soliloquy:-"_naviculator larvus pallidus_--how beautiful even in death! my poor lighter-boy, that hath mastered the rudiments, and triumphed over the accidence--but to die! _levior puer_, a puerile conceit, yet i love it, as i do thee. how my heart bleeds for thee! the icy breath of death hath whitened thee, as the hoar-frost whitens the autumnal rose. why wert thou transplanted from thine own element? young prince of the stream--lord of the lighter--`_ratis rex et magister_'--heir apparent to the tiller--betrothed to the sweep--wedded to the deck--how art thou laid low! where is the blooming cheek, ruddy with the browning air? where the bright and swimming eye? alas where? `_tum breviter dirae mortis aperta via est_,' as sweet tibullus hath it;" and the dominie sobbed anew. "had this stroke fallen upon me, the aged, the ridiculed, the little regarded, the ripe one for the sickle, it would have been well--yet fain would i have instructed thee still more before i quitted the scene--fain have left thee the mantle of learning. thou knowest, lord, that i walk wearily, as in the desert, that i am heavily burdened, and that my infirmities are many. must i then mourn over thee, thou promising one--must i say with the epigrammatist- "`hoc jacet in tumulo, raptus puerilibus annis, jacob faithful domini cura, doloroque sui?' "true, most true. thou hast quitted the element thou so joyously controlledst, thou hast come upon the terra firma for thy grave? "`sis licet inde sibi tellus placata, levisque, artifices levior non potes esse manu.' "earth, lay light upon the lighter-boy--the lotus, the water-lily, that hath been cast on shore to die. hadst thou lived, jacob, i would have taught thee the humanities; we would have conferred pleasantly together. i would have poured out my learning to thee, my absalom, my son!" he rose and stood over me; the tears coursed down his long nose from both his eyes, and from the point of it poured out like a little rain-gutter upon the coverlid. i understood not all his words, but i understood the spirit of them--it was love. i feebly stretched forth my arms, and articulated "dominie!" the old man clasped his hands, looked upwards, and said, "o god, i thank thee--he will live. hush, hush, my sweet one, thou must not prate;" and he retired on tiptoe, and i heard him mutter triumphantly, as he walked away, "he called me `dominie!'" from that hour i rapidly recovered, and in three weeks was again at my duties. i was now within six months of being fourteen years old, and mr drummond, who had occasionally called to ascertain my progress, came to confer with the dominie upon my future prospects. "all that i can do for him, mr dobbs," said my former master, "is to bind him apprentice to serve his time on the river thames, and that cannot be done until he is fourteen. will the rules of the school permit his remaining?" "the regulations do not exactly, but i will," replied the dominie. "i have asked nothing for my long services, and the governors will not refuse me such a slight favour; should they, i will charge myself with him, that he may not lose his precious time. what sayest thou, jacob, dost thou feel inclined to return to thy father thames?" i replied in the affirmative, for the recollections of my former life were those of independence and activity. "thou hast decided well, jacob--the tailor at his needle, the shoemaker at his last, the serving boy to an exacting mistress, and all those apprenticed to the various trades, have no time for improvement; but afloat there are moments of quiet and peace--the still night for reflection, the watch for meditation; and even the adverse wind or tide leaves moments of leisure which may be employed to advantage. then wilt thou call to mind the stores of learning which i have laid up in thy garner, and wilt add to them by perseverance and industry. thou hast yet six months to profit by, and, with the blessing of god, those six months shall not be thrown away." mr drummond having received my consent to be bound apprentice, wished me farewell, and departed. during the six months the dominie pressed me hard, almost too hard, but i worked for _love_, and to please him i was most diligent. at last the time had flown away, the six months had more than expired, and mr drummond made his appearance, with a servant carrying a bundle under his arm. i slipped off my pepper-and-salt, my yellows and badge, dressed myself in a neat blue jacket and trousers, and with many exhortations from the dominie, and kind wishes from the matron, i bade farewell to them and to the charity-school, and in an hour was once more under the roof of the kind mrs drummond. but how different were my sensations to those which oppressed me when i had before entered. i was no longer a little savage, uneducated and confused in my ideas. on the contrary, i was full of imagination, confident in myself, and in my own powers, cultivated in mind, and proud of my success. the finer feelings of my nature had been called into play. i felt gratitude, humility, and love, at the same time that i was aware of my own capabilities. in person i had much improved, as well as much increased in stature. i walked confident and elastic, joying in the world, hoping, anticipating, and kindly disposed towards my fellow-creatures. i knew, i felt my improvement, my total change of character, and it was with sparkling eyes that i looked up at the window, where i saw mrs drummond and little sarah watching my return and reappearance after an absence of three years. mrs drummond had been prepared by her husband to find a great change; but still she looked for a second or two with wonder as i entered the door, with my hat in my hand, and paid my obeisance. she extended her hand to me, which i took respectfully. "i should not have known you, jacob; you have grown quite a man," said she, smiling. sarah held back, looking at me with pleased astonishment; but i went up to her, and she timidly accepted my hand. i had left her as my superior--i returned, and she soon perceived that i had a legitimate right to the command. it was some time before she would converse, and much longer before she would become intimate; but when she did so, it was no longer the little girl encouraging the untutored boy by kindness, or laughing at his absurdities, but looking up to him with respect and affection, and taking his opinion as a guide for her own. i had gained the _power of knowledge_. by the regulations of the waterman's company, it is necessary that every one who wishes to ply on the river on his own account should serve as an apprentice from the age of fourteen to twenty-one; at all events, he must serve an apprenticeship for seven years, and be fourteen years old before he signs the articles. this apprenticeship may be served in any description of vessel which sails or works on the river, whether it be barge, lighter, fishing smack, or a boat of larger dimensions, and it is not until that apprenticeship is served that he can work on his own account, either in a wherry or any other craft. mr drummond offered to article me on board of one of his own lighters free of all expense, leaving me at liberty to change into any other vessel that i might think proper. i gratefully accepted the proposal, went with him to watermen's hall, signed the papers, and thus was, at the age of fourteen, "_bound 'prentice to a waterman_." chapter six. i am recommended to learn to swim, and i take a friendly advice--heavy suspicion on board of the lighter, and a mystery, out of which mrs. radcliffe would have made a romance. "jacob, this is marables, who has charge of the polly barge," said mr drummond, who had sent for me into his office, a few days after my arrival at his house. "marables," continued my protector, addressing the man, "i have told you that this lad is bound 'prentice to the polly; i expect you will look after him, and treat him kindly. no blows or ill treatment. if he does not conduct himself well (but well i'm sure he will), let me know when you come back from your trip." during this speech i was scrutinising the outward man of my future controller. he was stout and well-built, inclining to corpulence, his features remarkably good, although his eyes were not large. his mouth was very small, and there was a good-natured smile on his lips as he answered, "i never treated a cat ill, master." "i believe not," replied mr drummond; "but i am anxious that jacob should do well in the world, and therefore let you know that he will always have my protection, so long as he conducts himself properly." "we shall be very good friends, sir, i'll answer for it, if i may judge from the cut of his jib," replied marables, extending to me an immense hand, as broad as it was long. after this introduction, mr drummond gave him some directions, and left us together. "come and see the craft, boy," said marables and i followed him to the barge, which was one of those fitted with a mast which lowered down and hauled up again, as required. she plied up and down the river as far as the nore, sometimes extending her voyage still farther: but that was only in the summer months. she had a large cabin abaft, and a cuddy forward. the cabin was locked, and i could not examine it. "this will be your berth," said marables, pointing to the cuddy-hatch forward; "you will have it all to yourself. the other man and i sleep abaft." "have you another man, then?" "yes, i have, jacob," replied he; and then muttering to himself, "i wish i had not--i wish the barge was only between us, jacob, or that you had not been sent on board," continued he, gravely. "it would have been better--much better." and he walked aft, whistling in a low tone, looking down sadly on the deck. "is your cabin large?" inquired i, as he came forward. "yes, large enough; but i cannot show it to you now--he has the key." "what, the other man under you?" "yes," replied marables, hastily. "i've been thinking, jacob, that you may as well remain on shore till we start. you can be of no use here." to this i had no objection; but i often went on board during the fortnight that the barge remained, and soon became very partial to marables. there was a kindness about him that won me, and i was distressed to perceive that he was often very melancholy. what surprised me most was to find that during the first week the cabin was constantly locked, and that marables had not the key; it appeared so strange that he, as master of the barge, should be locked out of his own cabin by his inferior. one day i went early on board, and found not only the cabin doors open, but the other man belonging to her walking up and down the deck with marables. he was a well-looking, tall, active young man, apparently not thirty, with a general boldness of countenance strongly contrasted with a furtive glance of the eye. he had a sort of blue smock-frock over-all, and the trousers which appeared below were of a finer texture than those usually worn by people of his condition. "this is the lad who is bound to the barge," said marables. "jacob, this is fleming." "so, younker," said fleming, after casting an inquiring eye upon me, "you are to sail with us, are you? it's my opinion that your room would be better than your company. however, if you keep your eyes open, i'd advise you to keep your mouth shut. when i don't like people's company, i sometimes give them a hoist into the stream--so keep a sharp look out, my joker." not very well pleased with this address, i answered, "i thought marables had charge of the craft, and that i was to look to him for orders." "did you, indeed!" replied fleming, with a sneer. "i say, my lad, can you swim?" "no, i can't," replied i--"i wish i could." "well, then, take my advice--learn to swim as fast as you can for i have a strong notion that one day or other i shall take you by the scruff of the neck, and send you to look after your father." "fleming! fleming! pray be quiet!" said marables, who had several times pulled him by the sleeve. "he's only joking, jacob," continued marables to me, as, indignant at the mention of my father's death, i was walking away to the shore, over the other lighters. "well," replied i, turning round, "if i am to be tossed overboard, it's just as well to let mr drummond know, that if i'm missing he may guess what's become of me." "pooh! nonsense!" said fleming, immediately altering his manner, and coming to me where i stood in the barge next to them. "give us your hand, my boy; i was only trying what stuff you were made of. come, shake hands; i wasn't in earnest." i took the proffered hand, and went on shore. "nevertheless," thought i, "i'll learn to swim; for i rather think he was in earnest." and i took my first lesson that day; and by dint of practice soon acquired that very necessary art. had it not been for the threat of fleming, i probably should not have thought of it; but it occurred to me that i might tumble, even if i were not thrown overboard, and that a knowledge of swimming would do no harm. the day before the barge was to proceed down the river to sheerness, with a cargo of bricks, i called upon my worthy old master, dominie dobiensis. "_salve puer_!" cried the old man, who was sitting in his study. "verily, jacob, thou art come in good time. i am at leisure, and will give thee a lesson. sit down, my child." the dominie opened the aeneid of virgil, and commenced forthwith. i was fortunate enough to please him with my off-hand translation; and as he closed the book, i told him that i had called to bid him farewell, as we started at daylight the next morning. "jacob," said he, "thou hast profited well by the lessons which i have bestowed upon thee: now take heed of that advice which i am now about to offer to thee. there are many who will tell thee that thy knowledge is of no use, for what avail can the latin tongue be to a boy on board of a lighter. others may think that i have done wrong thus to instruct thee, as thy knowledge may render thee vain--_nil exactius eruditiusque est_-or discontented with thy situation in life. such is too often the case, i grant; but it is because education is not as general as it ought to be. were all educated, the superiority acquired or presumed upon by education would be lost, and the nation would not only be wiser but happier. it would judge more rightly, would not condemn the measures of its rulers, which at present it cannot understand, and would not be led away by the clamour and misrepresentation of the disaffected. but i must not digress, as time is short. jacob, i feel that thou wilt not be spoilt by the knowledge instilled into thee; but mark me, parade it not, for it will be vanity, and make thee enemies. cultivate thyself as much as thou canst, but in due season--thy duties to thy employer must be first attended to--but treasure up what thou hast, and lay up more when thou canst. consider it as hidden wealth, which may hereafter be advantageously employed. thou art now but an apprentice in a barge; but what mayest thou not be, jacob, if thou art diligent--if thou fear god, and be honest? i will now call to my mind some examples to stimulate thee in thy career." here the dominie brought forward about forty or fifty instances from history, in which people from nothing had risen to the highest rank and consideration; but although i listened to them very attentively, the reader will probably not regret the omission of the dominie's catalogue. having concluded, the dominie gave me a latin testament, the whole duty of man, and his blessing. the matron added to them a large slice of seed-cake and by the time that i had returned to mr drummond's, both the dominie's precepts and the matron's considerate addition had been well digested. it was six o'clock the next morning that we cast off our fastenings and pulled into the stream. the day was lovely, the sun had risen above the trees, which feathered their boughs down on the sloping lawns in front of the many beautiful retreats of the nobility and gentry which border the river; and the lamp of day poured a flood of light upon the smooth and rapidly ebbing river. the heavy dew which had fallen during the night studded the sides of the barge, and glittered like necklaces of diamonds; the mist and the fog had ascended, except here and there, where it partially concealed the landscape; boats laden with the produce of the market-gardens in the vicinity were hastening down with the tide to supply the metropolis; the watermen were in their wherries, cleaning and mopping them out, ready for their fares; the smoke of the chimneys ascended in a straight line to heaven; and the distant chirping of the birds in the trees added to the hilarity and lightness of heart with which i now commenced my career as an apprentice. i was forward, looking down the river, when marables called me to take the helm, while they went to breakfast. he commenced giving me instructions; but i cut them short by proving to him that i knew the river as well as he did. pleased at the information, he joined fleming, who was preparing the breakfast in the cabin, and i was left on the deck by myself. there, as we glided by every object which for years i had not seen, but which was immediately recognised and welcomed as an old friend, with what rapidity did former scenes connected with them flash into my memory! there was the inn at the water-side, where my father used to replenish the stone bottle; it was just where the barge now was that i had hooked and pulled up the largest chub i had ever caught. now i arrived at the spot where we had ran foul of another craft; and my father, with his pipe in his mouth and his "take it coolly," which so exasperated the other parties, stood as alive before me. here--yes, it was here--exactly here--where we anchored on that fatal night when i was left an orphan--it was here that my father disappeared; and as i looked down at the water, i almost thought i could perceive it again close over him, as it eddied by: and it was here that the black smoke--the whole scene came fresh to my memory, my eyes filled with tears, and, for a little while, i could not see to steer. but i soon recovered myself; the freshness of the air, the bright sky overhead, the busy scene before me, and the necessity of attending to my duty, chased away my painful remembrances; and when i had passed the spot i was again cheerful and content. in half-an-hour i had shot putney bridge, and was sweeping clear of the shallows on the reach below, when marables and fleming came up. "how!" exclaimed marables; "have we passed the bridge? why did you not call us?" "i have shot it without help many and many a time," replied i, "when i was but ten years old. why should i call you from your breakfast? but the tides are high now, and the stream rapid; you had better get a sweep out on the bow, or we may tail on the bank." "well!" replied fleming, with astonishment; "i had no idea that he would have been any help to us; but so much the better." he then spoke in a low tone to marables. marables shook his head. "don't try it fleming, it will never do." "so you said once about yourself," replied fleming, laughing. "i did--i did!" replied marables, clenching both his hands, which at the time were crossed on his breast, with a look of painful emotion; "but i say again, don't try it; nay, i say more, you _shall_ not." "shall not?" replied fleming, haughtily. "yes," replied marables, coolly; "i say shall not, and i'll stand by my words. now, jacob, give me the helm, and get your breakfast." i gave up the helm to marables, and was about to enter the cabin, when fleming caught me by the arm, and _slewed_ me round. "i say, my joker, we may just as well begin as we leave off. understand me, that into that cabin you never enter; and understand further, that if ever i find you in that cabin, by day or night, i'll break every bone in your body. your berth is forward; and as for your meals, you may either take them down there or you may eat them on deck." from what i had already witnessed, i knew that for some reason or other, fleming had the control over marables; nevertheless i replied, "if mr marables says it is to be so, well and good; but he has charge of this barge." marables made no reply; he coloured up, seemed very much annoyed, and then looked up to the sky. "you'll find," continued fleming, addressing me in a low voice, "that i command here--so be wise. perhaps the day may come when you may walk in and out the cabin as you please, but that depends upon yourself. by-and-by, when we know more of each other--" "never, fleming, never!" interrupted marables, in a firm and loud tone. "it _shall_ not be." fleming muttered what i could not hear, and going into the cabin, brought me out my breakfast which i despatched with good appetite; and soon afterwards i offered to take the helm; which offer was accepted by marables, who retired to the cabin with fleming, where i heard them converse for a long while in a low tone. the tide was about three-quarters ebb when the barge arrived abreast of millbank. marables came on deck, and taking the helm, desired me to go forward and see the anchor clear for letting go. "anchor clear!" said i. "why, we have a good hour more before we meet the flood." "i know that, jacob, as well as you do; but we shall not go farther to-night. be smart, and see all clear." whether fleming thought that it was necessary to blind me, or whether it was true that they were only obeying their orders, he said to marables in my hearing, "will you go on shore and give the letters to mr drummond's correspondent, or shall i go for you?" "you had better go," replied marables, carelessly; and shortly after they went to dinner in the cabin, fleming bringing me mine out on deck. the flood tide now made, and we rode to the stream. having nothing to do, and marables as well as fleming appearing to avoid me, i brought the dominie's latin testament, and amused myself with reading it. about a quarter of an hour before dusk, fleming made his appearance to go on shore. he was genteelly, i may say fashionably, dressed in a suit of black, with a white neckcloth. at first i did not recognise him, so surprised was i at his alteration; and my thoughts, as soon as my surprise was over, naturally turned upon the singularity of a man who worked in a barge under another now assuming the dress and appearance of a gentleman. marables hauled up the little skiff which lay astern. fleming jumped in and shoved off. i watched him till i perceived him land at the stairs, and then turned round to marables: "i can't understand all this," observed i. "i don't suppose you can," replied marables: "but still i could explain it if you will promise me faithfully not to say a word about it." "i will make that promise if you satisfy me that all is right," answered i. "as to all being right, jacob, that's as may be; but if i prove to you that there is no harm done to our master, i suppose you will keep the secret. however, i must not allow you to think worse of it than it really is; no, i'll trust to your good nature. you wouldn't harm me, jacob?" marables then told me that fleming had once been well-to-do in the world, and during the long illness and subsequent death of marables' wife, had lent him money; that fleming had been very imprudent, and had run up a great many debts, and that the bailiffs were after him. on this emergency he had applied to marables to help him, and that, in consequence, he had received him on board of the barge, where they never would think of looking for him; that fleming had friends, and contrived to go on shore at night to see them, and get what assistance he could from them in money: in the meantime his relations were trying what they could do to arrange with his creditors. "now," said marables, after this narration, "how could i help assisting one who has been so kind to me? and what harm does it do mr drummond? if fleming can't do his work, or won't, when we unload, he pays another man himself; so mr drummond is not hurt by it." "that may be all true," replied i; "but i cannot imagine why i am not to enter the cabin, and why he orders about here as master." "why, you see, jacob, i owe him money, and he allows me so much per week for the cabin, by which means i pay it off. do you understand now?" "yes, i understand what you have said," replied i. "well, then, jacob, i hope you'll say nothing about it. it would only harm me, and do no good." "that depends upon fleming's behaviour towards me," replied i. "i will not be bullied and made uncomfortable by him, depend upon it; he has no business on board the barge, that's clear, and i am bound 'prentice to her. i don't wish to hurt you; and as i suppose fleming won't be long on board, i shall say nothing unless he treats me ill." marables then left me, and i reflected upon what he had said. it appeared all very probable; but still i was not satisfied. i resolved to watch narrowly, and if anything occurred which excited more suspicions, to inform mr drummond upon our return. shortly afterwards marables came out again, and told me i might go to bed, and he would keep the deck till fleming's return. i assented, and went down to the cuddy; but i did not much like this permission. it appeared to me as if he wanted to get rid of me, and i laid awake, turning over in my mind all that i had heard and seen. about two o'clock in the morning i heard the sound of oars, and the skiff strike the side of the barge. i did not go up, but i put my head up the scuttle to see what was going on. it was broad moonlight, and almost as clear as day. fleming threw up the painter of the skiff to marables, and, as he held it, lifted out of the boat a blue bag, apparently well filled. the contents jingled as it was landed on the deck. he then put out a yellow silk handkerchief full of something else, and having gained the deck, marables walked aft with the painter in his hand until the skiff had dropped astern, where he made it fast, and returned to fleming, who stood close to the blue bag. i heard fleming ask marables, in a low voice, if i were in bed, and an answer given in the affirmative. i dropped my head immediately, that i might not be discovered, and turned into my bed-place. i was restless for a long while; thought upon thought, surmise upon surmise, conjecture upon conjecture, and doubt upon doubt, occupied my brain, until at last i went fast asleep--so fast, that i did not wake until summoned by fleming. i rose, and when i came on deck found that the anchor had been weighed more than two hours, and that we were past all the bridges. "why, jacob, my man, you've had a famous nap," said fleming, with apparent good humour; "now go aft, and get your breakfast, it has been waiting for you this half-hour." by the manner of fleming i took it for granted that marables had acquainted him with our conversation, and, indeed, from that time, during our whole trip, fleming treated me with kindness and familiarity. the veto had not, however, been taken off the cabin, which i never attempted to enter. chapter seven. the mystery becomes more and more interesting, and i determine to find it out.--prying after things locked up, i am locked up myself.--fleming proves to me that his advice was good when he recommended me to learn to swim. on our arrival off the medway, i had just gone down to bed and was undressing, when i heard fleming come on deck and haul up the boat. i looked up the hatchway; it was very dark, but i could perceive marables hand him the bag and handkerchief, with which he pulled on shore. he did not return until the next morning at daylight, when i met him as he came up the side. "well, jacob," said he, "you've caught me, i've been on shore to see my sweetheart; but you boys ought to know nothing about these things. make the boat fast, there's a good lad." when we were one night discharging our cargo, which was for government, i heard voices alongside. from habit, the least noise now awoke me: a boat striking the side was certain so to do. it was then about twelve o'clock. i looked up the hatchway, perceived two men come on board and enter the cabin with packages. they remained there about ten minutes, and then, escorted to the side by fleming, left the barge. when the barge was cleared, we hauled off to return, and in three days were again alongside of mr drummond's wharf. the kindness both of marables and of fleming had been very great. they lived in a style very superior to what they could be expected to do, and i fared well in consequence. on our arrival at the wharf, marables came up to me, and said, "now, jacob, as i have honestly told you the secret, i hope you won't ruin me by saying a word to mr drummond." i had before made up my mind to say nothing to my master until my suspicions were confirmed, and i therefore gave my promise; but i had also resolved to impart my suspicions, as well as what i had seen, to the old dominie. on the third day after our arrival i walked out to the school, and acquainted him with all that had passed, and asked him for his advice. "jacob," said he, "thou hast done well, but thou mightest have done better; hadst thou not given thy promise, which is sacred, i would have taken thee to mr drummond, that thou mightest impart the whole, instanter. i like it not. evil deeds are done in darkness. _noctem peccatis et fraudibus objice nubem_. still, as thou sayest, nought is yet proved. watch, therefore, jacob--watch carefully over thy master's interests, and the interests of society at large. it is thy duty, i may say, _vigilare noctesque diesque_. it may be as marables hath said--and all may be accounted for; still, i say, be careful, and be honest." i followed the suggestions of the dominie: we were soon laden with another cargo of bricks, to be delivered at the same place, and proceeded on our voyage. marables and fleming, finding that i had not said a word to mr drummond, treated me with every kindness. fleming once offered me money, which i refused, saying that i had no use for it. i was on the best terms with them, at the same time that i took notice of all that passed, without offering a remark to excite their suspicions. but not to be too prolix, it will suffice to say that we made many trips during several months, and that during that time i made the following observations:--that fleming went on shore at night at certain places, taking with him bags and bundles; that he generally returned with others, which were taken into the cabin; that sometimes people came off at night, and remained some time in the cabin with him; and that all this took place when it was supposed that i was asleep. the cabin was invariably locked when the barge was lying at the wharfs, if fleming was on shore, and at no time was i permitted to enter it. marables was a complete cipher in fleming's hands, who ordered everything as he pleased; and in the conversations which took place before me, with much less restraint than at first, there appeared to be no idea of fleming's leaving us. as i felt convinced that there was no chance of discovery without further efforts on my part, and my suspicions increasing daily, i resolved upon running some hazard. my chief wish was to get into the cabin and examine its contents; but this was not easy, and would, in all probability, be a dangerous attempt. one night i came on deck in my shirt. we were at anchor off rotherhithe: it was a dark night, with a drizzling rain. i was hastening below, when i perceived a light still burning in the cabin, and heard the voices of marables and fleming. i thought this a good opportunity, and having no shoes, walked softly on the wet deck to the cabin-door, which opened forward, and peeped through the crevices. marables and fleming were sitting opposite each other at the little table. there were some papers before them, and they were dividing some money. marables expostulated at his share not being sufficient, and fleming laughed and told him he had earned no more. fearful of being discovered, i made a silent retreat, and gained my bed. it was well that i had made the resolution; for just as i was putting my head below the hatch, and drawing it over the scuttle, the door was thrown open and fleming came out, i pondered over this circumstance, and the remark of fleming that marables had not earned any more, and i felt convinced that the story told me by marables relative to fleming was all false. this conviction stimulated me more than ever to discover the secret, and many and many a night did i watch, with a hope of being able to examine the cabin; but it was to no purpose, either fleming or marables was always on board. i continued to report to the dominie all i had discovered, and he agreed at last that it was better that i should not say anything to mr drummond until there was the fullest proof of the nature of their proceedings. the cabin was now the sole object of my thoughts, and many were the schemes resolved in my mind to obtain an entrance. fatima never coveted admission to the dreadful chamber of bluebeard as i did to ascertain the secrets of this hidden receptacle. one night fleming had quitted the barge, and i ascended from my dormitory. marables was on deck, sitting upon the water-cask, with his elbow resting on the gunwale, his hand supporting his head, as if in deep thought. the cabin-doors were closed, but the light still remained in it. i watched for some time, and perceiving that marables did not move, walked gently up to him. he was fast asleep; i waited for some little time alongside of him. at last he snored. it was an opportunity not to be lost. i crept to the cabin-door; it was not locked. although i did not fear the wrath of marables, in case of discovery, as i did that of fleming, it was still with a beating heart and a tremulous hand that i gently opened the door, pausing before i entered, to ascertain if marables were disturbed. he moved not, and i entered, closing the door after me. i caught up the light, and held it in my hand as i hung over the table. on each side were the two bed-places of marables and fleming, which i had before then had many a partial glimpse of. in front of the two bed-places were two lockers to sit down upon. i tried them--they were not fast--they contained their clothes. at the after part of the cabin were three cupboards; i opened the centre one; it contained crockery, glass, and knives and forks. i tried the one on the starboard side; it was locked, but the key was in it. i turned it gently, but being a good lock, it snapped loud. i paused in fear--but marables still slept. the cupboard had three shelves, and every shelf was loaded with silver spoons, forks, and every variety of plate, mixed with watches, bracelets, and ornaments of every description. there was, i perceived, a label on each, with a peculiar mark. wishing to have an accurate survey, and encouraged by my discovery, i turned to the cupboard opposite, on the larboard side, and i opened it. it contained silk handkerchiefs in every variety, lace veils, and various other articles of value; on the lower shelf were laid three pairs of pistols. i was now satisfied, and closing the last cupboard, which had not been locked, was about to retreat, when i recollected that i had not re-locked the first cupboard, and that they might not, by finding it open, suspect my visit, i turned the key. it made a louder snap than before. i heard marables start from his slumber on deck; in a moment i blew out the lamp, and remained quiet. marables got up, took a turn or two, looked at the cabin doors, which were shut, and opened them a little. perceiving that the lamp had, as he thought, gone out, he shut them again, and, to my consternation, turned the key. there i was, locked up, until the arrival of fleming--then to be left to his mercy. i hardly knew how to act: at last i resolved upon calling to marables, as i dreaded his anger less than fleming's. then it occurred to me that marables might come in, feel for the lamp to re-light it, and that, as he came in on one side of the cabin, i might, in the dark, escape by the other. this all but forlorn hope prevented me for some time from applying to him. at last i made up my mind that i would, and ran from the locker to call through the door, when i heard the sound of oars. i paused again--loitered--the boat was alongside, and i heard fleming jump upon the deck. "quick," said he to marables, as he came to the cabin-door, and tried to open it; "we've no time to lose--we must get up the sacks and sink everything. two of them have 'peached, and the fence will be discovered." he took the keys from marables and opened the door; i had replaced the lamp upon the table. fleming entered, took a seat on the locker on the larboard side, and felt for the lamp. marables followed him, and sat down on the starboard locker;--escape was impossible. with a throbbing heart i sat in silence, watching my fate. in the meantime, fleming had taken out of his pocket his phosphorus match box. i heard the tin top pulled open--even the slight rustling of the one match selected was perceived. another second it was withdrawn from the bottle, and a wild flame of light illumined the deck cabin, and discovered me to their view. staggered at my appearance, the match fell from fleming's hand, and all was dark as before; but there was no more to be gained by darkness--i had been discovered. "jacob!" cried marables. "will not live to tell the tale," added fleming, with a firm voice, as he put another match into the bottle, and then relighted the lamp. "come," said fleming, fiercely; "out of the cabin immediately." i prepared to obey him. fleming went out, and i was following him round his side of the table, when marables interposed. "stop: fleming, what is that you mean to do?" "silence him!" retorted fleming. "but not murder him, surely?" cried marables, trembling from head to foot. "you will not, dare not, do that." "what is it that i dare not do, marables? but it is useless to talk; it is now his life or mine. one must be sacrificed, and i will not die yet to please him." "you shall not--by god, fleming, you shall not!" cried marables, seizing hold of my other arm, and holding me tight. i added my resistance to that of marables; when fleming, perceiving that we should be masters, took a pistol from his pocket, and struck marables a blow on the head, which rendered him senseless. throwing away the pistol, he dragged me out of the cabin. i was strong, but he was very powerful; my resistance availed me nothing: by degrees he forced me to the side of the barge, and lifting me in his arms, dashed me into the dark and rapidly flowing water. it was fortunate for me that the threat of fleming, upon our first meeting, had induced me to practise swimming, and still more fortunate that i was not encumbered with any other clothes than my shirt, in which i had come on deck. as it was, i was carried away by the tide for some time before i could rise, and at such a distance that fleming, who probably watched, did not perceive that i came up again. still, i had but little hopes of saving myself in a dark night, and at nearly a quarter of a mile from shore. i struggled to keep myself afloat, when i heard the sound of oars; a second or two more and i saw them over my head. i grasped at and seized the last, as the others passed me, crying "help!" "what the devil! oars, my men; here's somebody overboard," cried the man, whose oar i had seized. they stopped pulling; he dragged in his oar till he could lay hold of me, and then they hauled me into the boat. i was exhausted with cold and my energetic struggles in the water; and it was not until they had wrapped me up in a great-coat, and poured some spirits down my throat; that i could speak. they inquired to which of the craft i belonged. "the folly barge." "the very one we are searching for. where about is she, my lad?" i directed them: the boat was a large wherry, pulling six oars, belonging to the river police. the officer in the stern sheets, who steered her, then said, "how came you overboard?" "i was thrown overboard," replied i, "by a man called fleming." "the name he goes by," cried the officer. "give way, my lads. there's murder, it appears, as well as other charges." in a quarter of an hour we were alongside--the officer and four men sprang out of the boat, leaving the other two with directions for me to remain in the boat. cold and miserable as i was, i was too much interested in the scene not to rise up from the stern sheets, and pay attention to what passed. when the officer and his men gained the deck, they were met by fleming in the advance, and marables about a yard or two behind. "what's all this?" cried fleming, boldly. "are you river pirates, come to plunder us?" "not exactly," replied the officer; "but we are just come to overhaul you. deliver up the key of your cabin," continued he, after trying the door and finding it locked. "with all my heart, if you prove yourselves authorised to search," replied fleming; "but you'll find no smuggled spirits here, i can tell you. marables, hand them the key; i see that they belong to the river guard." marables, who had never spoken, handed the key to the officer, who, opening a dark lanthorn, went down into the cabin and proceeded in his search, leaving two of the men to take charge of fleming and marables. but his search was in vain; he could find nothing, and he came out on deck. "well," said fleming, sarcastically, "have you made a seizure?" "wait a little," said the officer; "how many men have you in this barge?" "you see them," replied fleming. "yes; but you have a boy; where is he?" "we have no boy," replied fleming; "two men are quite enough for this craft." "still i ask you, what has become of the boy? for a boy was on your decks this afternoon." "if there was one, i presume he has gone on shore again." "answer me another question; which of you threw him overboard?" at this query of the officer, fleming started, while marables cried out, "it was not i; i would have saved him. o that the boy were here to prove it!" "i am here, marables," said i, coming on deck, "and i am witness that you tried to save me, until you were struck senseless by that ruffian, fleming, who threw me overboard, that i might not give evidence as to the silver and gold which i found in the cabin; and which i overheard him tell you must be put into sacks and sunk, as two of the men had 'peached." fleming, when he saw me, turned round, as if not to look at me. his face i could not see; but after remaining a few seconds in that position, he held out his hands in silence for the handcuffs, which the officer had already taken out of his pocket. marables, on the contrary, sprang forward as soon as i had finished speaking, and caught me in his arms. "my fine, honest boy! i thank god--i thank god! all that he has said is true, sir. you will find the goods sunk astern, and the buoy-rope to them fastened to the lower pintle of the rudder. jacob, thank god, you are safe! i little thought to see you again. there, sir," continued he to the officer, holding out his hands, "i deserve it all. i had not strength of mind enough to be honest." the handcuffs were put on marables as well as on fleming, and the officer, allowing me time to go down and put on my clothes, hauled up the sacks containing the valuables, and leaving two hands in charge of the barge, rowed ashore with us all in the boat. it was then about three o'clock in the morning, and i was very glad when we arrived at the receiving-house, and i was permitted to warm myself before the fire. as soon as i was comfortable, i laid down on the bench and fell fast asleep. chapter eight. one of the ups and downs of life.--up before the magistrates, then down the river again in the lighter.--the toms.--a light heart upon two sticks.--receive my first lesson in singing.--our lighter well-manned with two boys and a fraction. i did not awake the next morning till roused by the police, who brought us up before the magistrates. the crowd that followed appeared to make no distinction between the prisoners and the witness, and remarks not very complimentary, and to me very annoying, were liberally made. "he's a young hand for such work," cried one. "there's gallows marked in his face," observed another, to whom, when i turned round to look at him, i certainly could have returned the compliment. the station was not far from the magistrates' office, and we soon arrived. the principal officer went into the inner room, and communicated with the magistrates before they came out and took their seats on the bench. "where is jacob faithful? my lad, do you know the nature of an oath?" i answered in the affirmative; the oath was administered, and my evidence taken down. it was then read over to the prisoners, who were asked if they had anything to say in their defence. fleming, who had sent for his lawyer, was advised to make no answer. marables quietly replied, that all the boy had said was quite true. "recollect," said the magistrate, "we cannot accept you as king's evidence; that of the boy is considered sufficient." "i did not intend that you should," replied marables. "i only want to ease my conscience, not to try for my pardon." they were then committed for trial, and led away to prison. i could not help going up to marables and shaking his hand, before he was led away. he lifted up his two arms, for he was still handcuffed, and wiped his eyes, saying, "let this be a warning to you, jacob--not that i think you need it; but still i once was honest as yourself--and look at me now." and he cast his eyes down sorrowfully upon his fettered wrists. they quitted the room, fleming giving me a look which was very significant of what my chance would be if ever i fell into his clutches. "we must detain you, my lad," observed one of the magistrates, "without you can procure a sufficient bail for your appearance as witness on the trial." i replied that i knew of no one except my master, mr drummond, and my schoolmaster; and had no means of letting them know of my situation. the magistrate then directed the officer to go down by the first brentford coach, acquaint mr drummond with what had passed, and that the lighter would remain in charge of the river police until he could send hands on board of her; and i was allowed to sit down on the bench behind the bar. it was not until past noon that mr drummond, accompanied by the dominie, made his appearance. to save time, the magistrates gave them my deposition to read; they put in bail, and i was permitted to leave the court. we went down by the coach, but as they went inside and i was out, i had not many questions asked until my arrival at mr drummond's house, when i gave them a detailed account of all that had happened. "proh! deus!" exclaimed the dominie, when i had finished my story. "what an escape! how narrowly, as propertius hath it femininely, `_eripitur nobis jumpridem carus puer_.' well was it that thou hadst learnt to swim--verily thou must have struggled lustily. _`pugnat in adversas ire natator aquas_,' yea, lustily for thy life, child. now, god be praised!" but mr drummond was anxious that the lighter should be brought back to the wharf; he therefore gave me my dinner, for i had eaten nothing that day, and then despatched me in a boat with two men, to bring her up the river. the next morning we arrived; and mr drummond, not having yet selected any other person to take her in charge, i was again some days on shore, dividing my time between the dominie and mr drummond's, where i was always kindly treated, not only by him, but also by his wife and his little daughter sarah. a master for the lighter was soon found; and as i passed a considerable time under his orders, i must describe him particularly. he had served the best part of his life on board a man-of-war, had been in many general and single actions, and, at the battle of trafalgar, had wound up his servitude with the loss of both his legs and an out-pension from the greenwich hospital, which he preferred to being received upon the establishment, as he had a wife and child. since that time he had worked on the river. he was very active, and broad-shouldered, and had probably, before he lost his legs, been a man of at least five feet eleven or six feet high; but as he found that he could keep his balance better upon short stumps than long ones, he had reduced his wooden legs to about eight inches in length, which, with his square body, gave him the appearance of a huge dwarf. he bore, and i will say most deservedly, an excellent character. his temper was always cheerful, and he was a little inclined to drink: but the principal feature in him was lightness of heart; he was always singing. his voice was very fine and powerful. when in the service he used to be summoned to sing to the captain and officers, and was the delight of the forecastle. his memory was retentive, and his stock of songs incredible, at the same time, he seldom or ever sang more than one or two stanzas of a song in the way of quotation, or if apt to what was going on, often altering the words to suit the occasion. he was accompanied by his son tom, a lad of my own age, as merry as his father, and who had a good treble voice and a good deal of humour; he would often take the song up from his father, with words of his own putting in, with ready wit and good tune. we three composed the crew of the lighter; and, as there had already been considerable loss from demurrage, were embarked as soon as they arrived. the name of the father was tom beazeley, but he was always known on the river as "old tom" or, as some more learned wag had christened him, "the _merman on two sticks_." as soon as we had put our traps on board, as old tom called them, he received his orders, and we cast off from the wharf. the wind was favourable. young tom was as active as a monkey, and as full of tricks. his father took the helm, while we two, assisted by a dog of the small newfoundland breed, which tom had taught to take a rope in his teeth, and be of no small service to two boys in bowsing on a tackle, made sail upon the lighter, and away we went, while old tom's strain might be heard from either shore. "loose, loose every sail to the breeze, the course of the vessel improve, i've done with the toil of the seas, ye sailors, i'm bound to my love. "tom, you beggar, is the bundle ready for your mother? we must drop the skiff, jacob, at battersea reach, and send the clothes on shore for the old woman to wash, or there'll be no clean shirts for sunday. shove in your shirts, jacob; the old woman won't mind that. she used to wash for the mess. clap on, both of you, and get another pull at those haulyards. that'll do, my bantams. "hoist, hoist, every sail to the breeze, come, shipmates, and join in the song, let's drink while the barge cuts the seas, to the gale that may drive her along. "tom, where's my pot of tea? come, my boy, we must pipe to breakfast. jacob, there's a rope towing overboard. now, tom, hand me my tea, and i'll steer her with one hand, drink with the other, and as for the legs, the less we say about them the better. "no glory i covet, no riches i want, ambition is nothing to me. but one thing i beg of kind heaven to grant--" tom's treble chimed in, handing him the pot- "for _breakfast a good cup of tea_. "silence, you sea-cook! how dare you shove in your penny whistle! how's tide, tom?" "three quarters ebb." "no, it a'n't, you thief; how is it jacob?" "about half, i think." "and you're right." "what water have we down here on the side?" "you must give the point a wide berth," replied i; "the shoals runs out." "thanky, boy, so i thought, but wasn't sure:" and then old tom burst out in a beautiful air: "trust not too much your own opinion, when your vessel's under weigh, let good advice still bear dominion; that's a compass will not stray." "old tom, is that you?" hallooed a man from another barge. "yes; what's left of me, my hearty." "you'll not fetch the bridges this tide--there's a strong breeze right up the reaches below." "never mind, we'll do all we can. "if unassailed by squall or shower, wafted by the gentle gales let's not lose the favouring hour, while success attends our sails." "bravo, old tom! why don't the boys get the lines out, for all the fishes are listening for you," cried the man, as the barges were parted by the wind and tide. "i did once belong to a small craft called the anon," observed old tom, "and they say as how the story was, that that chap could make the fish follow him just when he pleased. i know that when we were in the north sea the shoals of seals would follow the ship if you whistled; but these brutes have ears--now fish hav'n't got none. "oh well do i remember that cold dreary land, here the northern light, in the winter's night, shone bright on its snowy strand. "jacob, have you finished your breakfast? here, take the helm, while i and tom put the craft a little into apple-pie order." old tom then stumped forward, followed by his son and the newfoundland dog, who appeared to consider himself as one of the most useful personages on board. after coiling down the ropes, and sweeping the decks, they went into the cabin to make their little arrangements. "a good lock that, tom," cried the father, turning the key of the cupboard. (i recollected it, and that its snapping so loud was the occasion of my being tossed overboard.) old tom continued: "i say, tom, you won't be able to open that cupboard, so i'll put the sugar and the grog into it, you scamp. it goes too fast when you're purser's steward. "for grog is our larboard and starboard, our main-mast, our mizzen, our log, on shore, or at sea, or when harbour'd, the mariner's compass is grog." "but it arn't a compass to steer steady by, father," replied tom. "then don't you have nothing to do with it, tom." "i only takes a little, father, because you mayn't take too much." "thanky for nothing; when do i ever take too much, you scamp?" "not too much for a man standing on his own pins, but too much for a man on two broomsticks." "stop your jaw, mr tom, or i'll unscrew one of the broomsticks, and lay it over your shoulders." "before it's out of the socket, i'll give you _leg-bail_. what will you do then, father?" "catch you when i can, tom, as the spider takes the fly." "what's the good o' that, when you can't bear malice for ten minutes?" "very true, tom? then thank your stars that you have two good legs, and that your poor father has none." "i very often do thank my stars, and that's the truth of it; but what's the use of being angry about a drop of rum, or a handful of sugar?" "because you takes more than your allowance." "well, do you take less, then all will be right." "and why should i take less, pray?" "because you're only half a man; you haven't any legs to provide for, as i have." "now, i tell you, tom, that's the very reason why i should have more to comfort my old body for the loss of them." "when you lost your legs you lost your ballast, father, and, therefore, you mustn't carry too much sail, or you'll topple overboard some dark night. if i drink the grog, it's all for your good, you see." "you're a dutiful son in that way, at all events; and a sweet child, as far as sugar goes; but jacob is to sleep in the cabin with me, and you'll shake your blanket forward." "now that i consider quite unnatural; why part father and son?" "it's not that exactly, it's only parting son and the grog bottle." "that's just as cruel; why part two such good friends?" "'cause, tom, he's too strong for you, and floors you sometimes." "well, but i forgives him; it's all done in good humour." "tom, you're a wag; but you wag your tongue to no purpose. liquor ain't good for a boy like you, and it grows upon you." "well, don't i grow too? we grow together." "you'll grow faster without it." "i've no wish to be a tall man cut short, like you." "if i hadn't been a tall man, my breath would have been cut short for ever; the ball which took my legs would have cut you right in half." "and the ball that would take your head off, would whistle over mine; so there we are equal again." "and there's the grog fast," replied old tom, turning the key, and putting it into his pocket. "that's a stopper over all; so now we'll go on deck." i have narrated this conversation, as it will give the reader a better idea of tom, and his way of treating his father. tom was fond of his father, and although mischievous, and too fond of drinking when he could obtain liquor, was not disobedient or vicious. we had nearly reached battersea fields when they returned on deck. "do you know, jacob, how the parish of battersea came into the possession of those fields?" "no, i do not." "well, then, i'll tell you; it was because the battersea people were more humane and charitable than their neighbours. there was a time when those fields were of no value; now they're worth a mint of money, they say. the body of a poor devil, who was drowned in the river, was washed on shore on those banks, and none of the parishes would be at the expense of burying it. the battersea people, though they had least right to be called upon, would not allow the poor fellow's corpse to be lying on the mud, and they went to the expense. now, when the fields became of value, the other parishes were ready enough to claim them; but the case was tried, and as it was proved that battersea had buried the body, the fields were decided to belong to that parish. so they were well paid for their humanity, and they deserved it. mr drummond says you know the river well, jacob." "i was born on it." "yes, so i heard, and all about your father and mother's death. i was telling tom of it, because he's too fond of _bowsing up his jib_." "well, father, there's no occasion to remind jacob; the tear is in his eye already," replied tom, with consideration. "i wish you never had any other _drop_ in your _eye_,--but never mind, jacob, i didn't think of what i was saying. look ye, d'ye see that little house with the two chimneys--that's mine, and there's my old woman.--i wonder what she's about just now." old tom paused for a while, with his eyes fixed on the object, and then burst out:- "i've crossed the wide waters, i've trod the lone strand, i've triumphed in battle, i've lighted the brand, i've borne the loud thunder of death o'er the foam; fame, riches, ne'er found them,--yet still found a home. "tom, boy, haul up the skiff and paddle on shore with the bundle; ask the old woman how she is, and tell her i'm hearty." tom was in the boat in a moment, and pulling lustily for the shore. "that makes me recollect when i returned to my mother, a'ter the first three years of my sea service. i borrowed the skiff from the skipper.--i was in a greenland-man, my first ship, and pulled ashore to my mother's cottage under the cliff. i thought the old soul would have died with joy." here old tom was silent, brushed a tear from his eye, and, as usual, commenced a strain, _sotto voce_:- "why, what's that to you if my eyes i'm a wiping? a tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way. "how, miserable," continued he, after another pause, "the poor thing was when i would go to sea--how she begged and prayed--boys have no feeling, that's sartin." "o bairn, dinna leave me, to gang far away, o bairn, dinna leave me, ye're a' that i hae, think on a mither, the wind and the wave, a mither set on ye, her feet in the grave. "however, she got used to it at last, as the woman said when she skinned the ells. tom's a good boy, jacob, but not steady, as they say you are. his mother spoils him, and i can't bear to be cross to him neither; for his heart's in the right place, after all. there's the old woman shaking her dish-clout at us as a signal. i wish i had gone on shore myself, but i can't step into these paper-built little boats without my timber toes going through at the bottom." chapter nine. the two toms take to protocolling--treaty of peace ratified between the belligerent parties--lots of songs and supper--the largest mess of roast meat upon record. tom then shoved off the skiff. when half-way between the lighter and the shore, while his mother stood watching us, he lay on his oars. "tom, tom!" cried his mother, shaking her fist at him, as he stooped down his head; "if you do, tom!" "tom, tom!" cried his father, shaking his fist also; "if you dare, tom!" but tom was not within reach of either party; and he dragged a bottle out of the basket which his mother had entrusted to him, and putting it to his mouth, took a long swig. "that's enough, tom!" screamed his mother, from the shore. "that's too much, you rascal!" cried his father, from the barge. neither admonition was, however, minded by tom, who took what he considered his allowance, and then very coolly pulled alongside, and handed up the basket and bundle of clean clothes on deck. tom then gave the boat's painter to his father, who, i perceived, intended to salute him with the end of it as soon as he came up; but tom was too knowing-he surged the boat ahead, and was on deck and forward before his father could stump up to him. the main hatch was open, and tom put that obstacle between his father and himself before he commenced his parley. "what's the matter, father?" said tom, smiling, and looking at me. "matter, you scamp! how dare you touch the bottle?" "the bottle--the bottle's there, as good as ever." "the grog is what i mean--how dare you drink it?" "i was half-way between my mother and you, and so i drank success and long life to you both. ain't that being a very dutiful son?" "i wish i had my legs back again, you rascal!" "you wish you had the grog back again, you mean, father." "you have to choose between--for if you had the grog you'd keep your legs." "for the matter of drinking the grog, you scamp, you seem determined to stand in my shoes." "well, shoes are of no use to you now, father--why shouldn't i? why don't you trust me? if you hadn't locked the cupboard, i wouldn't have helped myself." and tom, whose bootlace was loose, stooped down to make it fast. old tom, who was still in wrath, thought this a good opportunity, as his son's head was turned the other way, to step over the bricks, with which, as i before said, the lighter had been laden level with the main hatchway, and take his son by surprise. tom, who had no idea of this manoeuvre, would certainly have been captured, but, fortunately for him, one of the upper bricks turned over, and let his father's wooden leg down between two of the piles, where it was jammed fast. old tom attempted to extricate himself, but could not. "tom, tom, come here," cried he, "and pull me out." "not i," replied tom. "jacob, jacob, come here; tom, run and take the helm." "not i," replied tom. "jacob, never mind the helm, she'll drift all right for a minute," cried old tom; "come and help me." but i had been so amused with the scene, and having a sort of feeling for young tom, that i declared it impossible to leave the helm without her going on the banks. i therefore remained, wishing to see in what way the two toms would get out of their respective scrapes. "confound these--! tom, you scoundrel, am i to stick here all day?" "no, father, i don't suppose you will. i shall help you directly." "well, then, why don't you do it?" "because i must come to terms. you don't think i'd help myself to a thrashing, do you?" "i won't thrash you, tom. shiver my timbers if i do." "they're in a fair way of being shivered as it is, i think. now, father, we're both even." "how's that?" "why you clapped a stopper over all on me this morning, and now you've got one on yourself." "well, then, take off mine, and i'll take off yours." "if i unlock your leg, you'll unlock the cupboard?" "yes." "and you promise me a _stiff one_ after dinner?" "yes, yes, as stiff as i stand here." "no, that will be too much, for it would _set me fast_. i only like it about half-and-half, as i took it just now." tom, who was aware that his father would adhere to his agreement, immediately went to his assistance, and throwing out some of the upper bricks, released him from his confinement. when old tom was once more on deck and on his legs, he observed, "it's an ill wind that blows nobody good. the _loss_ of my leg has been the _saving_ of you many a time, mr tom." it was now time to anchor, as we were meeting the flood. tom, who officiated as cook, served up the dinner, which was ready; and we were all very pleasant; tom treating his father with perfect confidence. as we had not to weigh again for some hours, our repast was prolonged, and old tom, having fulfilled his promise to his son of a _stiff one_, took one or two himself, and became very garrulous. "come, spin us a good yarn, father; we've nothing to do, and jacob will like to hear you." "well, then, so i will," answered he; "what shall it be about?" "fire and water, of course," replied tom. "well, then, i'll tell you something about both, since you wish it; how i came into his majesty's sarvice, through _fire_, and how the officer who pressed me went out of it through _water_. i was still 'prentice, and wanted about three months to sarve my time, when, of course, i should no longer be protected from sarving the king, when the ship i was in sailed up the baltic with a cargo of bullocks. we had at least two hundred on board, tied up on platforms on every deck, with their heads close to the sides, and all their sterns looking in-board. they were fat enough when they were shipped, but soon dwindled away: the weather was very bad, and the poor creatures rolled against each other, and slipped about in a way that it pitied you to see them. however, they were stowed so thick, that they held one another up, which proved of service to them in the heavy gales which tossed the ship about like a pea in a rattle. we had joined a large convoy, and were entering the sound, when, as usual, it fell calm, and out came the danish gunboats to attack us. the men-of-war who had charge of the convoy behaved nobly; but still they were becalmed, and many of us were a long way astern. our ship was pretty well up; but she was too far in-shore; and the danes made a dash at us with the hope of making a capture. the men-of-war, seeing what the enemy were about, sent boats to beat them off; but it was too late to prevent them boarding, which they did. not wishing to peep through the bars of the gaol at copenhagen, we left the ship in our boats on one side, just as the danes boarded on the other, and pulled towards the men-of-war's armed boats coming to our assistance. the men-of-war's boats pulled right for the ship to retake her, which they did, certainly, but not before the enemy had set fire to the vessel, and had then pulled off towards another. seeing this, the men-of-war's boats again gave chase to the danes, leaving us to extinguish the flames, which were now bursting out fore and aft, and climbing like fiery serpents up to the main catharprings. we soon found that it was impossible; we remained as long as the heat and smoke would permit us, and then we were obliged to be off, but i shall never forget the roaring and moaning of the poor animals who were then roasting alive. it was a cruel thing of the danes to fire a vessel full of these poor creatures. some had broken loose, and were darting up and down the decks goring others, and tumbling down the hatchways; others remained trembling, or trying to snuff up a mouthful of fresh air amongst the smoke; but the struggling and bellowing, as the fire caught the vessel fore and aft, and was grilling two hundred poor creatures at once, was at last shocking, and might have been heard for a mile. we did all we could. i cut the throats of a dozen, but they kicked and struggled so much, falling down [upon], and treading you under their feet; and one lay upon me, and i expected to be burnt with them, for it was not until i was helped that i got clear of the poor animal. so we stayed as long as we could, and then left them to their fate; and the smell of burnt meat, as we shoved off, was as horrible as the cries and wailings of the poor beasts themselves. the men-of-war's boats returned, having chased away the danes, and very kindly offered us all a ship, as we had lost our own, so that you see that by _fire_ i was forced into his majesty's sarvice. now, the boat that took us belonged to one of the frigates who had charge of the convoy, and the lieutenant who commanded the boat was a swearing, tearing sort of a chap, who lived as if his life was to last for ever. "after i was taken on board, the captain asked me if i would enter, and i thought that i might as well sarve the king handsomely, so i volunteered. it's always the best thing to do, when you're taken, and can't help yourself, for you are more trusted than a pressed man who is obstinate. i liked the sarvice from the first--the captain was not a particular man; according to some people's ideas of the sarvice, she wasn't in quite man-of-war fashion, but she was a happy ship, and the men would have followed and fought for the captain to the last drop of their blood. that's the sort of ship for me. i've seen cleaner decks, but i never saw merrier hearts. the only one of the officers disliked by the men was the lieutenant who pressed me; he had a foul mouth and no discretion; and as for swearing, it was really terrible to hear the words which came out of his mouth. i don't mind an oath rapped out in the heat of the moment, but he invented his oaths when he was cool, and let them out in his rage. we were returning home, after having seen the convoy safe, when we met with a gale of wind in our teeth, one of the very worst i ever fell in with. it had been blowing hard from the south west, and then shifted to the north west, and made a cross sea, which was tremendous. now, the frigate was a very old vessel, and although they had often had her into dock and repaired her below, they had taken no notice of her upper works, which were as rotten as a medlar. i think it was about three bells in the middle watch, when the wind was howling through the rigging, for we had no canvas on her 'cept a staysail and trysail, when the stay-sail sheet went, and she broached-to afore they could prevent her. the lieutenant i spoke of had the watch, and his voice was heard through the roaring of the wind swearing at the men to haul down the staysail, that we might bend on the sheet, and set it right again; when, she having, i said, broached-to, a wave--ay, a wave as high as the maintop almost, took the frigate right on her broadside, and the bulwarks of the quarter-deck being, as i said, quite rotten, cut them off clean level with the main chains, sweeping them, and guns, and men, all overboard together. the mizzenmast went, but the mainmast held on, and i was under its lee at the time, and was saved by clinging on like a nigger, while for a minute i was under the water, which carried almost all away with it to leeward. as soon as the water passed over me, i looked up and around me--it was quite awful; the quarter-deck was cut off as with a knife--not a soul left there, that i could see; no man at the wheel--mizzen-mast gone--skylights washed away--waves making a clear breach, and no defence; boats washed away from the quarters--all silent on deck, but plenty of noise below and on the main-deck, for the ship was nearly full of water, and all below were hurrying up in their shirts, thinking that we were going down. at last the captain crawled up, and clung by the stancheons, followed by the first lieutenant and the officers, and by degrees all was quiet, the ship was cleared, and the hands were turned up to muster under the half-deck. there were forty-seven men who did not answer to their names--they had been summoned to answer for their lives, poor fellows! and there was also the swearing lieutenant not to be found. well, at last we got the hands on deck, and put her before the wind, scudding under bare poles. as we went aft to the taffrail, the bulwark of which still remained, with about six feet of the quarter-deck bulwark on each side, we observed something clinging to the stern-ladder, dipping every now and then into the sea, as it rose under her counter, and assisted the wind in driving her before the gale. we soon made it out to be a man, and i went down, slipped a bowling knot over the poor fellow, and with some difficulty we were both hauled up again. it proved to be the lieutenant, who had been washed under the counter, and clung to the stern-ladder, and had thus miraculously been preserved. it was a long while before he came to, and he never did any duty the whole week we were out, till we got into yarmouth roads; indeed, he hardly ever spoke a word to any one, but seemed to be always in serious thought. when we arrived, he gave his commission to the captain, and went on shore; went to school again, they say, _bore up for a parson_, and, for all i know, he'll preach somewhere next sunday. so you see, _water_ drove him out of the sarvice, and _fire_ forced me in. there's a yarn for you, jacob." "i like it very much," replied i. "and now, father, give us a whole song, and none of your little bits." old tom broke out with the "death of nelson," in a style that made the tune and words ring in my ears for the whole evening. the moon was up before the tide served, and we weighed our anchor; old tom steering, while his son was preparing supper, and i remaining forward, keeping a sharp look-out that we did not run foul of anything. it was a beautiful night; and as we passed through the several bridges, the city appeared as if it were illuminated, from the quantity of gas throwing a sort of halo of light over the tops of the buildings which occasionally marked out the main streets from the general dark mass--old tom's voice was still occasionally heard, as the scene brought to his remembrance his variety of song. "for the murmur of thy lip, love, comes sweetly unto me, as the sound of oars that dip, love, at moonlight on the sea." i never was more delighted than when i heard these snatches of different songs poured forth in such melody from old tom's lips, the notes floating along the water during the silence of the night. i turned aft to look at him; his face was directed upwards, looking on the moon, which glided majestically through the heavens, silvering the whole of the landscape. the water was smooth as glass, and the rapid tide had swept us clear of the ranges of ships in the pool; both banks of the river were clear, when old tom again commenced:- "the moon is up, her silver beam shines bower, and grove, and mountain over; a flood of radiance heaven doth seem to light thee, maiden, to thy lover." "jacob, how does the bluff-nob bear? on the starboard bow?" "yes--broad on the bow; you'd better keep up half a point, the tide sweeps us fast." "very true, jacob; look out, and say when steady it is, boy. "if o'er her orb a cloud should rest, 'tis but thy cheek's soft blush to cover. he waits to clasp thee to his breast; the moon is up--go, meet thy lover. "tom, what have you got for supper, boy? what is that frizzing in your frying-pan? smells good, anyhow." "yes, and i expect will taste good too. however, you look after the moon, father, and leave me and the frying-pan to play our parts." "while i sing mine, i suppose, boy. "the moon is up, round beauty's shine, love's pilgrims bend at vesper hour, earth breathes to heaven, and looks divine, and lovers' hearts confess her power." old tom stopped and the frying-pan frizzled on, sending forth an odour which, if not grateful to heaven, was peculiarly so to us mortals, hungry with the fresh air. "how do we go now, jacob?" "steady, and all's right; but we shall be met with the wind next reach, and had better brail up the mainsail." "go, then, tom, and help jacob." "i can't leave the _ingons_, [onions] father, not if the lighter tumbled overboard; it would bring more tears in my eyes to spoil them, now that they are frying so merrily, than they did when i was cutting them up. besides, the liver would be as black as the bends." "clap the frying-pan down on deck, tom, and brail the sail up with jacob, there's a good boy. you can give it another shake or two afterwards. "guide on, my bark, how sweet to rove, with such a beaming eye above! "that's right, my boys, belay all that; now to our stations; jacob on the look-out, tom to his frying-pan, and i to the helm- "no sound is heard to break the spell, except the water's gentle swell; while midnight, like a mimic day, shines on to guide our moonlight way. "well, the moon's a beautiful creature--god bless her! how often have we longed for her in the dark winter, channel-cruising, when the waves were flying over the eddystone, and trying in their malice to put out the light. i don't wonder at people making songs to the moon, nor at my singing them. we'll anchor when we get down the next reach." we swept the next reach with the tide which was now slacking fast. our anchor was dropped and we all went to supper, and to bed. i have been particular in describing the first day of my being on board with my new shipmates, as it may be taken as a sample of our every day life; tom and his father fighting and making friends, cooking, singing, and spinning yarns. still, i shall have more scenes to describe. our voyage was made, we took in a return cargo, and arrived at the proprietor's wharf, when i found that i could not proceed with them the next voyage, as the trial of fleming and marables was expected to come on in a few days. the lighter, therefore, took in another cargo, and sailed without me; mr drummond, as usual, giving me the run of his house. chapter ten. i help to hang my late bargemate for his attempt to drown me--one good turn deserves another--the subject suddenly dropped at newgate--a yarn in the law line--with due precautions and preparations, the dominie makes his first voyage--to gravesend. it was on the 7th of november, if i recollect rightly, that fleming and marables were called up to trial at the old bailey, and i was in the court, with mr drummond and the dominie, soon after ten o'clock. after the judge had taken his seat, as their trial was first on the list, they were ushered in. they were both clean and well dressed. in fleming i could perceive little difference; he was pale, but resolute; but when i looked at marables i was astonished. mr drummond did not at first recognise him--he had fallen away from seventeen stone to, at the most, thirteen--his clothes hung loosely about him--his ruddy cheeks had vanished--his nose was becoming sharp, and his full round face had been changed to an oblong. still there remained that natural good-humoured expression in his countenance, and the sweet smile played upon his lips. his eyes glanced fearfully round the court--he felt his disgraceful situation--the colour mounted to his temples and forehead, and he then became again pale as a sheet, casting down his eyes as if desirous to see no more. after the indictment had been read over, the prisoners were asked by the clerk whether they pleaded guilty or not guilty. "not guilty," replied fleming, in a bold voice. "john marables--guilty or not guilty?" "guilty," replied marables--"guilty, my lord;" and he covered his face with his hands. fleming was indicted on three counts;--an assault, with intent to murder; having stolen goods in his possession; and for a burglary in a dwelling-house, on such a date; but i understand that they had nearly twenty more charges against him, had these failed. marables was indicted for having been an accessary to the last charge, as receiver of stolen goods. the counsel for the crown, who opened the trial, stated that fleming, _alias_ barkett, _alias_ wenn, with many more _aliases_, had for a long while been at the head of the most notorious gang of thieves which had infested the metropolis for many years; that justice had long been in search of him, but that he had disappeared, and it had been supposed that he had quitted the kingdom to avoid the penalties of the law, to which he had subjected himself by his enormities. it appeared however, that he had taken a step which not only blinded the officers of the police, but at the same time had enabled the gang to carry on their depredations with more impunity than ever. he had concealed himself in a lighter on the river, and appearing in her as one diligently performing his duty, and earning his livelihood as an honest man had by such means been enabled to extend his influence, the number of his associates, and his audacious schemes. the principal means of detection in cases of burglary was by advertising the goods, and the great difficulty on the part of such miscreants was to obtain a ready sale for them--the receivers of stolen goods being aware that the thieves were at their mercy, and must accept what was offered. now, to obviate these difficulties, fleming had, as we before observed, concealed himself from justice on board of a river barge, which was made the receptacle for stolen goods: those which had been nefariously obtained at one place being by him and his associates carried up and down the river in the craft, and disposed of at a great distance, by which means the goods were never brought to light, so as to enable the police to recognise or trace them. this system had now been carried on with great success for upwards of twelve months, and would, in all probability, have not been discovered even now, had it not been that a quarrel as to profits had taken place, which had induced two of his associates to give information to the officers; and these two associates had also been permitted to turn king's evidence, in a case of burglary, in which fleming was a principal, provided that it was considered necessary. but there was a more serious charge against the prisoner,-that of having attempted the life of a boy, named jacob faithful, belonging to the lighter, and who, it appeared, had suspicions of what was going on, and, in duty to his master, had carefully watched the proceedings, and given notice to others of what he had discovered from time to time. the lad was the chief evidence against the prisoner fleming, and also against marables, the other prisoner, of whom he could only observe, that circumstances would transpire, during the trial, in his favour, which he had no doubt would be well considered by his lordship. he would not detain the gentlemen of the jury any longer, but at once call on his witnesses. i was then summoned, again asked the same questions as to the nature of an oath, and the judge being satisfied with my replies, i gave my evidence as before; the judge as i perceived, carefully examining my previous disposition, to ascertain if anything i now said was at variance with my former assertions. i was then cross-examined by the counsel for fleming, but he could not make me vary in my evidence, i did, however, take the opportunity, whenever i was able, of saying all i could in favour of marables. at last the counsel said he would ask me no more questions. i was dismissed; and the police-officer who had picked me up, and other parties who identified the various property as their own, and the manner in which they had been robbed of it, were examined. the evidence was too clear to admit of doubt. the jury immediately returned a verdict of guilty against fleming and marables, but strongly recommended marables to the mercy of the crown. the judge rose, put on his black cap, and addressed the prisoners as follows. the court was so still, that a pin falling might have been heard:-"you, william fleming, have been tried by a jury of your countrymen, upon the charge of receiving stolen goods, to which you have added the most atrocious crime of intended murder. you have had a fair and impartial trial, and have been found guilty; and it appears that, even had you escaped in this instance, other charges, equally heavy, and which would equally consign you to condign punishment, were in readiness to be preferred against you. your life has been one of guilt, not only in your own person, but also in abetting and stimulating others to crime; and you have wound up your shameful career by attempting the life of a fellow-creature. to hold out to you any hope of mercy is impossible. your life is justly forfeited to the offended laws of your country; and your sentence is that you be removed from this court to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck till you are dead; and may god, in his infinite goodness, have mercy on your soul! "you, john marables, have pleaded guilty to the charges brought against you; and it has appeared, during the evidence brought out on the trial, that, although you have been a party to these nefarious transactions, you are far from being hardened in your guilt." ["no, no!" exclaimed marables.] "i believe sincerely that you are not, and much regret that one who, from the evidence brought forward, appears to have been, previously to this unfortunate connection, an honest man, should now appear in so disgraceful a situation. a severe punishment is, however, demanded by the voice of justice, and by that sentence of the law you must now be condemned: at the same time i trust that an appeal to the mercy of your sovereign will not be made in vain." the judge then passed the sentence upon marables, the prisoners were led out of court, and a new trial commenced; while mr drummond and the dominie conducted me home. about a week after the trial, fleming suffered the penalty of the law; while marables was sentenced to transportation for life, which, however, previous to his sailing, was commuted to seven years. in a few days the lighter returned. her arrival was announced to me one fine sunny morning as i lay in bed, by a voice whose well-known notes poured into my ear as i was half dozing on my pillow:- "bright are the beams of the morning sky, and sweet the dew the red blossoms sip, but brighter the glances of dear woman's eye-"tom, you monkey, belay the warp, and throw the fenders over the side. be smart, or old fuzzle will be growling about his red paint. "and sweet is the dew on her lip." i jumped out of my little crib, threw open the window, the panes of which were crystallised with the frost in the form of little trees, and beheld the lighter just made fast to the wharf, the sun shining brightly, old tom's face as cheerful as the morn, and young tom laughing, jumping about, and blowing his fingers. i was soon dressed, and shaking hands with my barge-mates. "well, jacob, how do you like the old bailey? never was in it but once in my life, and never mean to go again if i can help it; that was when sam bowles was tried for his life, but my evidence saved him. i'll tell you how it was. tom, look a'ter the breakfast; a bowl of tea this cold morning will be worth having. come, jump about." "but i never heard the story of sam bowles," answered tom. "what's that to you? i'm telling it to jacob." "but i want to hear it--so go on, father. i'll start you. well, d'ye see, sam bowles--" "master tom, them as play with _bowls_ may meet with _rubbers_. take care i don't _rub_ down your hide. off, you thief, and get breakfast." "no, i won't: if i don't have your _bowles_ you shall have no _bowls_ of tea. i've made my mind up to that." "i tell you what, tom; i shall never get any good out of you until i have both your legs ampitated. i've a great mind to send for the farrier." "thanky, father; but i find them very useful." "well," said i, "suppose we put off the story till breakfast time; and i'll go and help tom to get it ready." "be it so, jacob. i suppose tom must have his way, as i spoiled him myself. i made him so fond of yarns, so i was a fool to be vexed. "oh, life is a river, and man is the boat that over its surface is destined to float; and joy is a cargo so easily stored, that he is a fool who takes sorrow on board. "now i'll go on shore to master, and find out what's to be done next. give me my stick, boy, and i shall crawl over the planks a little safer. a safe stool must have three legs, you know." old tom then stumped away on shore. in about a quarter of an hour he returned, bringing half-a-dozen red herrings. "here, tom, grill these sodgers. jacob, who is that tall old chap, with such a devil of a cutwater, which i met just now with master? we are bound for sheerness this trip, and i'm to land him at greenwich." "what, the dominie?" replied i, from old tom's description. "his name did begin with a d, but that wasn't it." "dobbs?" "yes, that's nearer; he's to be a passenger on board of us, going down to see a friend who's very ill. now, tom, my hearty, bring out the crockery, for i want a little inside lining." we all sat down to our breakfast, and as soon as old tom had finished, his son called for the history of sam bowles. "well, now you shall have it. sam bowles was a shipmate of mine on board of the greenlandman; he was one of our best harpooners, and a good, quiet, honest messmate as ever slung a hammock. he was spliced to as pretty a piece of flesh as ever was seen, but she wasn't as good as she was pretty. we were fitting out for another voyage, and his wife had been living on board with him some weeks, for sam was devilish spoony on her, and couldn't bear her to be out of his sight. as we 'spected to sail in a few days, we were filling up our complement of men, and fresh hands came on board every day. "one morning, a fine tall fellow, with a tail as thick as a hawser, came on board and offered himself; he was taken by the skipper, and went on shore again to get his traps. while he was still on deck i went below, and seeing sam with his little wife on his knee playing with his love-locks, i said that there was a famous stout and good-looking fellow that we should have as a shipmate. sam's wife, who, like all women, was a little curious, put her head up the hatchway to look at him. she put it down again very quick, as i thought, and made some excuse to go forward in the eyes of her, where she remained some time, and then, when she came aft, told sam that she would go on shore. now, as it had been agreed that she should remain on board till we were clear of the river, sam couldn't think what the matter was; but she was positive, and go away she did, very much to sam's astonishment and anger. in the evening, sam went on shore and found her out, and what d'ye think the little jezebel told him?--why, that one of the men had been rude to her when she went forward, and that's why she wouldn't stay on board. sam was in a devil of a passion at this, and wanted to know which was the man; but she fondled him, and wouldn't tell him, because she was afraid that he'd be hurt. at last she bamboozled him, and sent him on board again quite content. well, we remained three days longer, and then dropped down the river to greenwich, where the captain was to come on board, and we were to sail as soon as the wind was fair. now, this fine tall fellow was with us when we dropped down the river, and as sam was sitting down on his chest eating a basin o' soup, the other man takes out a 'baccy pouch of seal-skin;--it was a very curious one, made out of the white and spotted part of a young seal's belly. `i say, shipmate,' cries sam, `hand me over my 'baccy pouch. where did you pick it up?' "`your pouch!' says he to him; `i killed the seal, and my fancy girl made the pouch for me.' "`well, if that ain't cool! you'd swear a man out of his life, mate. tom,' says he to me, `ain't that my pouch which my wife gave me when i came back last trip?' "i looked at it, and knew it again, and said it was. the tall fellow denied it, and there was a devil of a bobbery. sam called him a thief, and he pitched sam right down the main hatchway among the casks. after that there was a regular set-to, and sam was knocked all to shivers, and obliged to give in. when the fight was over, i took up sam's shirt for him to put on. `that's my shirt,' cried the tall fellow. "`that's sam's shirt,' replied i; `i know it's his.' "`i tell you it's mine,' replied the man; `my lass gave it to me to put on when i got up this morning. the other is his shirt.' "we looked at the other, and they both were sam's shirts. now when sam heard this, he put two and two together, and became very jealous and uneasy: he thought it odd that his wife was so anxious to leave the ship when this tall fellow came on board; and what with the pouch and the shirt he was puzzled. his wife had promised to come down to greenwich and see him off. when we anchored, some of the men went on shore--among others the tall fellow. sam, whose head was swelled up like a pumpkin, told one of his shipmates to say to his wife that he could not come on shore, and that she must come off to him. well, it was about nine o'clock, dark, and all the stars were twinkling, when sam says to me, `tom, let's go on shore; my black eyes can't be seen in the dark.' as we hauled up the boat, the second mate told sam to take his harpoon-iron on shore for him, to have the hole for the becket punched larger. away we went, and the first place, of course, that sam went to, was the house where he knew that his wife put up at, as before. he went upstairs to her room, and i followed him. the door was not made fast, and in we went. there was his little devil of a wife, fast asleep in the arms of the tall fellow. sam couldn't command his rage, and having the harpoon-iron in his hand, he drove it right through the tall fellow's body before i could prevent him. it was a dreadful sight: the man groaned, and his head fell over the side of the bed. sam's wife screamed, and made sam more wroth by throwing herself on the man's body, and weeping over it. sam would have pulled out the iron to run her through with, but that was impossible. the noise brought up the people of the house, and it was soon known that murder had been committed. the constable came, sam was thrown into prison, and i went on board and told the whole story. well, we were just about to heave up, for we had shipped two more men in place of sam, who was to be tried for his life, and the poor fellow he had killed, when a lawyer chap came on board with what they call a _suppeny_ for me; all i know is, that the lawyer pressed me into his service, and i lost my voyage. i was taken on shore, and well fed till the trial came on. poor sam was at the bar for murder. the gentleman in his gown and wig began his yarn, stating that how the late fellow, whose name was will errol, was with his own wife when sam harpooned him. "`that's a lie!' cried sam; `he was with my wife. false papers! here are mine;' and he pulled out his tin case, and handed them to the court. "the judge said that this was not the way to try people and that sam must hold his tongue; so the trial went on, and at first they had it all their own way. then our turn came, and i was called up to prove what had passed, and i stated how the man was with sam's wife, and how he, having the harpoon-iron in his hand, had run it through his body. then they compared the certificates, and it was proved that the little jezebel had married them both; but she had married sam first, so he had the most right to her; but fancying the other man afterwards, she thought she might as well have two strings to her bow. so the judge declared that she was sam's wife, and that any man, even without the harpoon in his hand, would be justified in killing a man whom he found in bed with his own wife. so sam went scot-free; but the judge wouldn't let off sam's wife, as she had caused murder by her wicked conduct; he tried her a'terwards for _biggery_, as they call it, and sent her over the water for life. sam never held up his head a'terwards; what with having killed an innocent man, and the 'haviour of his wife, he was always down. he went out to the fishery, and a whale cut the boat in two with her tail; sam was stunned, and went down like a stone. so you see the mischief brought about by this little jezebel, who must have two husbands, and be damned to her." "well, that's a good yarn, father," said tom, as soon as it was finished. "i was right in saying i would hear it. wasn't i?" "no," replied old tom, putting out his large hand, and seizing his son by the collar; "and now you've put me in mind of it, i'll pay you off for old scores." "lord love you, father, you don't owe me anything," said tom. "yes, i do; and now i'll give you a receipt in full." "o lord! they'll be drowned," screamed tom, holding up both his hands with every symptom of terror. old tom turned short round to look in the direction, letting go his hold. tom made his escape, and burst out a-laughing. i laughed also, and so at last did his father. i went on shore, and found that old tom's report was correct--the dominie was at breakfast with mr drummond. the new usher had charge of the boys, and the governors had allowed him a fortnight's holiday to visit an old friend at greenwich. to save expense, as well as to indulge his curiosity, the old man had obtained a passage down in the lighter. "never yet, jacob, have i put my feet into that which floateth on the watery element," observed he to me; "nor would i now, but that it saveth money, which thou knowest well is with me not plentiful. many dangers i expect, many perils shall i encounter; such have i read of in books; and well might horace exclaim--`_ille robur et aes triplex_,' with reference to the first man who ventured afloat. still doth mr drummond assure me that the lighter is of that strength as to be able to resist the force of the winds and waves; and, confiding in providence, i intend to venture, jacob, `_te duce_.'" "nay, sir," replied i, laughing at the idea which the dominie appeared to have formed of the dangers of river navigation, "old tom is the _dux_." "old tom; where have i seen that name? now i do recall to mind that i have seen the name painted in large letters upon a cask at the tavern bar of the inn at brentford; but what it did intend to signify i did not inquire. what connection is there?" "none," replied i; "but i rather think they are very good friends. the tide turns in half-an-hour, sir; are you ready to go on board?" "truly am i, and well prepared, having my habiliments in a bundle, my umbrella and my great-coat, as well as my spencer for general wear. but where i am to sleep hath not yet been made known to me. peradventure one sleepeth not--`_tanto in periculo_.'" "yes, sir, we do. you shall have my berth, and i'll turn in with young tom." "hast thou, then, a young tom as well as an old tom on board?" "yes, sir; and a dog, also, of the name of tommy." "well, then, we will embark, and thou shalt make me known to this triad of thomases. `_inde_ tomos _dictus locus est_.' (_cluck, cluck_.) ovid, i thank thee." chapter eleven. much learning afloat--young tom is very lively upon the dead languages-the dominie, after experiencing the wonders of the mighty deep, prepares to revel upon lobscouse--though the man of learning gets many songs and some yarns from old tom, he loses the best part of a tale without knowing it. the old dominie's bundle and other paraphernalia being sent on board, he took farewell of mr drummond and his family in so serious a manner, that i was convinced that he considered he was about to enter upon a dangerous adventure, and then i led him down to the wharf where the lighter lay alongside. it was with some trepidation that he crossed the plank, and got on board, when he recovered himself and looked round. "my sarvice to you, old gentleman," said a voice behind the dominie. it was that of old tom, who had just come from the cabin. the dominie turned round, and perceived old tom. "this is old tom, sir," said i to the dominie, who stared with astonishment. "art thou, indeed? jacob, thou didst not tell me that he had been curtailed of his fair proportions, and i was surprised. art thou then dux?" continued the dominie, addressing old tom. "yes," interrupted young tom, who had come from forward, "he is _ducks_, because he waddles on his short stumps; and i won't say who be goose. eh, father?" "take care you don't _buy goose_, for your imperance, sir," cried old tom. "a forward boy," exclaimed the dominie. "yes," replied tom "i'm generally forward." "art thou forward in thy learning? canst thou tell me latin for goose?" "to be sure," replied tom; "brandy." "brandy!" exclaimed the dominie. "nay, child, it is _anser_." "then i was right," replied tom. "you had your _answer_!" "the boy is apt." _cluck cluck_. "he is apt to be devilish saucy, old gentleman; but never mind that, there's no harm in him." "this, then, is young tom, i presume, jacob?" said the dominie, referring to me. "yes, sir," replied i. "you have seen old tom, and young tom, and you have only to see tommy." "want to see tommy, sir?" cried tom. "here, tommy, tommy!" but tommy, who was rather busy with a bone forward, did not immediately answer to his call, and the dominie turned round to survey the river. the scene was busy, barges and boats passing in every direction, others lying on shore, with waggons taking out the coals and other cargoes, men at work, shouting or laughing with each other. "`_populus in fluviis_,' as virgil hath it. grand indeed is the vast river, `_labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum_,' as the generations of men are swept into eternity," said the dominie, musing aloud. but tommy had now made his appearance, and tom, in his mischief, had laid hold of the tail of the dominie's coat, and shown it to the dog. the dog, accustomed to seize a rope when it was shown to him, immediately seized the dominie's coat, making three desperate tugs at it. the dominie, who was in one of his reveries, and probably thought it was i who wished to direct his attention elsewhere, each time waved his hand, without turning round, as much as to say, "i am busy now." "haul and hold," cried tom to the dog, splitting his sides, and the tears running down his cheeks with laughing. tommy made one more desperate tug, carrying away one tail of the dominie's coat; but the dominie perceived it not, he was still "_nubibus_," while the dog galloped forward with the fragment, and tom chased him to recover it. the dominie continued in his reverie, when old tom burst out- "o, england, dear england, bright gem of the ocean, thy valleys and fields look fertile and gay, the heart clings to thee with a sacred devotion, and memory adores when in far lands away." the song gradually called the dominie to his recollection; indeed, the strain was so beautiful that it would have vibrated in the ears of a dying man. the dominie gradually turned round, and when old tom had finished, exclaimed, "truly it did delight mine ear, and from such-and," continued the dominie, looking down upon old tom--"without legs too!" "why, old gentleman, i don't sing with my _legs_," answered old tom. "nay, good _dux_, i am not so deficient as not to be aware that a man singeth from the mouth; yet is thy voice mellifluous, sweet as the honey of hybla, strong--" "as the latin for goose," finished tom. "come, father, old _dictionary_ is in the doldrums; rouse him up with another stave." "i'll rouse you up with the stave of a cask over your shoulders, mr tom. what have you done with the old gentleman's swallow-tail?" "leave me to settle that affair, father: i know how to get out of a scrape." "so you ought, you scamp, considering how many you get into; but the craft are swinging and heaving up. forward there, jacob, and sway up the mast; there's tom and tommy to help you." the mast was hoisted up, the sail set, and the lighter in the stream before the dominie was out of his reverie. "are there whirlpools here?" said the dominie, talking more to himself than to those about him. "whirlpools!" replied young tom, who was watching and mocking him; "yes, that there are, under the bridges. i've watched a dozen _chips_ go down, one after the other." "a dozen _ships_!" exclaimed the dominie, turning to tom; "and every soul lost?" "never saw them afterwards," replied tom, in a mournful voice. "how little did i dream of the dangers of those so near me," said the dominie, turning away, and communing with himself. "`those who go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters;'--`_et vastas aperit syrtes_;'--`these men see the works of the lord, and his wonders in the deep.'--`_alternante vorans vasta charybdis aqua_.'--`for at his word the stormy wind ariseth, which lifteth up the waves thereof.'--`_surgens a puppi ventus.--ubi tempestas et caeli mobilis humor_.'--`they are carried up to the heavens, and down again to the deep.'--`_gurgitibus miris et lactis vertice torrens_.'--`their soul melteth away because of their troubles.'--`_stant pavidi. omnibus ignoiae mortis timor, omnibus hostem_.'--`they reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man.'" "so they do, father, don't they, sometimes?" observed tom, leering his eye at his father. "that's all i've understood of his speech." "they are at their wit's end," continued the dominie. "mind the end of your wit, master tom," answered his father, wroth at the insinuation. "`so when they call upon the lord in their trouble'--`_cujus jurare timent et fallere nomen_'--`he delivereth them out of their distress, for he makest the storm to cease, so that the waves thereof are still;' yea, still and smooth as the peaceful water which now floweth rapidly by our anchored vessel--yet it appeareth to me that the scene hath changed. these fields met not mine eyes before. `_riparumque toros et prata recentia rivis_.' surely we have moved from the wharf?"--and the dominie turned round, and discovered, for the first time, that we were more than a mile from the place at which we had embarked. "pray, sir, what's the use of speech, sir?" interrogated tom, who had been listening to the whole of the dominie's long soliloquy. "thou asketh a foolish question, boy. we are endowed with the power of speech to enable us to communicate our ideas." "that's exactly what i thought, sir. then pray what's the use of your talking all that gibberish, that none of us could understand?" "i crave thy pardon, child; i spoke, i presume, in the dead languages." "if they're dead, why not let them rest in their graves?" "good; thou hast wit." (_cluck, cluck_.) "yet, child, know that it is pleasant to commune with the dead." "is it? then we'll put you on shore at battersea churchyard." "silence, tom. he's full of his sauce, sir--you must forgive it." "nay, it pleaseth me to hear him talk; but it would please me more to hear thee sing." "then here goes, sir, to drown tom's impudence:- "glide on my bark, the morning tide is gently floating by thy side; around thy prow the waters bright, in circling rounds of broken light, are glittering, as if ocean gave her countless gems unto the wave. "that's a pretty air, and i first heard it sung by a pretty woman; but that's all i know of the song. she sang another- "i'd be a butterfly, born in a bower." "you'd be a butterfly!" said the dominie, taking old tom literally, and looking at his person. young tom roared, "yes, sir, he'd be a butterfly, and i don't see why he shouldn't very soon. his legs are gone, and his wings aren't come: so he's a grub now, and that, you know, is the next thing to it. what a funny old beggar it is, father--aren't it?" "tom, tom, go forward, sir; we must shoot the bridge." "shoot!" exclaimed the dominie; "shoot what?" "you aren't afraid of fire-arms, are ye, sir?" inquired tom. "nay, i said not that i was afraid of fire-arms; but why should you shoot?" "we never could get on without it, sir; we shall have plenty of shooting, by-and-by. you don't know this river." "indeed, i thought not of such doings; or that there were other dangers besides that of the deep waters." "go forward, tom, and don't be playing with your betters," cried old tom. "never mind him, sir, he's only humbugging you." "explain, jacob. the language of both old tom and young tom are to me as incomprehensible as would be that of the dog tommy." "or as your latin is to them, sir." "true, jacob, true. i have no right to complain; nay, i do not complain, for i am amused, although at times much puzzled." we now shot putney bridge, and as a wherry passed us, old tom carolled out- "did you ever hear tell of a jolly young waterman?" "no, i never did," said the dominie, observing old tom's eyes directed towards him. tom, amused by this _naivete_ on the part of the dominie, touched him by the sleeve, on the other side, and commenced with his treble- "did you ne'er hear a tale of a maid in the vale?" "not that i can recollect, my child," replied the dominie. "then, where have you been all your life?" "my life has been employed, my lad, in teaching the young idea how to shoot." "so, you're an old soldier, after all, and afraid of fire-arms. why don't you hold yourself up? i suppose it's that enormous jib of yours that brings you down by the head." "tom, tom, i'll cut you into pork pieces if you go on that gait. go and get dinner under weigh, you scamp, and leave the gentleman alone. here's more wind coming. "a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast. and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee." "jacob," said the dominie, "i have heard by the mouth of rumour, with her hundred tongues, how careless and indifferent are sailors unto danger; but i never could have believed that such lightness of heart could have been shown. yon man, although certainly not old in years, yet, what is he?--a remnant of a man resting upon unnatural and ill-proportioned support. yon lad, who is yet but a child, appears as blythe and merry as if he were in possession of all the world can afford. i have an affection for that bold child, and would fain teach him the rudiments, at least, of the latin tongue." "i doubt if tom would ever learn them, sir. he hath a will of his own." "it grieveth me to hear thee say so, for he lacketh not talent, but instruction; and the dux, he pleaseth me mightily--a second palinurus. yet how that a man could venture to embark upon an element, to struggle through the horrors of which must occasionally demand the utmost exertion of every limb, with the want of the two most necessary for his safety, is to me quite incomprehensible." "he can keep his legs, sir." "nay, jacob; how can he _keep_ what are _already gone_? even thou speakest strangely upon the water. i see the dangers that surround us, jacob, yet i am calm: i feel that i have not lived a wicked life--`_integer vitae, scelerisque purus_,' as horace truly saith, may venture, even as i have done, upon the broad expanse of water. what is it that the boy is providing for us? it hath an inviting smell." "lobscouse, master," replied old tom, "and not bad lining either." "i recollect no such word--_unde derivatur_, friend?" "what's that, master?" inquired old tom. "it's latin for lobscouse, depend upon it, father," cried tom, who was stirring up the savoury mess with a large wooden spoon. "he be a _deadly_ lively old gentleman, with his dead language. dinner's all ready. are we to let go the anchor, or pipe to dinner first?" "we may as well anchor, boys. we have not a quarter of an hour's more ebb, and the wind is heading us." tom and i went forward, brailed up the mainsail, cleared away, and let go the anchor. the lighter swung round rapidly to the stream. the dominie, who had been in a fit of musing, with his eyes cast upon the forests of masts which we had passed below london bridge, and which were now some way astern of us, of a sudden exclaimed, in a loud voice, "_parce precor! periculosum est_!" the lighter, swinging short round to her anchor, had surprised the dominie with the rapid motion of the panorama, and he thought we had fallen in with one of the whirlpools mentioned by tom. "what has happened, good dux? tell me," cried the dominie to old tom, with alarm in his countenance. "why, master, i'll tell you after my own fashion," replied old tom, smiling; and then singing, as he held the dominie by the button of his spencer- "now to her berth the craft draws nigh, with slacken'd sail, she feels the tide; `stand clear the cable!' is the cry- the anchor's gone, we safely ride. "and now, master, we'll bail out the lobscouse. we sha'n't weigh anchor again until to-morrow morning; the wind's right in our teeth, and it will blow fresh, i'm sartain. look how the scud's flying; so now we'll have a jolly time of it, and you shall have your allowance of grog on board before you turn in." "i have before heard of that potation," replied the dominie, sitting down on the coaming of the hatchway, "and fain would taste it." chapter twelve. is a chapter of tales in a double sense--the dominie, from the natural effects of his single-heartedness, begins to see double--a new definition of philosophy, with an episode on jealousy. we now took our seats on the deck, round the saucepan, for we did not trouble ourselves with dishes, and the dominie appeared to enjoy the lobscouse very much. in the course of half-an-hour all was over; that is to say, we had eaten as much as we wished; and the newfoundland dog, who, during our repast, lay close by young tom, flapping the deck with his tail, and sniffing the savoury smell of the compound, had just licked all our plates quite clean, and was now finishing with his head in the saucepan; while tom was busy carrying the crockery into the cabin, and bringing out the bottle and tin pannikins, ready for the promised carouse. "there, now, master, there's a glass o' grog for you that would float a marline-spike. see if that don't warm the _cockles_ of your old heart." "ay," added tom, "and set all your _muscles_ as taut as weather backstays." "master tom, with your leave, i'll mix your grog for you myself. hand me back that bottle, you rascal." "just as you please, father," replied tom, handing the bottle; "but recollect, none of your _water bewitched_. only help me as you love me." old tom mixed a pannikin of grog for tom, and another for himself. i hardly need say which was the _stiffer_ of the two. "well, father, i suppose you think the grog will run short. to be sure, one bottle aren't too much 'mong four of us." "one bottle, you scamp! there's another in the cupboard." "then you must see double already, father." old tom, who was startled at this news, and who imagined that tom must have gained possession of the other bottle, jumped up and made for the cupboard, to ascertain whether what tom asserted was correct. this was what tom wished; he immediately changed pannikins of grog with his father, and remained quiet. "there _is_ another bottle, tom," said his father, coming out and taking his seat again. "i knew there was. you young rascal, you don't know how you frightened me!" and old tom put the pannikin to his lips. "drowned the miller, by heavens!" said he, "what could i have been about?" ejaculated he, adding more spirit to his mixture. "i suppose, upon the strength of another bottle in the locker, you are doubling the strength of your grog. come, father," and tom held out his pannikin, "do put a little drop in mine--it's seven-water grog, and i'm not on the black-list." "no, no, tom; your next shall be stronger. well, master, how do you like your liquor?" "verily," replied the dominie, "it is a pleasant and seducing liquor. lo and behold! i am at the bottom of my utensil." "stop till i fill it up again, old gentleman. i see you are one of the right sort. you know what the song says- "a plague on those musty old lubbers, who tell us to fast and to think, and patient fall in with life's rubbers, with nothing but _water_ to _drink_! "water, indeed! the only use of water i know is to mix your grog with, and float vessels up and down the world. why was the sea made salt, but to prevent our drinking too much water. water, indeed! "a can of good grog, had they swigg'd it, t'would have set them for pleasure agog, and in spite of the rules of the schools, the old fools would have all of them swigg'd it, and swore there was nothing like grog." "i'm exactly of your opinion, father," said tom, holding out his empty pannikin. "always ready for two things, master tom--grog and mischief; but, however, you shall have one more _dose_." "it hath, then, medicinal virtues?" inquired the dominie. "ay, that it has, master--more than all the quacking medicines in the world. it cures grief and melancholy, and prevents spirits from getting low." "i doubt that, father," cried tom, holding up the bottle "for the more grog we drink, the more the _spirits become low_." _cluck, cluck_, came from the thorax of the dominie. "verily, friend tom, it appeareth, among other virtues, to sharpen the wits. proceed, friend dux, in the medicinal virtues of grog." "well, master, it cures love when it's not returned, and adds to it when it is. i've heard say it will cure jealousy; but that i've my doubts of. now i think on it, i will tell you a yarn about a jealous match between a couple of fools. jacob, aren't your pannikin empty, my boy?" "yes," replied i, handing it up to be filled. it was empty, for, not being very fond of it myself, tom, with my permission, had drunk it as well as his own. "there, jacob, is a good dose for you; you aren't always craving after it, like tom." "he isn't troubled with low spirits, as i am, father." "how long has that been your complaint, tom?" inquired i. "ever since i heard how to cure it. come, father, give us the yarn." "well, then, you must mind that an old shipmate o' mine, ben leader, had a wife named poll, a pretty sort of craft in her way--neat in her rigging, swelling-bows, taking sort of figure-head, and devilish well rounded in the counter; altogether, she was a very fancy girl, and all the men were after her. she'd a roguish eye, and liked to be stared at, as most pretty women do, because it flatters their vanities. now, although she liked to be noticed so far by the other chaps, yet ben was the only one she ever wished to be handled by; it was `paws off, pompey!' with all the rest. ben leader was a good-looking, active, smart chap, and could foot it in a reel, or take a bout at single-stick with the very best o' them; and she was mortal fond of him, and mortal jealous if he talked to any other woman, for the women liked ben as much as the men liked she. well, as they returned love for love, so did they return jealousy for jealousy; and the lads and lasses, seeing that, had a pleasure in making them come to a misunderstanding. so every day it became worse and worse between them. now, i always says that it's a stupid thing to be jealous, _'cause_ if there be _cause_, there be no _cause_ for love and if there be no _cause_, there be no _cause_ for jealousy." "you're like a row in a rookery, father--nothing but _caws_," interrupted tom. "well, i suppose i am; but that's what i call chop logic--aren't it, master?" "it was a syllogism," replied the dominie, taking the pannikin from his mouth. "i don't know what that is, nor do i want to know," replied old tom; "so i'll just go on with my story. well, at last they came to downright fighting. ben licks poll 'cause she talked and laughed with other men, and poll cries and whines all day 'cause he won't sit on her knee, instead of going on board and 'tending to his duty. well, one night, a'ter work was over, ben goes on shore to the house where he and poll used to sleep; and when he sees the girl in the bar, he says, `where is poll?' now, the girl at the bar was a fresh-comer, and answers, `what girl?' so ben describes her, and the bar-girl answers, `she be just gone to bed with her husband, i suppose;' for, you see, there was a woman like her who had gone up to her bed, sure enough. when ben heard that, he gave his trousers one hitch, and calls for a quartern, drinks it off with a sigh, and leaves the house, believing it all to be true. a'ter ben was gone, poll makes her appearance, and when she finds ben wasn't in the tap, says, `young woman, did a man go upstairs just now?' `yes,' replied the bar-girl, `with his wife, i suppose; they be turned in this quarter of an hour.' when she almost turned mad with rage, and then as white as a sheet, and then she burst into tears, and runs out of the house, crying out, `poor misfortunate creature that i am!' knocking everything down undersized, and running into the arms of every man who came athwart her hawse." "i understood him, but just now, that she was running on foot; yet doth he talk about her _horse_. expound, jacob." "it was a nautical figure of speech, sir." "exactly," rejoined tom; "it meant her figure-head, old gentleman; but my yarn won't cut a figure if i'm brought up all standing in this way. suppose, master, you hear the story first, and understand it a'terwards?" "i will endeavour to comprehend by the context," replied the dominie. "that is, i suppose, that you'll allow me to stick to my text. well, then, here's coil away again. ben, you see, what with his jealousy and what with a whole quartern at a draught, became _somehow nohow_, and he walked down to the jetty with the intention of getting rid of himself, and his wife and all his trouble by giving his soul back to his creator, and his body to the fishes." "bad philosophy," quoth the dominie. "i agree with you, master," replied old tom. "pray what sort of a thing is philosophy?" inquired tom. "philosophy," replied old tom, "is either hanging, drowning, shooting yourself, or, in short, getting out of the world without help." "nay," replied the dominie, "that is _felo de se_." "well, i pronounce it quicker than you, master; but it's one and the same thing: but to go on. while ben was standing on the jetty, thinking whether he should take one more quid of 'baccy afore he dived, who should come down but poll, with her hair all adrift, streaming and coach-whipping astern of her, with the same intention as ben--to commit _philo-zoffy_. ben, who was standing at the edge of the jetty, his eyes fixed upon the water, as it eddied among the piles, looking as dismal as if he had swallowed a hearse and six, with the funeral feathers hanging out of his mouth--" "a bold comparison," murmured the dominie. "never sees her; and she was so busy with herself, that, although close to him, she never sees he--always remembering that the night was dark. so poll turned her eyes up, for all the world like a dying jackdaw." "tell me, friend dux," interrupted the dominie, "doth a jackdaw die in any peculiar way?" "yes," replied young tom; "he always dies black, master." "then doth he die as he liveth. (_cluck, cluck_.) proceed, good dux." "and don't you break the thread of my yarn any more, master, if you wish to hear the end of it. so poll begins to bludder about ben. `o ben, ben,' cried she; `cruel, cruel man; for to come--for to go;--for to go-for to come!' "`who's there?' shouted ben. "`for to come--for to go,' cried poll. "`ship ahoy!' hailed ben, again. "`for to go--for to come,' blubbered poll; and then she couldn't bring out anything more for sobbing. with that, ben, who thought he knew the voice, walks up to her, and says, `be that you, poll?' "`be that you, ben?' replied poll, taking her hands from her face, and looking at him. "`i thought you were in bed with--with--oh! poll!' said ben. "`and i thought you were in bed with--oh! ben!' replied poll. "`but i wasn't, poll?' "`nor more wasn't i, ben.' "`and what brought you here, poll?' "`i wanted for to die, ben. and what brought you here, ben?' "`i didn't want for to live, poll, when i thought you false.' "then polly might have answered in the words of the old song, master; but her poor heart was too full, i suppose." and tom sang- "your polly has never been false, she declares, since last time we parted at wapping old stairs. "howsomever, in the next minute they were both hugging and kissing, sobbing, shivering and shaking in each other's arms; and as soon as they had settled themselves a little, back they went, arm-in-arm, to the house, and had a good stiff glass to prevent their taking the rheumatism, went to bed, and were cured of their jealously ever a'terwards--which in my opinion, was a much better _philo-zoffy_ than the one they had both been bound on. there, i've wound it all off at last, master, and now we'll fill up our pannikins." "before i consent, friend dux, pr'ythee inform me how much of this pleasant liquor may be taken without inebriating, _vulgo_, getting tipsy." "father can drink enough to float a jolly-boat, master," replied tom; "so you needn't fear. i'll drink pan for pan with you all night long." "indeed you won't, mister tom," replied the father. "but i will, master." i perceived that the liquor had already had some effect upon my worthy pedagogue, and was not willing that he should be persuaded into excess. i therefore pulled him by the coat as a hint; but he was again deep in thought, and he did not heed me. tired of sitting so long, i got up, and walked forward to look at the cable. "strange," muttered the dominie, "that jacob should thus pull me by the garment. what could he mean?" "did he pull you, sir?" inquired tom. "yes, many times; and then he walked away." "it appears that you have been pulled too much, sir," replied tom, appearing to pick up the tail of his coat, which had been torn off by the dog, and handing it to him. "_eheu! jacobe--fili dilectissime--quid fecisti_?" cried the dominie, holding up the fragment of his coat with a look of despair. "`a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether,'" sang out old tom: and then looking at tom, "now, ain't you a pretty rascal, master tom?" "it is done," exclaimed the dominie, with a sigh, putting the fragment into the remaining pocket; "and it cannot be undone." "now, i think it is undone, and can be done, master," replied tom. "a needle and thread will soon join the pieces of your old coat again--in _holy_ matrimony, i may safely say--" "true. (_cluck, cluck_.) my housekeeper will restore it; yet will she be wroth, `_feminae curaeque iraeque_;' but let us think no more about it," cried the dominie, drinking deeply from his pannikin, and each minute verging fast to intoxication. "`_nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero pulsanda tellus_.' i feel as if i were lifted up, and could dance, yea, and could exalt my voice and sing." "could you, my jolly old master? then we will both dance and sing- "come, let us dance and sing, while all barbadoes bells shall ring, mars scrapes the fiddle string while venus plays the lute. hymen gay, trips away, jocund at the wedding day. "now for chorus- "come, let us dance and sing." chapter thirteen. the "fun grows fast and furious"--the pedagogue does not scan correctly, and his feet become very unequal--an allegorical compliment almost worked up into a literal quarrel--at length the mighty are laid low, and the dominie hurts his nose. i heard tom's treble, and a creaking noise, which i recognised to proceed from the dominie, who had joined the chorus; and i went aft, if possible to prevent further excess; but i found that the grog had mounted into the dominie's head, and all my hints were disregarded. tom was despatched for the other bottle, and the dominie's pannikin was replenished, old tom roaring out- "come, sling the flowing bowl; fond hopes arise, the girls we prize shall bless each jovial soul; the can, boys, bring, we'll dance and sing, while foaming billows roll. "now for the chorus again- "come, sling the flowing bowl, etcetera. "jacob, why don't you join?" the chorus was given by the whole of us. the dominie's voice was even louder, though not quite so musical, as old tom's. "_evoe_!" cried the dominie; "_evoe! cantemus_. "_amo, amas_--i loved a lass, for she was tall and slender; _amas, amat_--she laid me flat, though of the feminine gender. "truly do i not forget the songs of my youth, and of my hilarious days: yet doth the potent spirit work upon me like the god in the cumean sybil; and i shall soon prophecy that which shall come to pass." "so can i," said tom, giving me a nudge, and laughing. "do thine office of ganymede, and fill up the pannikin; put not in too much of the element. once more exalt thy voice, good dux." "always ready, master," cried tom, who sang out again in praise of his favourite liquor- "smiling grog is the sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor, his compass, his cable, his log, that gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker. though dangers around him, unite to confound him, he braves them, and tips off his grog. 'tis grog, only grog, is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log, the sailor's sheet anchor is grog." "verily, thou art an apollo--or, rather, referring to thy want of legs, half an apollo--that is, a _demi_-god. (_cluck, cluck_.) sweet is thy lyre, friend dux." "fair words, master; i'm no liar," cried tom. "clap a stopper on your tongue, or you'll get into disgrace." "_ubi lapsus quid feci_," said the dominie; "i spoke of thy musical tongue; and, furthermore, i spoke alle-gori-cal-ly." "i know a man lies with his tongue as well as you do, old chap; but as for telling a _hell of a_ (something) _lie_, as you states, i say i never did," rejoined old tom, who was getting cross in his cups. i now interfered, as there was every appearance of a fray; and in spite of young tom, who wished, as he termed it, to _kick up a shindy_, prevailed upon them to make friends, which they did, shaking hands for nearly five minutes. when this was ended, i again entreated the dominie not to drink any more, but to go to bed. "_amice, jacobe_," replied the dominie; "the liquor hath mounted into thy brain, and thou wouldst rebuke thy master and thy preceptor. betake thee to thy couch, and sleep off the effects of thy drink. verily, jacob, thou art _plenus veteris bacchi_; or, in plain english, thou art drunk. canst thou conjugate, jacob? i fear not. canst thou decline, jacob? i fear not. canst thou scan, jacob? i fear not. nay, jacob, methinks that thou art unsteady in thy gait, and not over clear in thy vision. canst thou hear, jacob? if so, i will give thee an oration against inebriety, with which thou mayest down on thy pillow. wilt thou have it in latin or in greek?" "o, damn your greek and latin!" cried old tom; "keep that for to-morrow. sing us a song, my old hearty; or shall i sing you one? here goes- "for while the grog goes round, all sense of danger's drown'd, we despise it to a man; we sing a little--" "sing a little," bawled the dominie. "and laugh a little--" "laugh a little," chorused young tom. "and work a little--" "work a little," cried the dominie. "and swear a little--" "swear _not_ a little," echoed tom. "and fiddle a little--" "fiddle a little," hiccuped the dominie. "and foot it a little--" "foot it a little," repeated tom. "and swig the flowing can, and fiddle a little, and foot it a little, and swig the flowing can--" roared old tom, emptying his pannikin. "and swig the flowing can--" followed the dominie, tossing off his. "and swig the flowing can--" cried young tom turning up his pannikin empty. "hurrah! that's what i calls glorious. let's have it over again, and then we'll have another dose. come, now, all together." again was the song repeated; and when they came to "foot it a little," old tom jumped on his stumps, seizing hold of the dominie, who immediately rose, and the three danced round and round for a minute or two, singing the song and chorus, till old tom, who was very far gone, tripped against the coamings of the hatchway, pitching his head into the dominie's stomach, who fell backwards, clinging to young tom's hand; so that they all rolled on the deck together--my worthy preceptor underneath the other two. "foot it _rather too much_ that time, father," said young tom, getting up the first, and laughing. "come, jacob, let's put father on his pins again; he can't rise without a purchase." with some difficulty, we succeeded. as soon as he was on his legs again, old tom put a hand upon each of our shoulders, and commenced, with a drunken leer- "what though his timbers they are gone, and he's a slave to tipple, no better sailor e'er was born than tom, the jovial cripple. "thanky, my boys, thanky; now rouse up the old gentleman. i suspect we knocked the wind out of him. hollo, there, are you hard and fast?" "the bricks are hard, and verily my senses are fast departing," quoth the dominie, rousing himself, and sitting up, staring around him. "senses going, do you say, master?" cried old tom. "don't throw them overboard till we have made a finish. one more pannikin apiece, one more song, and then to bed. tom, where's the bottle?" "drink no more, sir, i beg; you'll be ill to-morrow," said i to the dominie. "_deprome quadrimum_," hiccuped the dominie. "_carpe diem--quam minimum--creula postero._--sing, friend dux--_quem virum--sumes celebrare--music amicus_.--where's my pattypan?--we are not thracians--_natis in usum--laetitae scyphis pugnare_--(hiccup)--_thracum est_--therefore we--will not fight--but we will drink--_recepto dulce mihi furere est amico_--jacob, thou art drunk--sing, friend dux, or shall i sing? "_propria quae maribus_ had a little dog, _quae genus_ was his name-"my memory faileth me--what was the tune?" "that tune was the one the old cow died of, i'm sure," replied tom. "come, old nosey, strike up again." "nosey, from _nasus_--truly, it is a fair epithet; and it remindeth me that my nose--suffered in the fall which i received just now. yet i cannot sing--having no words--" "nor tune, either, master," replied old tom; "so here goes for you- "young susan had lovers, so many that she hardly knew upon which to decide; they all spoke sincerely, and promised to be all worthy of such a sweet bride. in the morning she'd gossip with william, and then the noon will be spent with young harry, the evening with tom; so, amongst all the men, she never could tell which to marry. heigho! i am afraid too many lovers will puzzle a maid. "it pleaseth me--it ringeth in mine ears--yea, most pleasantly. proceed,--the girl was as the pyrrha of horace- "quis multa gracillis--te puer in rosa- perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus. grate, pyrrha--sub antro?" "that's all high dutch to me, master; but i'll go on if i can. my memory box be a little out of order. let me see--oh! "now william grew jealous, and so went away; harry got tired of wooing; and tom having teased her to fix on the day, received but a frown for so doing; so, 'mongst all her lovers, quite left in the lurch, she pined every night on her pillow; and meeting one day a pair going to church, turned away, and died under a willow. heigho! i am afraid too many lovers will puzzle a maid. "now, then, old gentleman, tip off your grog. you've got your allowance, as i promised you." "come, master, you're a cup too low," said tom, who, although in high spirits, was not at all intoxicated; indeed, as i afterwards found, he could carry more than his father. "come, shall i give you a song?" "that's right, tom; a volunteer's worth two pressed men. open your mouth wide, an' let your whistle fly away with the gale. you whistles in tune, at all events." tom then struck up, the dominie see-sawing as he sat, and getting very sleepy- "luck in life, or good or bad, ne'er could make me melancholy; seldom rich, yet never sad, sometimes poor, yet always jolly. fortune's in my scale, that's poz, of mischance put more than half in; yet i don't know how it was, i could never cry for laughing- ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! i could never cry for laughing. "now for chorus, father- "ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! i could never cry for laughing. "that's all i know; and that's enough, for it won't wake up the old gentleman." but it did. "ha, ha, ha--ha, ha, ha! i could never die for laughing," bawled out the dominie, feeling for his pannikin; but this was his last effort. he stared round him. "verily, verily, we are in a whirlpool-how everything turneth round and round! who cares? am i not an ancient mariner--`_qui videt mare turgidum--et infames scopulos_.' friend dux, listen to me--_favet linguis_." "well," hiccuped old tom, "so i will--but speak--plain english--as i do." "that i'll be hanged if he does," said tom to me. "in half an hour more i shall understand old nosey's latin just as well as his--plain english, as he calls it." "i will discuss in any language--that is--in any tongue--be it in the greek or the latin--nay, even--(hiccups)--friend dux--hast thou not partaken too freely--of--dear me! _quo me, bacche, rapis tui--plenum_-truly i shall be tipsy--and will but finish my pattypan--_dulce periculum est_--jacob--can there be two jacobs?--and two old toms?-nay--_mirabile dictu_--there are two young toms, and two dog tommies-each with--two tails. _bacche, parce--precor--precor_--jacob, where art thou?--_ego sum tu es_--thou art--_sumus_, we are--where am i? _procumbit humi bos_--for bos--read dobbs--_amo, amas_--i loved a lass. _tityre, tu patulae sub teg-mine_--nay--i quote wrong--then must i be--i do believe that--i'm drunk." "and i'm cock sure of it," cried tom, laughing, as the dominie fell back in a state of insensibility. "and i'm cock sure of it," said old tom, rolling himself along the deck to the cabin hatch "that i've as much--as i can stagger--under, at all events--so i'll sing myself to sleep--'cause why--i'm happy. jacob-mind you keep all the watches to-night--and tom may keep the rest." old tom then sat up, leaning his back against the cabin hatch, and commenced one of those doleful ditties which are sometimes heard on the forecastle of a man-of-war; he had one or two of the songs that he always reserved for such occasions. while tom and i dragged the dominie to bed, old tom drawled out his ditty- "oh! we sailed to virgi-ni-a, and thence to fy-al, where we water'd our shipping, and so then weigh-ed all, full in view, on the seas--boys--seven sail we did es-py, o! we man-ned our capstern, and weighed spee-di-ly. "that's right, my boys, haul and hold--stow the old dictionary away--for he can't command the parts of speech. "the very next morning--the engagement proved--hot, and brave admiral benbow received a chain-shot. o when he was wounded to his merry men--he--did--say, take me up in your arms, boys, and car-ry me a-way. "now, boys, come and help me--tom--none of your foolery--for your poor old father is--drunk--." we assisted old tom into the other "bed-place" in the cabin. "thanky, lads--one little bit more, and then i'm done--as the auctioneer says-going--going- "o the guns they did rattle, and the bul-lets--did--fly, when brave benbow--for help loud--did cry, carry me down to the cock-pit--there is ease for my smarts, if my merry men should see me--'twill sure--break--their--hearts. "going,--old swan-hopper--as i am--going--gone." tom and i were left on deck. "now, jacob, if you have a mind to turn in. i'm not sleepy--you shall keep the morning watch." "no, tom, you'd better sleep first. i'll call you at four o'clock. we can't weigh till tide serves; and i shall have plenty of sleep before that." tom went to bed, and i walked the deck till the morning, thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what the dominie would say when he came to his senses. at four o'clock, as agreed, i roused tom out, and turned into his bed, and was soon as fast asleep as old tom and the dominie, whose responsive snores had rung in my ears during the whole time that i had walked the deck. chapter fourteen. cold water and repentance--the two toms almost moral, and myself full of wise reflections--the chapter, being full of grave saws, is luckily very short; and though a very sensible one, i would not advise it to be skipped. about half-past eight the next morning, i was called up by tom to assist in getting the lighter under weigh. when on deck i found old tom as fresh as if he had not drunk a drop the night before, very busily stumping about the windlass, with which we hove up first the anchor, and then the mast. "well, jacob, my boy, had sleep enough? not too much, i dare say; but a bout like last night don't come often, jacob--only once in a way; now, and then i do believe it's good for my health. it's a great comfort to me, my lad, to have you on board with me, because as you never drinks, i may now indulge a _little_ oftener. as for tom, i can't trust him--too much like his father--had nobody to trust to for the look-out, except the dog tommy, till you came with us. i can trust tommy as far as keeping off the river sharks; he'll never let them take a rope-yarn off the deck, night or day; but a dog's but a dog, after all. now we're brought to; so clap on, my boy, and let's heave up with a will." "how's the old gentleman, father?" said tom, as we paused a moment from our labour at the windlass. "oh! he's got a good deal more to sleep off yet. there he lies, flat on his back, blowing as hard as a grampus. better leave him as long as we can. we'll rouse him as soon as we turn greenwich reach. tom, didn't you think his nose loomed devilish large yesterday?" "never seed such a devil of a cutwater in my life, father." "well, then, you'll see a larger when he gets up, for it's swelled bigger than the brandy bottle. heave and haul! now bring to the fall, and up with the mast, boys, while i goes aft and takes the helm." old tom went aft. during the night the wind had veered to the north, and the frost had set in sharp, the rime covered the deck of the barge, and here and there floating ice was to be seen coming down with the tide. the banks of the river and fields adjacent were white with hoar frost, and would have presented but a cheerless aspect, had not the sun shone out clear and bright. tom went aft to light the fire, while i coiled away and made all snug forward. old tom as usual carolled forth- "oh! for a soft and gentle wind, i heard a fair one cry but give to me the roaring breeze, and white waves beating high, and white waves beating high, my boys, the good ship tight and free, the world of waters is our own, and merry men are we." "a nice morning this for cooling a hot head, that's sartain. tommy, you rascal, you're like a court lady, with her velvet _gownd_, covered all over with diamonds," continued old tom, looking at the newfoundland dog, whose glossy black hair was besprinkled with little icicles, which glittered in the sun. "you and jacob were the only sensible ones of the party last night, for you both were sober." "so was i, father. i was as sober as a judge," observed tom, who was blowing up the fire. "may be, tom, as a judge a'ter dinner; but a judge on the bench be one thing, and a judge over a bottle be another, and not bad judges in that way either. at all events, if you warn't _sewed up_, it wasn't your fault." "and i suppose," replied tom, "it was only your misfortune that you were." "no, i don't say that; but still, when i look at the dog, who's but a beast by nature, and thinks of myself, who wasn't meant to be a beast, why, i blushes, that's all." "jacob, look at father--now, does he blush?" cried tom. "i can't say that i perceive it," replied i, smiling. "well, then, if i don't it's the fault of my having no legs. i'm sure when they were knocked off i lost half the blood in my body, and that's the reason, i suppose. at all events, i meant to blush, so we'll take the will for the deed." "but do you mean to keep sober in future, father?" said tom. "never do you mind that--mind your own business, mr tom. at all events, i sha'n't get tipsy till next time, and that's all i can say with safety, 'cause, d'ye see, i knows my failing. jacob, did you ever see that old gentleman sail too close to the wind before?" "i never did--i do not think that he was ever tipsy before last night." "then i pities him--his headache, and his repentance. moreover, there be his nose and the swallow-tail of his coat to make him unhappy. we shall be down abreast of the hospital in half-an-hour. suppose you go and give him a shake, jacob. not you, tom; i won't trust you--you'll be doing him a mischief; you haven't got no fellow-feeling, not even for dumb brutes." "i'll thank you not to take away my character that way, father," replied tom. "didn't i put you to bed last night when you were speechless?" "suppose you did--what then?" "why, then, i had a feeling for a dumb brute. i only say that, father, for the joke of it, you know," continued tom, going up to his father and patting his rough cheek. "i know that, my boy; you never were unkind, that's sartain; but you must have your joke- "merry thoughts are link'd with laughter, why should we bury them? sighs and tears may come hereafter, no need to hurry them. they who through a spying-glass, view the minutes as they pass, make the sun a gloomy mass, but the fault's their own, tom." in the meantime i was vainly attempting to rouse the dominie. after many fruitless attempts, i put a large quantity off snuff on his upper lip, and then blew it up his nose. but, merciful powers! what a nose it had become--larger than the largest pear that i ever saw in my life. the whole weight of old tom had fallen on it, and instead of being crushed by the blow, it appeared as if, on the contrary, it had swelled up, indignant at the injury and affront which it had received. the skin was as tight as the parchment of a drum, and shining as if it had been oiled, while the colour was a bright purple. verily, it was the dominie's nose in a rage. the snuff had the effect of partially awakening him from his lethargy. "six o'clock--did you say, mrs bately? are the boys washed--and in the schoolroom? i will rise speedily--yet i am overcome with much heaviness. _delapsus somnus_ ab--" and the dominie snored again. i renewed my attempts, and gradually succeeded. the dominie opened his eyes, stared at the deck and carlines above him, then at the cupboard by his side; lastly, he looked at and recognised me. "_eheu, jacobe_!--where am i? and what is that which presses upon my brain? what is it so loadeth my cerebellum, even as if it were lead? my memory--where is it? let me recall my scattered senses." here the dominie was silent for some time. "ah me! yea, and verily, i do recollect--with pain of head and more pain of heart--that which i would fain forget, which is, that i did forget myself; and indeed have forgotten all that passed the latter portion of the night. friend dux hath proved no friend, but hath led me into the wrong path: and as or the potation called _grog--eheu, jacobe_! how have i fallen--fallen in my own opinion--fallen in thine--how can i look thee in the face! o, jacob! what must thou think of him who hath hitherto been thy preceptor and thy guide!" here the dominie fell back on the pillow, and turned away his head. "it is not your fault, sir," replied i, to comfort him; "you were not aware of what you were drinking--you did not know that the liquor was so strong. old tom deceived you." "nay, jacob, i cannot lay that flattering unction to my wounded heart. i ought to have known, nay, now i recall to mind, that thou wouldst have warned me--even to the pulling off of the tail of my coat--yet i heeded thee not, and i am humbled--even i, the master over seventy boys!" "nay, sir, it was not i who pulled off the tail of your coat; it was the dog." "jacob, i have heard of the wonderful sagacity of the canine species, yet could not i ever have believed that a dumb brute would have perceived my folly, and warned me from intoxication. _mirabile dictu_! tell me, jacob, thou who hast profited by these lessons which thy master could give--although he could not follow up his precept by example--tell me, what did take place? let me know the full extent of my backsliding." "you fell asleep, sir, and we put you to bed." "who did me that office, jacob?" "young tom and i, sir; as for old tom, he was not in a state to help anybody." "i am humbled, jacob--" "nonsense, old gentleman; why make a fuss about nothing?" said old tom, who, overhearing our conversation came into the cabin. "you had a _drop_ too much, that's all, and what o' that? it's a poor heart that never rejoiceth. rouse a bit, wash your face with old thames water, and in half-an-hour you'll be as fresh as a daisy." "my head acheth!" exclaimed the dominie, "even as if there were a ball of lead rolling from one temple to the other; but my punishment is just." "that is the punishment of making too free with the bottle, for sartain; but if it is an offence, then it carries its own punishment and that's quite sufficient. every man knows that when the heart's over light at night, that the head's over heavy in the morning. i have known and proved it a thousand times. well, what then? i puts the good against the bad, and i takes my punishment like a man." "friend dux, for so i will still call thee, thou lookest not at the offence in a moral point of vision." "what's moral?" replied old tom. "i would point out that intoxication is sinful." "intoxication sinful! i suppose that means that it's a sin to get drunk. now, master, it's my opinion that as god almighty has given us good liquor, it was for no other purpose than to drink it; and therefore it would be ungrateful to him, and a sin, not to get drunk--that is, with discretion." "how canst thou reconcile getting drunk with discretion, good dux?" "i mean, master, when there's work to be done, the work should be done; but when there's plenty of time, and everything is safe, and all ready for a start the next morning, i can see no possible objection to a jollification. come, master, rouse out; the lighter's abreast of the hospital almost by this time, and we must put you on shore." the dominie, whose clothes were all on, turned out of his bed-place and went with us on deck. young tom, who was at the helm, as soon as we made our appearance, wished him a good-morning very respectfully. indeed, i always observed that tom, with all his impudence and waggery, had a great deal of consideration and kindness. he had overheard the dominie's conversation with me, and would not further wound his feelings with a jest. old tom resumed his place at the helm, while his son prepared the breakfast, and i drew a bucket of water for the dominie to wash his face and hands. of his nose not a word was said; and the dominie made no remarks to me on the subject, although i am persuaded it must have been very painful, from the comfort he appeared to derive in bathing it with the freezing water. a bowl of tea was a great solace to him, and he had hardly finished it when the lighter was abreast the hospital stairs. tom jumped into the boat and hauled it alongside. i took the other oar, and the dominie, shaking hands with old tom, said, "thou didst mean kindly, and therefore i wish thee a kind farewell, good dux." "god be with you, master," replied old tom; "shall we call for you as we come back?" "nay, nay," replied the dominie, "the travelling by land is more expensive, but less dangerous. i thank thee for thy songs, and--for all thy kindness, good dux. are my paraphernalia in the boat, jacob?" i replied in the affirmative. the dominie stepped in, and we pulled him on shore. he landed, took his bundle and umbrella under his arm, shook hands with tom and then with me, without speaking, and i perceived the tears start in his eyes as he turned and walked away. "well, now," said tom, looking after the dominie, "i wish i had been drunk instead of he. he does so take it to heart, poor old gentleman!" "he has lost his self-esteem, tom," replied i. "it should be a warning to you. come, get your oar to pass." "well, some people he fashioned one way and some another. i've been tipsy more than once, and i never lost anything but my reason, and that came back as soon as the grog left my head. i can't understand that fretting about having had a glass too much. i only frets when i can't get enough. well, of all the noses i ever saw, his bests them by chalks; i did so want to laugh at it, but i knew it would pain him." "it is very kind of you, tom, to hold your tongue, and i thank you very much." "and yet that old dad of mine swears i've got no fellow-feeling, which i consider a very undutiful thing for him to say. what's the reason, jacob, that sons be always cleverer than their fathers?" "i didn't know that was the case, tom." "but it is so _now_, if it wasn't in _olden time_. the proverb says, `young people _think_ old people to be fools, but old people _know_ young people to be fools.' we must alter that, for i says, `old people _think_ young people to be fools, but young people _know_ old people to be fools.'" "have it your own way, tom, that will do, rowed of all." we tossed in our oars, made the boat fast, and gained the deck, where old tom still remained at the helm. "well," said he, "jacob, i never thought i should be glad to see the old gentleman clear of the lighter, but i was--devilish glad; he was like a load on my conscience this morning; he was trusted to my charge by mr drummond, and i had no right to persuade him to make a fool of himself. but, however, what's done can't be helped, as you say sometimes; and it's no use crying; still it was a pity, for he be, for all the world, like a child. there's a fancy kind of lass in that wherry, crossing _our_ bows; look at the streamers from her top-gallant. "come o'er the sea, maiden, to me, mine through sunshine, storm, and snows, seasons may roll, but the true soul burns the same wherever it goes then come o'er the sea, maiden, with me." "see you hanged first, you underpinned old hulk!" replied the female in the boat, which was then close under our bows. "well, that be civil, for certain," said old tom, laughing. chapter fifteen. i am unshipped for a short time, in order to record shipments and engross invoices--form a new acquaintance, what is called in the world "a warm man," though he passed the best part of his life among icebergs, and one whole night within the ribs of death--his wife works hard at gentility. we arrived at sheerness the next morning, landed the bricks, which were for the government buildings, and returned in ballast to the wharf. my first inquiry was for the dominie; but he had not yet returned; and mr drummond further informed me that he had been obliged to send away his under-clerk and wished me to simply take his place until he could procure another. the lighter therefore took in her cargo, and sailed without me, which was of consequence, as my apprenticeship still went on. i now lived with mr drummond as one of his own family, and wanted for nothing. his continual kindness to me made me strive all i could to please him by diligence and attention, and i soon became very expert at accounts, and, as he said, very useful. the advantages to me, i hardly need observe were considerable, and i gained information every day. still, although i was glad to be of any use to mr drummond, the confinement at the desk was irksome, and i anxiously looked for the arrival of the new clerk to take my place and leave me free to join the lighter. mr drummond did not appear to me to be in any hurry; indeed, i believe that he would have retained me altogether, had he not perceived that i still wished to be on the river. "at all events, jacob, i shall keep you here until you are master of your work; it will be useful to you hereafter," he said to me one day; "and you do not gain much by sailing up and down the river." this was true; and i also derived much advantage from the evenings spent with mrs drummond, who was a very sensible good woman, and would make me read aloud to her and little sarah as they sat at their needle. i had no idea, until i was employed posting up the book, that mr drummond's concern was so extensive, or that there was so much capital employed in the business. the dominie returned a few days after my arrival. when we met his nose had resumed its former appearance, and he never brought up the subject of the evening on board of the lighter. i saw him frequently, mostly on sundays after i had been to church with the family; and half-an-hour, at least, was certain to be dedicated to our reading together one of the classics. as i was on shore several months, i became acquainted with many families, one or two of which were worth noticing. among the foremost was captain turnbull, at least such was his appellation until within the last two months previous to my making his acquaintance, when mr turnbull sent out his cards, _george turnbull, esquire_. the history of captain turnbull was as follows:--he had, with his twin brother, been hung up at the knocker, and afterwards had been educated at the foundling hospital; they had both been apprenticed to the sea; grown up thorough-bred, capital, seamen in the greenland fishery; rose to be mates then captains; had been very successful, owned part, then the whole of the ship, afterwards two or three ships; and had wound up with handsome fortunes. captain turnbull was a married man without a family; his wife, fine in person, vulgar in speech, a would-be fashionable lady, against which fashion captain t had for years pleaded poverty; but his brother, who had remained a bachelor, died, leaving him forty thousand pounds--a fact which could not be concealed. captain turnbull had not allowed his wife to be aware of the extent of his own fortune, more from a wish to live quietly and happily than from any motive of parsimony, for he was liberal to excess; but now he had no further excuse to plead, and mrs turnbull insisted upon _fashion_. the house they had lived in was given up, and a marine villa on the borders of the thames to a certain degree met the views of both parties; mrs turnbull anticipating dinners and fetes, and the captain content to watch what was going on in the river, and amuse himself in a wherry. they had long been acquaintances of mr and mrs drummond; and captain turnbull's character was such as always to command the respect of mr drummond, as he was an honest, friendly man. mrs turnbull had now set up her carriage, and she was, in her own opinion, a very great personage. she would have cut all her former acquaintance; but on that point the captain was inflexible, particularly as regarded the drummonds. as far as they were concerned, mrs turnbull gave way, mrs drummond being a lady-like woman, and mr drummond universally respected as a man of talent and information. captain, or rather, mr turnbull, was a constant visitor at our house, and very partial to me. he used to scold mr drummond for keeping me so close to my desk, and would often persuade him to give me a couple of hours' run. when this was obtained, he would call a waterman, throw him a crown, and tell him to get out of his wherry as fast as he could. we then embarked, and amused ourselves pulling up and down the river, while mrs turnbull, dressed in the extremity of the fashion, rode out in the carriage and left her cards in every direction. one day mr turnbull called upon the drummonds, and asked them to dine with him on the following saturday; they accepted the invitation. "by-the-by," said he, "i got what my wife calls a _remind_ in my pocket;" and he pulled out of his coat-pocket a large card, "with mr and mrs turnbull's compliments," etcetera, which card he had doubled in two by his sitting down upon it, shortly after he came in. mr turnbull straightened it again as well as he could, and laid it on the table. "and jacob," said he, "you'll come too. you don't want a remind; but if you do, my wife will send you one." i replied, "that i wanted no remind for a good dinner." "no, i dare say not, my boy; but recollect that you come an hour or two before the dinner-hour, to help me; there's so much fuss with one thing or another, that i'm left in the lurch; and as for trusting the keys of the spirit-room to that long-togged rascal of a butler, i'll see him harpoon'd first; so do you come and help me, jacob." this having been promised, he asked mr drummond to lend me for an hour or so, as he wished to take a row up the river. this was also consented to; we embarked and pulled away for kew bridge. mr turnbull was as good a hand at a yarn as old tom, and many were the adventures he narrated to me of what had taken place during the vicissitudes of his life, more especially when he was employed in the greenland fishery. he related an accident that morning, which particularly bore upon the marvellous, although i do not believe that he was at all guilty of indulging in a traveller's licence. "jacob," said he, "i recollect once when i was very near eaten alive by foxes, and that in a very singular manner. i was then mate of a greenland ship. we had been on the fishing ground for three months, and had twelve fish on board. finding we were doing well, we fixed our ice-anchors upon a very large iceberg, drifting up and down with it, and taking fish as we fell in with them. one morning we had just cast loose the carcass of a fish which we had cut up, when the man in the crow's nest, on the look-out for another `fall,' cried out that a large polar bear and her cub were swimming over to the iceberg, against the side of which, and about half-a-mile from us, the carcass of a whale was beating. as we had nothing to do, seven of us immediately started in chase we had intended to have gone after the foxes, which had gathered there also in hundreds, to prey upon the dead whale. it was then quite calm: we soon came up with the bear, who at first was for making off; but as the cub could not get on over the rough ice as well as the old one, she at last turned round to bay. we shot the cub to make sure of her, and it did make sure of the dam not leaving us till either she or we perished in the conflict. i never shall forget her moaning over the cub, as it lay bleeding on the ice, while we fired bullet after bullet into her. at last she turned round, gave a roar and a gnashing snarl, which you might have heard a mile, and, with her eyes flashing fire, darted upon us. we received her in a body, all close together, with our lances to her breast; but she was so large and strong, that she beat us all back, and two of us fell; fortunately the others held their ground, and as she was then on end, three bullets were put into her chest, which brought her down. i never saw so large a beast in my life. i don't wish to make her out larger than she really was, but i have seen many a bullock at smithfield which would not weigh two-thirds of her. after that, we had some trouble in despatching her; and while we were so employed, the wind blew up in gusts from the northward, and the snow fell heavy. the men were for returning to the ship immediately, which certainly was the wisest thing for us all to do; but i thought that the snowstorm would blow over in a short time, and not wishing to lose so fine a skin, resolved to remain and flay the beast; for i knew that if left there a few hours, as the foxes could not get hold of the carcass of the whale, which had not grounded, they would soon finish the bear and the cub, and the skins be worth nothing. well, the other men went back to the ship, and as it was, the snow-storm came on so thick that they lost their way, and would never have found her, if it was not that the bell was kept tolling for a guide to them. i soon found that i had done a very foolish thing; instead of the storm blowing over, the snow came down thicker and thicker; and before i had taken a quarter of the skin off, i was becoming cold and numbed, and then i was unable to regain the ship, and with every prospect of being frozen to death before the storm was over. at last, i knew what was my only chance. i had flayed all the belly of the bear, but had not cut her open. i ripped her up, tore out all her inside, and then contrived to get into her body, where i lay, and, having closed up the entrance hole, was warm and comfortable, for the animal heat had not yet been extinguished. this manoeuvre, no doubt, saved my life: and i have heard that the french soldiers did the same in their unfortunate russian campaign, killing their horses and getting inside to protect themselves from the dreadful weather. well, jacob, i had not lain more than half-an-hour, when i knew by sundry jerks and tugs at my newly invented hurricane-house that the foxes were busy--and so they were sure, enough. there must have been hundreds of them, for they were at work in all directions, and some pushed their sharp noses into the opening where i had crept in; but i contrived to get out my knife and saw their noses across whenever they touched me, otherwise i should have been eaten up in a very short time. there were so many of them, and they were so ravenous, that they soon got through the bear's thick skin, and were tearing away at the flesh. now i was not so much afraid of their eating me, as i thought that if i jumped up and discovered myself they would have all fled. no saying, though; two or three hundred ravenous devils take courage when together; but i was afraid that they would devour my covering from the weather, and then i should perish with the cold; and i was also afraid of having pieces nipped out of me, which would of course oblige me to quit my retreat. at last daylight was made through the upper part of the carcass, and i was only protected by the ribs of the animal, between which every now and then their noses dived and nipped my sealskin jacket. i was just thinking of shouting to frighten them away, when i heard the report of half-a-dozen muskets, and some of the bullets struck the carcass, but fortunately did not hit me. i immediately halloed as loud as i could, and the men, hearing me, ceased firing. they had fired at the foxes, little thinking that i was inside of the bear. i crawled out; the storm was over, and the men of the ship had come back to look for me. my brother, who was also a mate on board of the vessel, who had not been with the first party, had joined them in the search, but with little hopes of finding me alive. he hugged me in his arms, covered as i was with blood, as soon as he saw me. he's dead now, poor fellow-that's the story, jacob." "thank you, sir," replied i; but perceiving that the memory of his brother affected him, i did not speak again for a few minutes. we then resumed our conversation, and pulling back with the tide, landed at the wharf. on the day of the dinner party i went up to mr turnbull's at three o'clock as he had proposed. i found the house in a bustle; mr and mrs turnbull, with the butler and footman, in the dining-room, debating as to the propriety of _this_ and _that_ being placed _here_ and _there_, both servants giving their opinion, and arguing on a footing of equality, contradicting and insisting, mr turnbull occasionally throwing in a word, and each time snubbed by his wife, although the servants dare not take any liberty with him. "do, pray, mr turnbull, leave _h_us to settle these matters. get _h_up your wine; that is your department. leave the room, mr turnbull, _h_if you please. mortimer and i know what we are about, without your _h_interference." "oh! by the lord, i don't wish to interfere; but i wish you and your servants not to be squabbling, that's all. if they gave me half the _cheek_--" "do, pray, mr turnbull, leave the room, and allow me to regulate my own _'ouse_hold." "come, jacob, we'll go down into the cellar," said mr turnbull; and accordingly we went. i assisted mr turnbull in his department as much as i could, but he grumbled very much. "i can't bear all this nonsense, all this finery and foolery. everything comes up cold, everything is out of reach. the table's so long, and so covered with uneatables, that my wife is hardly within hail and, by jingo, with her the servants are masters. not with me, at all events; for if they spoke to me as they do to mrs turnbull, i would kick them out of the house. however, jacob, there's no help for it. all one asks for is quiet; and i must put up with all this sometimes, or i should have no quiet from one year's end to another. when a woman will have her way, there's no stopping her: you know the old verse- "a man's a fool who strives by force or skill to stem the torrent of a woman's will; for if she will, she will, you may depend on't, and if she won't, she won't--and there's an end on't. "now let's go up into my room, and we will chat while i wash my hands." as soon as mr turnbull was dressed, we went down into the drawing-room, which was crowded with tables loaded with every variety of ornamental articles. "now this is what my wife calls fashionable. one might as well be steering through an ice-floe as try to come to an anchor here without running foul of something. it's _hard-a-port_ or _hard-a-starboard_ every minute; and if your coat-tail _jibes_, away goes something, and whatever it is that smashes, mrs t always swears it was the _most valuable_ thing in the room. i'm like a bull in a china-shop. one comfort is, that i never come in here except when there's company. indeed, i'm not allowed, thank god. sit on a chair, jacob, one of those spider-like french things, for my wife won't allow _blacks_, as she calls them, to come to an anchor upon her sky-blue silk sofas. how stupid to have furniture that one's not to make use of! give me comfort but it appears that's not to be bought for money." chapter sixteen. high life above stairs, a little below the mark--fashion french, virtue, and all that. six o'clock was now near at hand, and mrs turnbull entered the drawing-room in full dress. she certainly was a very handsome woman, and had every appearance of being fashionable; but it was her language which exposed her. she was like the peacock. as long as she was silent you could but admire the plumage, but her voice spoilt all. "now, mr turnbull," said she, "i wish to _h_explain to you that there are certain _h_improprieties in your behaviour which i cannot put _h_up with, particularly that _h_of talking about when you were before the mast." "well, my dear, is that anything to be ashamed of?" "yes, mr turnbull, that _h_is--one _h_always sinks them ere particulars in fashionable society. to wirtuperate in company a'n't pleasant, and _h_i've thought of a plan which may _h_act as an _h_impediment to your vulgarity. recollect, mr t, when_h_ever i say that _h_i've an 'eadache, it's to be a sign for you to 'old your tongue; and, mr t, _h_oblige me by wearing kid gloves all the evening." "what! at dinner time, my dear?" "yes, mr t, at dinner time; your 'ands are not fit to be touched." "well, i recollect when you thought otherwise." "when, mr t? 'ave i not often told you so?" "yes, lately; but i referred to the time when one poll bacon of wapping took my hand for better or for worse." "really, mr t, you quite shock me. my name was mary, and the bacons are a good old _h_inglish name. you 'ave their _h_arms quartered on the carriage in right o' me. that's something, i can tell you." "something i had to pay for pretty smartly, at all events." "the payment, mr t, was on account of granting _h_arms to you, who never _'ad_ any." "and never wished for them. what do i care for such stuff?" "and when you did choose, mr turnbull, you might have consulted me, instead of making yourself the laughing-stock of sir george naylor and all the 'eralds. who but a madman would have chosen three harpoons _saluims_, and three barrels _couchants_, with a spouting whale for a crest? just to point out to everybody what should _h_ever be buried in _h_oblivion; and then your beastly motto--which i _would have_ changed--_`blubber for ever_!' blubber indeed! _h_enough to make _h_any one _blubber_ for ever." "well, the heralds told me they were just what i ought to have chosen, and very apposite, as they termed it." "they took your money and laughed at you. two pair of griffins, a lion, half-a-dozen leopards, and a hand with a dagger, wouldn't 'ave cost a farthing more. but what can you _h_expect from an _'og_?" "but if i was _cured_, i should be what you _were--bacon_." "i won't _demean_ myself, mr turnbull." "that's right, my dear, don't; there's no curing you. recollect the motto you chose in preference to mine." "well, and a very proper one--`_too much familiarity breeds contempt_'-is it not so, master faithful?" "yes, madam, it was one of our copies at school." "i beg your pardon, sir, it was my _h_own _h_invention." rap, tap, rap, tap, tap, tap, tap. "mr and mrs peters, of petercumb hall," announced the butler. enter mrs peters first, a very diminutive lady, and followed by mr peters, six feet four inches without his shoes, deduct for stooping and curved shoulders seven inches. mr peters had retired from the stock exchange with a competence, bought a place, named it petercumb hall, and set up his carriage. another knock, and mr and mrs drummond were announced. compliments exchanged, and a pastile lighted by mrs turnbull. "well, drummond," said mr turnbull, "what are coals worth now?" "mr turnbull, i've got such an _'eadache_." this was of course a matter of condolence from all present, and a stopper upon mr turnbull's tongue. another sounding rap, and a pause. "monsieur and madame de tagliabue coming up." enter monsieur and madame de tagliabue. the former, a dapper little frenchman, with a neat pair of legs, and stomach as round as a pea. madame sailing in like an outward-bound east indiaman, with studding sails below and aloft; so large in her dimensions, that her husband might be compared to the pilot-boat plying about her stern. "charmee de vous voir, madame tom-bulle. vous vous portez bien; n'est-ce pas?" "_ve_," replied mrs turnbull, who thus exhausted her knowledge of the french language while the monsieur tried in vain, first on one side, and then on the other, to get from under the lee of his wife and make his bow. this was not accomplished until the lady had taken possession of a sofa, which she filled most comfortably. who these people were, and how they lived, i never could find out: they came in a fly from brentford. another announcement. "my lord babbleton and mr smith coming up." "mr t, pray go down and receive his lordship. (there are two wax candles for you to light on the hall table, and you must walk up with them before his lordship," said the lady aside.) "i'll be hanged if i do," replied mr turnbull; "let the servants light him." "o, mr t, i've such an 'eadache?" "so you may have," replied mr t, sitting down doggedly. in the meantime mr smith entered, leading lord babbleton, a boy of twelve or thirteen years old, shy, awkward, red-haired, and ugly, to whom mr smith was tutor. mrs t had found out mr smith, who was residing near brentford with his charge, and made his acquaintance on purpose to have a lord on her visiting list, and, to her delight, the leader had not forgotten to bring his bear with him. mrs turnbull sprang to the door to receive them, making a prepared courtesy to the aristocratical cub, and then shaking him respectfully by the hand. "won't your lordship walk to the fire? isn't your lordship cold? i hope your lordship's sty is better in your lordship's eye. allow me to introduce to your lordship's notice mr and mrs peters--madame and mounsheer tagleebue--mr and mrs drummond, the right honourable lord viscount babbleton." as for mr turnbull and myself, we were left out as unworthy of introduction. "we are ready for dinner, mr turnbull." "snobbs, get dinner dressed up," said mr t to the butler. "o, mr t, i've such an 'eadache." this last headache was produced by mr t forgetting himself, and calling the butler by his real name, which was snobbs; but mrs turnbull had resolved that it should be changed to _mortimer_--or rather, to mr mortimer, as the household were directed to call him, on pain of expulsion. dinner was announced. madame tagliabue, upon what pretence i know not, was considered the first lady in the room, and lord babbleton was requested by mrs turnbull to hand her down. madame rose, took his lordship's hand, and led him away. before they were out of the room, his lordship had disappeared among the ample folds of madame's gown, and was seen no more until she pulled him out, on their arrival at the dinner-table. at last we were all arranged according to mrs turnbull's wishes, although there were several chops and changes about, until the order of precedence could be correctly observed. a french cook had been sent for by mrs turnbull; and not being mistress of the language, she had a card with the names of the dishes to refresh her memory, mr mortimer having informed her that such was always the custom among great people, who, not ordering their own dinners, of course they could not tell what there was to eat. "mrs turnbull, what soup have you there?" "_consummy_ soup, my lord. will your lordship _make use_ of that or of this here, which is _o'juss_." his lordship stared, made no answer; looked foolish; and mr mortimer placed some soup before him. "lord babbleton takes soup," said mr smith, pompously; and the little right honourable supped soup, much to mrs turnbull's satisfaction. "madame, do you soup? or do you fish?" "merci, no soup--_poisson_." "don't be afraid, madame; we've a french cook: you won't be _poisoned_ here," replied mrs turnbull, rather annoyed. "comment, my chere madame, i meant to say dat i prefer de cod." "mr t, some soup for madame. john, a _clean_ plate for lord babbleton. what will your lordship condescend to _make use_ of now?" (mrs turnbull thought the phrase, _make use_, excessively refined and elegant.) "ah, madame, votre cuisine est superbe," exclaimed monsieur tagliabue, tucking the corner of his napkin into his button-hole, and making preparations for well filling his little rotundity. "_ve_," replied mrs turnbull. "mrs peters, will you try the dish next mr turnbull? what is it?" (_looking at her card_)--"_agno roty_. will you, my lord? if your lordship has not yet got into your french-it means roast quarter of lamb." "his lordship is very partial to lamb," said mr smith, with emphasis. "mr turnbull, some lamb for lord babbleton, and for mr peters." "directly, my dear.--well, jacob, you see, when i was first mate--" "dear! mr turnbull--i've such an 'eadache. do, pray, cut the lamb. (_aside_.) mr mortimer, do go and whisper to mr turnbull that i beg he will put on his gloves." "mrs peters, you're doing nothing. mr mortimer, 'and round the side dishes, and let john serve out the champagne." "mrs peters, there's a _wolley went o' weaters_. will you make use of some? mrs drummond, will you try the dish coming round? it is--let me see--_chew farsy_. my lord babbleton, i 'ope the lamb's _to your liking_? monshere tagliabue--william, give monshere a clean plate. what will you take next?" "vraiment, madame, tout est excellent, superbe! je voudrais embrasser votre cuisinier--c'est un artiste comme il n'y a pas?" "_ve_," replied mrs turnbull. the first course was removed; and the second, after some delay, made its appearance. in the interim, mr mortimer handed round one or two varieties of wine. "drummond, will you take a glass of wine with me?" said mr turnbull. "i hate your sour french wines. will you take madeira? i was on shore at madeira once for a few hours, when i was before the mast, in the--" "mr turnbull, i've such an 'eadache," cried his lady, in an angry tone. "my lord, will you take some of this?--it is _ding dong o' turf_--a turkey, my lord." "his lordship is fond of turkey," said mr smith, dictatorially. monsieur tagliabue, who sat on the other side of mrs t, found that the turkey was in request--it was some time before he could help himself. "c'est superbe?" said monsieur, thrusting a truffle into his mouth. "apparemment, madame, n'aime pas la cuisine anglaise?" "_ve_," replied mrs turnbull. "madame, what will you be _h_assisted to?" continued mrs t. "tout de bon, madame." "_ve_; what are those by you, mr peters?" inquired the lady in continuation. "i really cannot exactly say; but they are fritters of some sort." "let me see--hoh! bidet du poms. madame, will you eat some _bidet du poms_?" "comment, madame, je ne vous comprends pas--" "_ve_." "monsieur tagliabue, expliquez donc;" said the foreign lady, red as a quarter of beef. "permettez," said monsieur, looking at the card. "ah, c'est impossible, ma chere," continued he, laughing. "madame turnbull se trompait; elle voudrait dire _beignets de pommes_." "vous trouvez notre langue fort difficile, n'est-ce pas?" continued madame, who recovered her good humour, and smiled graciously at mrs t. "_ve_," replied mrs turnbull, who perceived that she had made some mistake, and was anxiously awaiting the issue of the dialogue. it had, however, the effect of checking mrs t, who said little more during the dinner and dessert. at last the ladies rose from the dessert, and left the gentlemen at the table; but we were not permitted to remain long before coffee was announced, and we went up stairs. a variety of french liqueurs were handed about, and praised by most of the company. mr turnbull, however, ordered a glass of brandy as a _settler_. "oh! mr turnbull, i've such an 'eadache!" after that the party became very dull. lord babbleton fell asleep on the sofa. mr peters walked round the room, admiring the pictures, and asking the names of the masters. "i really quite forget; but, mr drummond, you are a judge of paintings i hear. who do you think this is painted by?" said the lady, pointing to a very inferior performance. "i am not quite sure; but i think it is van--van _daub_." "i should think so too," replied mr drummond, drily; "we have a great many pictures in england by the same hand." the french gentleman proposed _ecarte_, but no one knew how to play it except his wife; who sat down with him to pass away the time. the ladies sauntered about the room, looking at the contents of the tables, mrs peters occasionally talking of petercumb hall; mr smith played at patience in one corner; while mr turnbull and mr drummond sat in another in close conversation; and the lady of the house divided her attentions, running from one to the other, and requesting them not to talk so loud as to awake the right honourable lord viscount babbleton. at last the vehicles were announced, and the fashionable party broke up, much to the satisfaction of everybody, and to none more than myself. i ought to observe that all the peculiar absurdities i have narrated did not strike me so much at the time; but it was an event to me to dine out, and the scene was well impressed upon my memory. after what occurred to me in my after life, and when i became better able to judge of fashionable pretensions, the whole was vividly brought back to my recollection. chapter seventeen. the tomkinses' fete champetre and fete dansante--lights among the gooseberry-bushes--all went off well, excepting the lights, they went out--a winding up that had nearly proved a catastrophe--old tom proves that danger makes friends by a yarn, young tom by a fact. i remained with mr drummond about eight months, when at last the new clerk made his appearance--a little fat fellow, about twenty, with a face as round as a full moon, thick lips, and red cheeks. during this time i frequently had the pleasure of meeting with old and young tom, who appeared very anxious that i should rejoin them; and i must say that i was equally willing to return to the lighter. still mr drummond put his veto on it, and mrs drummond was also constantly pointing out the very desirable situation i might have on shore as a clerk in the office; but i could not bear it--seated nearly the whole day--perched up on a high stool--turning over debtors, contra creditors, and only occasionally interrupted by the head clerk, with his attempt to make rhymes. the new clerk came, i expected my release, but i was disappointed. mr drummond discovered him to be so awkward, and the head clerk declared that the time was so busy, that he could not spare me. this was true; mr drummond had just come to a final arrangement, which had been some time pending, by which he purchased a wharf and large warehouses, with a house adjoining, in lower thames street--a very large concern, for which he had paid a considerable sum of money. what with the valuations, winding up of the brentford concern on the old account, etcetera, there was much to do, and i toiled at the desk until the removal took place; and when the family were removed, i was still detained, as there was no warehouseman to superintend the unloading and hoisting up of goods. mr tomkins, the head clerk, who had been many years a faithful servant to mr drummond, was admitted a partner, and had charge of the brentford wharf, a species of promotion which he and his wife resolved to celebrate with a party. after a long debate, it was resolved that they should give a ball, and mrs tomkins exerted all her taste and ingenuity on the occasion. my friend tomkins lived at a short distance from the premises, in a small house, surrounded with half an acre of garden, chiefly filled with gooseberry-bushes, and perambulated by means of four straight gravel walks. mr and mrs drummond were invited, and accepted the invitation, which was considered by the tomkinses as a great mark of condescension. as a specimen of mr tomkins's poetical talents, i shall give his invitation to mr drummond, written in the very best german text:- "mr and mrs t-- sincerely hope to see mr and mrs drum mond, to a very hum ble party that they in tend to ask their kin to, on the saturday of the week ensuing: when fiddles they will play, and other things be doing." _belle vue house_. to which _jeu d'esprit_ mr drummond answered with a pencil on a card- "mr and mrs drum mond intend to come." "here, give tomkins that, jacob; it will please him better than any formal acceptation." mr and mrs turnbull were also asked; the former accepted, but the latter indignantly refused. when i arrived with mr and mrs drummond many of the company were there; the garden was what they called illuminated, that is, every gooseberry-bush had one variegated lamp suspended above the centre; and, as mr tomkins told me afterwards, the lamps were red and yellow, according to the fruit they bore. it was a cold, frosty, clear night, and the lamps twinkled as brightly among the bare boughs of the gooseberry trees as the stars did in the heavens. the company in general were quite charmed with the novelty. "quite a _minor wauxhall_," cried one lady, whose exuberance of fat kept her warm enough to allow her to stare about in the open air. the entrance porch had a dozen little lamps, backed with laurel twigs, and looked very imposing. mrs tomkins received her company upon the steps outside, that she might have the pleasure of hearing their praises of her external arrangements; still it was freezing, and she shivered not a little. the drawing-room, fourteen feet by ten, was fitted up as a ballroom, with two fiddlers and a fifer sitting in a corner and a country-dance was performing when we arrived. over the mantle-piece was a square of laurel twigs, inclosing as a frame this couplet from the poetical brain of the master of the house, cut out in red paper, and bespangled with blue and yellow tinsel- "here we are to dance so gay, while the fiddlers play away." other appropriate distichs, which i have now forgotten, were framed in the same way on each of the other compartments. but the dining-room was the _chef d'oeuvre_. it was formed into a bower, with evergreens, and on the evergreen boughs were stuck real apples and oranges in all directions, so that you could help yourself. "vell, i do declare, this is a paradise!" exclaimed the fat lady who entered with me. "in all but one thing, ma'am," replied mr turnbull, who, with his coat off, was squeezing lemons for the punch--"there's no _forbidden_ fruit. you may help yourself." the bon-mot was repeated by mr tomkins to the end of his existence, not only for its own sake, but because it gave him an opportunity of entering into a detail of the whole _fete_--the first he had ever given in his life. "ah, jacob, my boy, glad to see you--come and help here-they'll soon be thirsty, i'll warrant," said mr turnbull, who was in his glory. the company, although not so very select, were very happy; they danced, drank punch, laughed, and danced again; and it was not till a late hour, long after mr and mrs drummond had gone home, that i quitted the "festive scene;" mr turnbull, who walked away with me, declaring that it was worth a dozen of his party, although they had not such grand people as mrs tagliabue, or the right honourable lord viscount babbleton. i thought so too; every one was happy, and every one at their ease; and i do believe they would have stayed much longer, but the musicians took so much punch that one fiddler broke his fiddle, the other broke his head in going down the steps into the garden, and the fifer swore he could blow no longer; so, as there was an end to the music, clogs, pattens, and lanterns were called for, the shawls were brought out of the kitchen, and every one went away. nothing could _go off better_. mrs tomkins had a cold and rheumatism the next day; but that was not surprising, a _minor wauxhall_ not being seasonable in the month of december. a week after this party we removed to thames street, and i performed the duty of warehouseman. our quantity of lighters was now much increased, and employed in carrying dry goods, etcetera. one morning old tom came under the crane to discharge his lighter, and wishing to see me, when the fall had been overhauled down to heave up the casks with which the lighter was laden, instead of hooking on a cask, held on by his hands, crying, "hoist away," intending to be hoisting himself up to the door of the warehouse where i was presiding. now, there was nothing unusual in this whim of old tom's, but still he ran a very narrow chance, in consequence of an extra whim of young tom's, who, as soon as his father was suspended in the air, caught hold of his two wooden stumps, to be hoisted up also; and as he caught hold of them, standing on tiptoe, they both swung clear of the lighter, which could not approach to within five feet of the buildings. the crane was on the third story of the warehouse, and very high up. "tom, tom, you rascal, what the devil are you about?" cried the old man, when he felt the weight of his son's body hanging to him. "going up along with you, father--hope we shall go to heaven the same way." "more likely to go to the devil together, you little fool; i never can bear your weight. hoist away, there, quick." hearing the voices, i looked out of the door, and perceiving their situation, ordered the men to hoist as fast as they could, before old tom's strength should be exhausted; but it was a compound moving crane, and we could not hoist very fast, although we could hoist very great weights. at last, as they were wound up higher and higher, old tom's strength was going fast. "o tom, tom, what must be done? i can't--i can't hold on but a little longer, and we shall be both dashed to pieces. my poor boy?" "well, then, i'll let go, father; it was all my folly, and i'll be the sufferer." "let go!" cried old tom; "no, no, tom--don't let go, my boy; i'll try a little longer. don't let go, my dear boy--don't let go!" "well, father, how much longer can you hold on?" "a little--very little longer," replied the old man, struggling. "well, hold fast now," cried young tom, who, raising his head above his arms, with great exertion shifted one of his hands to his father's thigh, then the other; raising himself as before, he then caught at the seat of his father's trousers with his teeth; old tom groaned, for his son had taken hold of more than the garments; he then shifted his hands round his father's body--from thence he gained the collar of his jacket--from the collar he climbed on his father's shoulders, from thence he seized hold of the fall above, and relieved his father of the weight. "now, father, are you all right?" cried tom, panting as he clung to the fall above him. "i can't hold on ten seconds more, tom--no longer--my clutch is going now." "hang on by your eyelids, father, if you love me," cried young tom, in agony. it was indeed an awful moment; they were now at least sixty feet above the lighter, suspended in the air; the men whirled round the wheel, and i had at last the pleasure of hauling them both in on the floor of the warehouse; the old man so exhausted that he could not speak for more than a minute. young tom, as soon as all was safe, laughed immoderately. old tom sat upright. "it might have been no laughing matter, mr tom," said he, looking at his son. "what's done can't be helped, father, as jacob says. after all, you're more frightened than hurt." "i don't know that, you young scamp," replied the old man, putting his hand behind him, and rubbing softly; "you've bit a piece clean out of my _starn_. now, let this be a warning to you, tom. jacob, my boy, couldn't you say that i've met with an _accident_, and get a drop of something from mr drummond?" i thought, after his last observation, i might honestly say that he had met with an accident, and i soon returned with a glass of brandy, which old tom was drinking off when his son interrupted him for a share. "you know, father, i shared the danger." "yes, tom, i know you did," replied the father; "but this was sent to me on account of my _accident_, and as i had that all to myself, i shall have all this too." "but, father, you ought to give me a drop, if it were only to _take the taste out of my mouth_." "your own flesh and blood, tom," replied his father, emptying his glass. "well, i always heard it was quite unnatural not to like your own flesh and blood," replied tom; "but i see now that there may be reasons for it." "be content, tom," replied his father, putting down the glass; "we're now just square. you've had your _raw nip_, and i've had mine." mr drummond now came up, and asked what had been the matter. "nothing, sir--only an accident. tom and i had a bit of a _hoist_." as this last word had a double meaning, mr drummond thought that a cask had surged, when coming out of the lighter, and struck them down. he desired old tom to be more careful, and walked away, while we proceeded to unload the lighter. the new clerk was a very heavy, simple young man, plodding and attentive certainly, but he had no other merit; he was sent into the lighter to rake the marks and numbers of the casks as they were hoisted up, and soon became a butt to young tom, who gave him the wrong marks and numbers of all the casks, to his interrogations. "what's that, boy?" cried the pudding-faced fellow, with his pencil in one hand and his book in the other. "pea soup, 13," replied tom; "ladies' bonnets, 24. now, then, master, chalk again, pipe-clay for sodgers, 3; red herrings, 26." all of which were carefully noted down by mr grubbins who, when the lighter was cleared, took the memoranda to mr drummond. fortunately, we had checked the number of the casks as they were received above--their contents were flour. mr drummond sent for young tom, and asked him how he dared play such a trick. tom replied very boldly, "that it was meant as a good lesson to the young man, that in future he did his own work, and did not trust to others." to this mr drummond agreed, and master tom was dismissed without punishment. as the men had all gone to dinner, i went down into the lighter to have a little chat with my old shipmates. "well, jacob," said old tom, "tom's not a bit wiser than he was before--two scrapes to-day, already." "well, father, if i prove my folly by getting into scrapes, i prove my wit by getting out of them." "yes, that may be true, tom; but suppose we had both come down with a run, what would you have thought then?" "i suspect, father, that i should have been past thinking." "i once did see a thing of that kind happen," said old tom, calling to mind former scenes in his life; "and i'll tell you a yarn about it, boys, because they say danger makes friends." we sat down by old tom, who narrated as follows "when i was captain of the main-top in the _la minerve_, forty-four gun frigate, we were the smartest ship up the mediterranean; and many's the exercise we were the means of giving to other ship's companies, because they could not beat us--no, not even hold a candle to us. in both fore and main-top we had eight-and-twenty as smart chaps as ever put their foot to a rattling, or slid down by an a'ter backstay. now, the two captains of the foretop were both prime young men, active as monkeys, and bold as lions. one was named tom herbert, from north shields, a dark, good-looking chap, with teeth as white as a nigger's, and a merry chap he was, always a-showing them. the other was a cockney chap. your lunnuners arn't often good seamen; but when they are seamen, there's no better; they never allow any one to show them the way, that's for sartin, being naturally spunky sort of chaps, and full of tricks and fun. this fellow's name was bill wiggins, and between him and herbert there was always a jealousy who should be the smartest man. i've seen both of them run out on the yard, in fine weather, without holding on nothing, seize the lift, and down to their station, haul up the earing, in no time; up by the lift again, and down on deck, by the backstay, before half the men had time to get clear of the top. in fact, they often risked their lives in bad weather, when there was no occasion for it, that one might outdo the other. now, this was all very well, and a good example to the other men: the captain and officers appeared to like these contests for superiority, but it ended in their hating each other, and not being even on speaking terms, which, as the two captains of the top, was bad. they had quarrelled often, and fought five times, neither proving the better man; either both done up, or parted by the master-at-arms, and reported to the first lieutenant, so that at last they were not so much countenanced by the officers, and were out of favour with the captain, who threatened to disrate them both if ever they fought again. we were cruising off the gulf of lyons, where sometimes it blows hard enought to blew the devil's horns off, though the gales never last very long. we were under close reefed foreand main-top sails, storm stay-sail and trysail, when there was a fresh hand at the bellows, and the captain desired the officers of the watch, just before dinner to take in the fore-top sail. not to disturb the watch below, the main-top men were ordered up forward to help the fore-top men of the watch; and i was of course aloft, ready to lie out on the lee yard-arm--when wiggins, who had the watch below, came up in the top, not liking that herbert should be at work in such weather without he being there too. "`tom,' says to me, `i'll take the yard-arm.' "`very well,' say i, `with all my heart; then i'll look to the bunt.' "just at that time there came on a squall with rain, which almost blinded us; the sail was taken in very neatly, the clew-lines, chock-a-block, bunt-lines and leech-lines well up, reef-tackles overhauled, rolling-tackles taut, and all as it should be. the men lied out on the yard, the squall wore worse and worse, but they were handing in the leech of the sail, when snap went one bunt-line, then the other; the sail flapped and flagged, till away went the leech-lines, and the men clung to the yards for their lives; for the sail mastered them, and they could do nothing. at last it split like thunder, buffeting the men on the yard-arms till they were almost senseless, until to windward it wore away into long coach whips, and the whole of the canvas left was at the lee yard-arm. the men laid in at last with great difficulty, quite worn out by fatigue and clinging for their existence; all but wiggins, who was barred by the sail to leeward from making his footing good on the horse, and there he was, poor fellow, completely in irons, and so beaten by the canvas that he could hardly be said to be sensible. it takes a long while to tell all this, but it wasn't the work of a minute. at last he made an attempt to get up by the lift, but was struck down, and would have been hurled overboard if it hadn't been that his leg fell over the horse, and there he was, head downwards, hanging over a raging sea, ready to swallow him up as soon as he dropt into it. as every one expected he would be beat off before any assistance could be given, you may guess that it was an awful moment to those below who were looking up at him, watching for his fall and the roll of the ship, to see if he fell clear into the sea, or was dashed to pieces in the fore-chains. "i couldn't bear to see a fellow-creature, and good seaman in the bargain, in that state, and although the captain dare not _order_ any one to help him, yet there were one or two midshipmen hastening up the fore-rigging, with the intent, i have no doubt, of trying to save him (for midshipmen don't value their lives at a quid of tobacco), so i seizes the studding sail halyards, and runs up the topmast rigging, intending to go down by the lift, and pass a bowling knot round him before he fell, when who should i meet at the cross-trees but tom herbert, who snatched the rope out of my hand, bawling to me through the gale, `this is my business, tom.' "down he goes by the lift, the remainder of the canvas flapped over him, and i seed no more until i heard a cry from all below, and away went herbert and wiggins, both together, flying to leeward just as the ship was taking her recovery to windward. fortunately they both fell clear of the ship about two feet, not more, and as their fall was expected, they had prepared below. a master's mate, of the name of simmonds, and the captain of the forecastle, both went overboard in bowling knots, with another in their hands, and in a minute or two they were all four on board again; but herbert and were both senseless, and a long while coming to again. well, now, what do you think was the upshot of it? why, they were the best friends in the world ever afterwards, and would have died for one another; and if one had a glass of grog from the officers for any little job, instead of touching his forelock and drinking it off to the officer's health, he always took it out of the gun-room, that he might give half of it to the other. so, d'ye see my boys, as i said before i began my yarn, that danger makes friends. "'tis said we vent'rous die hard, when we leave the shore, our friends may mourn, lest we return to bless their sight no more. but this is all a notion bold jack can't understand; some die upon the ocean. and some die upon dry land." "and if we had tumbled, father, we should have just died betwixt and between, not water enough to float us. it would have been _woolez wous parlez wous_, plump in the mud, as you say sometimes." "why, yes, tom. i've a notion that i should have been planted too deep ever to have struck," replied the old man, looking at his wooden stumps. "why, yes, father, _legs_ are _legs_, when you tumble into six foot of mud. how you would have _dibbled_ down, if your _daddles_ hadn't held on." "well then, tom, recollect that you never _sell_ your father for a _lark_ again." tom laughed, and catching at the word, although used in a different sense, sung- "just like the _lark_ high poised in air. "and so were you, father, only you didn't sing as he does, and you didn't leave your young one below in the nest." "ay, it is the young uns which prevent the old ones from rising in the world--that's very true, tom. holla, who have we got here? my service to you, at all events." chapter eighteen. the art of hard lying made easy, though i am made very uneasy by hard lying--i send my ruler as a missive, to let the parties concerned know that i am a rebel to tyrannical rule--i am arraigned, tried, and condemned without a hearing--what i lose in speech is made up in feeling, the whole wound up with magnanimous resolves, and a little sobbing. it was the captain of the american schooner, from out of which we were then taking the casks of flour. "we've no _sarvice_ in our country, i've a notion, my old bobtail roarer," said he. "when do you come alongside of my schooner, for tother lading with this raft of yours? not to-night, i guess." "well, you've guessed right this time," replied old tom; "we shall lie on the mud till to-morrow morning, with your permission." "yes, for all the world like a louisiana alligator. you take things coolly, i've a notion, in the old country. i don't want to be hanging head and starn in this little bit of a river of your'n. i must be back to new york afore fever time." "she be a pretty craft, that little thing of yours," observed old tom; "how long may she take to make the run?" "how long? i expect in just no time; and she'd go as fast again, only she won't wait for the breeze to come up with her." "why don't you heave-to for it?" said young tom. "lose too much time, i guess. i have been chased by an easterly wind all the way from your land's end to our narrows, and it never could overhaul me." "and i presume the porpoises give it up in despair, don't they?" replied old tom, with a leer; "and yet i've seen the creatures playing across the bows of an english frigate at her speed, and laughing at her." "they never play their tricks with me, old snapper; if they do, i cuts them in halves, and a-starn they go, head part floating on one side, and tail part on the other." "but don't they join together again when they meet in your wake?" inquired tom. "shouldn't wonder," replied the american captain. "pray, captain, what may be that vessel they talk so much about at new york?" old tom referred to the first steam vessel, whose qualities at that time had been tried, and an exaggerated report of which had been copied from the american papers. "that ship, or whatever she may be, that sails without masts, yards, or canvas; it is quite above my comprehension." "old country heads can't take it in. i'll tell you what--she goes slick through the water, a-head or a-starn, broadside on, or up or down, or any way; and all you have to do is to poke the fire and warm your fingers; and the more you poke, the faster she goes 'gainst wind and tide." "well, i must see that to believe it, though," replied old tom. "no fear of a capsize, i calculate. my little craft did upset with me one night, in a pretty comfortable heavy _gal_; but she's _smart_, and came up again on the other side in a moment, all right as before. never should have known anything about it, if the man at the wheel had not found his jacket wet, and the men below had a round turn in all the clews of their hammocks." "after that round turn, you may belay," cried young tom, laughing. "yes, but don't let's have a stopper over all, tom," replied his father. "i consider all this excessively _divarting_. pray, captain, does everything else go fast in the new country." "everything with us _clean slick_, i guess." "what sort of horses have you in america?" inquired i. "our kentucky horses, i've a notion, would surprise you. they're almighty goers; at a trot, beat a _north west gal_ of wind. i once took an englishman with me in a gig up allibama country, and he says, `what's this great churchyard we are passing through?' `and stranger,' says i, `i calculate it's nothing but the milestones we are passing so _slick_.' but i once had a horse, who, i expect, was a deal quicker than that. i once seed a flash of lightning chase him for half-an-hour round the clearance, and i guess it couldn't catch him. but i can't wait no longer. i expect you'll come alongside to-morrow afore meridian." "ay, ay, master," replied old tom, tuning up- "'twas post meridian, half-past four, by signal i from nancy parted, at five she lingered on the shore, with uplift eyes and broken-hearted." "i calculate you are no fool of a screamer," said the american, shoving off his boat from the barge, and pulling to his vessel. "and i calculate you're no fool of a liar," said young tom. "well, so he is; but i do like a good lie, jacob, there's some fun in it. but what the devil does the fellow mean by calling a gale of wind--_a gal_?" "i don't know," replied tom, "unless for the same reason that we call a girl _a blowing_." our conversation was here interrupted by mr hodgson, the new head clerk, of whom i have hitherto said nothing. he came into the establishment in the place of mr tomkins, when we quitted the battersea wharf, and had taken an evident dislike to me, which appeared to increase every day, as mr drummond gave me fresh marks of his approbation. "you, faithful, come out of that barge directly, and go to your desk. i will have no eye-servers under me. come out, sir, directly." "i say, mr quilldriver," cried old tom, "do you mean for to say that jacob is an eye-sarver?" "yes, i do; and want none of your impertinence, or i'll unship you, you old blackguard." "well, then, for the first part of your story, my sarvice to you and you _lies_; and as for the second, that remains to be proved." mr hodgson's temper was not softened by this reply of old tom. my blood was also up, for i had borne much already; and young tom was bursting with impatience to take my part. he walked carelessly by the head clerk, saying to me as he passed by, "why, i thought, jacob, you were 'prentice to the river; but it seems that you're bound to the counting-house. how long do you mean to sarve?" "i don't know," replied i, as i walked away sulkily; "but i wish i was out of my time." "very well, sir, i shall report your behaviour to mr drummond. i'll make him know your tricks." "tricks! you won't let him know his tricks. his duty is to take his trick at the wheel," replied old tom; "not to be brought up at your cheating tricks at the desk." "cheating tricks, you old scoundrel, what do you mean by that?" replied mr hodgson, in a rage. "my father means _ledger_demain, i suppose," replied young tom. this repartee from a quarter so little expected sent off the head clerk more wroth than ever. "you seemed to hit him hard there, tom," said his father; "but i can't say that i understand how." "you've had me taught to read and write, father," replied young tom; "and a'ter that, a lad may teach himself everything. i pick up every day, here and there; and i never see a thing or a word that i don't understand but i find out the meaning when i can. i picked up that hard word at bartlemy fair." "and very hard you hit him with it." "who wouldn't to serve a friend? but mark my words, father, this won't last long. there's a squall blowing up, and jacob, quiet as he seems to be, will show his teeth ere long." tom was correct in his surmise. i had not taken my seat at my desk more than a minute, when mr hodgson entered, and commenced a tirade of abuse, which my pride could no longer allow me to submit to. an invoice, perfectly correct and well-written, which i had nearly completed, he snatched from before me, tore into fragments, and ordered me to write it over again. indignant at this treatment, i refused, and throwing down my pen, looked at him determinedly in the face. irritated at this defiance, he caught up a directory, and threw it at my head. no longer able to command myself, i seized a ruler and returned the salute. it was whizzing through the air as mr drummond entered the room; and he was just in time to witness mr hodgson struck on the forehead and felled to the ground, while i remained with my arm raised, standing upon the cross-bar of my high stool, my face glowing with passion. appearances were certainly against me. assistance was summoned, and the head clerk removed to his chamber, during all which time i remained seated on my stool before the desk, my breast heaving with tumultuous feelings. how long i remained there i cannot say, it might have been two hours; feelings long dormant had been aroused, and whirled round and round in a continual cycle in my feverish brains. i should have remained probably much longer in this state of absorption, had i not been summoned to attend mr drummond. it appeared that in the meantime mr hodgson had come to his own senses, and had given his own version of the fracas, which had been, to an unjustifiable degree, corroborated by the stupid young clerk, who was no friend of mine, and who sought favour with his principal. i walked up to the drawing-room, where i found mr and mrs drummond, and little sarah, whose eyes were red with crying. i entered without any feeling of alarm, my breast was too full of indignation. mrs drummond looked grave and mournful, mr drummond severe. "jacob faithful, i have sent for you to tell you that in consequence of your disgraceful conduct to my senior clerk, you can no longer remain under my roof. it appears that what i have been a witness to this day has been but a sequel to behaviour equally improper and impertinent; that so far from having, as i thought, done your duty, you have constantly neglected it; and that the association you have formed with that drunken old man and his insolent son has led you into this folly. you may say that it was not your wish to remain on shore, and that you preferred being on the river. at your age it is too often the case that young people consult their wishes rather than their interests; and it is well for them if they find those who are older, and wished them well, to decide for them. i had hoped to have been able to place you in a more respectable situation in society than was my original intention when you were thrown upon me, a destitute orphan; but i now perceive my error. you have proved yourself not only deceitful but ungrateful." "i have not," interrupted i, calmly. "you have. i have been a witness myself to your impropriety of conduct, which, it appears, has long been concealed from me; but no more of that. i bound you apprentice to the river, and you must now follow up your apprenticeship; but expect nothing farther from me. you must now work your own way up in the world, and i trust that you will reform and do well. you may return to the lighter until i can procure you a situation in another craft, for i consider it my duty to remove you from the influence of those who have led you astray, and with the old man and his son you will not remain. i have one thing more to say. you have been in my counting-house for some months, and you are now about to be thrown upon the world. there are ten pounds for your services," (and mr drummond laid the money on the table). "you may also recollect that i have some money belonging to you, which has been laid by until you shall be out of your apprenticeship. i consider it my duty still to retain that money for you; as soon as your apprenticeship is expired you may demand it, and it shall be made over to you. i trust, sincerely trust, jacob, that the severe lesson you are now about to receive will bring you to a sense of what is right, and that you will forget the evil counsel you have received from your late companions. do not attempt to justify yourself; it is useless." mr drummond then rose and left the room. i should have replied, had it not been for this last sentence of mr drummond's, which again roused the feeling of indignation, which, in their presence, had been gradually giving way to softer emotions. i therefore stood still, and firmly met the glance of mr drummond as he passed me. my looks were construed into hardness of heart. it appeared that mr drummond had left the room by previous arrangement, that he might not be supposed to be moved from this purpose, and that mrs drummond was then to have talked to me, and to have ascertained how far there was a chance of my pleading guilty, and begging for a mitigation of my sentence; but the firm composure of innocence was mistaken for defiance; and the blood mounting to my forehead from a feeling of injustice--of injustice from those i loved and venerated-perhaps the most poignant feeling in existence to a sensitive and generous mind--was falsely estimated as proceeding from impetuous and disgraceful sources. mrs drummond looked upon me with a mournful face, sighed, and said nothing; little sarah watching me with her large black eyes, as if she would read my inmost soul. "have you nothing to say, jacob," at last observed mrs drummond, "that i can tell mr drummond when his anger is not so great?" "nothing, madam," replied i, "except that i'll try to forgive him." this reply was offensive even to the mild mrs drummond. she rose from her chair. "come, sarah," said she: and she walked out of the room, wishing me, in a kind, soft voice, a "good-bye, jacob," as she passed me. my eyes swam with tears. i tried to return the salutation, but i was too much choked by my feelings; i could not speak, and my silence was again looked upon as contumacy and ingratitude. little sarah still remained--she had not obeyed her mother's injunctions to follow her. she was now nearly fourteen years old, and i had known her as a companion and a friend for five years. during the last six months that i had resided in the house we had become more intimately acquainted. i joined her in the evening in all her pursuits, and mr and mrs drummond appeared to take a pleasure in our intimacy. i loved her as a dear sister; my love was based on gratitude. i had never forgotten her kindness to me when i first came under her father's roof, and a long acquaintance with the sweetness of her disposition had rendered the attachment so firm, that i felt i could have died for her. but i never knew the full extent of the feeling until now that i was about to leave her, perhaps for ever. my heart sank when mr drummond left the room--a bitter pang passed through it as the form of mrs drummond vanished from my sight; but now was to be the bitterest of all. i felt it, and i remained with the handle of the door in my hand, gasping for breath-blinded with the tears that coursed each other rapidly down my cheeks. i remained a minute in this state, when i felt that sarah touched my other listless hand. "jacob!" she would have said, but before half my name was out she burst into tears, and sobbed on my shoulder. my heart was too much surcharged not to take the infection--my grief found vent, and i mingled my sobs with those of the affectionate girl. when we were more composed, i recounted to her all that had passed, and one, at least, in the world acknowledged that i had been treated unjustly. i had but just finished, when the servant interrupted us with a message to sarah, that her mother desired her presence. she threw herself into my arms, and bade me farewell. i released her, she hastened to obey her mother, but perceiving the money still upon the table, she pointed to it. "your money, jacob!" "no sarah, i will not accept it. i would accept of anything from those who treat me kindly, and feel more and more grateful to them; but that i will not accept--i cannot, and you must not let it be left here. say that i could not take it." sarah would have remonstrated, but perceiving that i was firm, and at the same time, perhaps, entering into my feelings, she again bade me farewell, and hastened away. the reader may easy imagine that i did not put off my departure. i hastened to pack up my clothes, and in less than ten minutes after sarah had quitted me, i was on board the lighter, with old tom and his son, who were then going to supper. they knew a part of what had happened, and i narrated the rest. "well," replied old tom, after i had finished my story, "i didn't know that i have done you any harm, jacob, and i'm sorry that mr drummond should suppose so. i'm fond of a drop, that's true; but i appeals to you, whether i ever force it on you--and whether i don't check that boy as much as i can; but then, d'ye see, although i preach, i don't practise, that's the worst of it; and i know i've to answer for making tom so fond of grog; and though i never says anything about it, i often think to myself, that if tom should chance to be pressed some of these days, and be punished for being in liquor, he'll think of his old father, and curse him in his heart, when he eyes the cat flourishing round before it strikes." "i'll curse the cat, father, or the boatswain's mate, or the officer who complained of me, or the captain who flogs me, or my own folly, but i'll be hanged if ever i curse you, who have been so kind to me," replied tom, taking his father's hand. "well, we must hope for the best, my dear boy," replied old tom; "but, jacob, you've not had fair play, that sartain. it's very true that master did take you as an orphan, and help you to an education; but that's no reason why he should take away your free will, and after binding you 'prentice to the river, perch you up on a high stool, and grind your nose down to the desk. if so be he was so kind to you only to make you a slave, why, then, there was no kindness at all, in my opinion: and as for punishment without hearing what a man has to say in his own defence--there's ne'er a tartar in the sarvice but would allow a man to speak before he orders him to strip. i recollect a story about that in the sarvice, but i'm in no humour to spin a yarn now. now, you see, jacob, master drummond has done a great deal for you, and now he has undone a great deal! i can't pretend to balance the account, but it does appear to me that you don't owe him much; for what thanks is there if you take a vessel in tow, and then cast her off, half-way, when she most needs your assistance? but what hurts me most is his saying that you sha'n't stay in the lighter with us; if you had, you shouldn't have wanted, as long as pay and pension are forthcoming. never mind--tom, my boy, bring out the bottle--hang care: it killed the cat." the grog did not, however, bring back old tom's spirits; the evening passed heavily, and we retired to our beds at a seasonable hour, as we were to drop down to the schooner early the next morning. that night i did not close my eyes. i ran over, in my mind, all that had occurred, and indignation took full possession of my soul. my whole life passed in review before me. i travelled back to my former days--to the time which had been almost obliterated from my memory, when i had navigated the barge with my father. again was the scene of his and my mother's death presented to my view; again i saw him disappear, and the column of black smoke ascend to the sky. the dominie, the matron, marables, and fleming, the scene in the cabin--all passed in rapid succession. i felt that i had done my duty, and that i had been unjustly treated; my head ached with tumultuous and long suppressed feelings. reader, i stated that when i was first taken in hand by mr drummond i was a savage, although a docile one, to be reclaimed by kindness, and kindness only. you may have been surprised at the rapid change which took place in a few years; that change was produced by kindness. the conduct of mr drummond, of his amiable wife and daughter, had been all kindness; the dominie and the worthy old matron had proved equally beneficent. marables had been kind; and, although now and then, as in the case of the usher at the school, and fleming on board the lighter, i had received injuries, still, these were but trifling checks to the uninterrupted series of kindness with which i had been treated by everybody. thus was my nature rapidly formed by a system of kindness assisted by education; and had this been followed up, in a few years my new character would have been firmly established. but the blow was now struck, injustice roused up the latent feelings of my nature, and when i rose the next morning i was changed. i do not mean to say that all that precept and education had done for me was overthrown; but if not overthrown, it was so shaken to the base, so rent from the summit to the foundation, that, at the slightest impulse in a wrong direction, it would have fallen in and left nothing but a mixed chaos of ruined prospects. if anything could hold it together it was the kindness and affection of sarah, to which i would again and again return in my revolving thoughts, as the only bright star to be discovered in my clouded horizon. how dangerous, how foolish, how presumptuous it is in adults to suppose that they can read the thoughts and the feelings of those of a tender age! how often has this presumption on their part been the ruin of a young mind, which, if truly estimated and duly fostered, would have blossomed and produced good fruit! the blush of honest indignation is as dark as the blush of guilt, and the paleness of concentrated courage as marked as that of fear, the firmness of conscious innocence is but too often mistaken as the effrontery of hardened vice, and the tears springing from a source of injury, the tongue tied from the oppression of a wounded heart, the trembling and agitation of the little frame convulsed with emotion have often and often been ascribed by prejudging and self-opinionated witnesses to the very opposite passions to those which have produced them. youth should never be judged harshly, and even when judged correctly, should it be in an evil course, may always be reclaimed;--those who decide otherwise, and leave it to drift about the world, have to answer for the _cast-away_. chapter nineteen. the breach widened--i turn sportsman, poacher, and desperado--some excellent notions propounded of common law upon common rights--the common keeper uncommonly savage--i warn him off--he prophesies that we shall both come to the gallows--some men are prophets in their own country--the man right after all. "hollo! in the lighter there--i say, you _lighter boy_!" were words i heard, as i was pacing the deck of the vessel in deep cogitation tom and his father were both in the cabin; there could be no doubt but that they were addressed to me. i looked up, and perceived the grinning, stupid, sneering face of the young clerk, gubbins. "why don't you answer when you're called to, heh?" continued the numbskull. "you're wanted up here! come up directly." "who wants me?" replied i, reddening with anger. "what's that to you? do you mean to obey _my_ order or not?" "no, i do not," replied i; "i'm not under the orders of such a fool, thank god; and if you come within my reach, i'll try if i can't break your head, thick as it is, as well as your master's." the lout disappeared, and i continued to pace up and down. as i afterwards discovered, the message was from mrs drummond, who requested to speak to me. sarah had communicated the real facts of my case, and mrs drummond had been convinced that what i had said was correct. she had talked with her husband; she pointed out to him that my conduct under mr tomkins had been so exemplary that there must have been some reason for so sudden a change. sarah had gone down into the counting-house, and obtained the invoice which the senior clerk had torn up. the correctness of it established the fact of one part of my assertions, and that nothing but malice could have warranted its having been destroyed. mr drummond felt more than he chose to acknowledge; he was now aware that he had been too precipitate; even my having refused the money assumed a different appearance; he _was_ puzzled and mortified. few people like to acknowledge that they have been in error. mr drummond, therefore, left his wife to examine further into the matter, and gave her permission to send for me. the message given, and the results of it have been stated. the answer returned was that i would not come, and that i had threatened to break the clerk's head as well as that of mr drummond; for although the scoundrel knew very well that in making use of the word "master," i referred to the senior clerk, he thought it proper to substitute that of mr drummond. the effect of this reply may easily be imagined. sarah was astonished, mrs drummond shocked, and mr drummond was almost pleased to find that he could not have been in the wrong. thus was the breach made even wider than before, and all communication broken off. much depends in this world upon messages being correctly given. in half-an-hour we had hauled out of the tier and dropped down to the american schooner, to take out a cargo of flour, which old tom had directions to land at the battersea wharf; so that i was, for the time, removed from the site of my misfortune. i cannot say that i felt happy, but i certainly felt glad that i was away. i was reckless to a degree that was insupportable. i had a heavy load on my mind which i could not shake off--a prey upon my spirits--a disgust at almost everything. how well do i recollect with what different feelings i looked upon the few books which mr drummond and the dominie had given me to amuse my leisure hours. i turned from them with contempt, and thought i would never open them again. i felt as if all ties were now cut off, and that i was again wedded to the thames; my ideas, my wishes, extended no farther, and i surveyed the river and its busy scene as i did before i had been taken away from it, as if all my energies, all my prospects were in future to be bounded by its shores. in the course of four-and-twenty hours a revulsion had taken place, which again put me on the confines of barbarism. my bargemates were equally dull as i was; they were too partial to me, and had too much kindness of heart, not to feel my situation, and anger at the injustice with which i had been treated. employment, however, for a time relieved our melancholy thoughts. our cargo was on board of the lighter, and we were again tiding it through the bridges. we dropped our anchor above putney bridge a little after twelve o'clock, and young tom, with the wish of amusing me, proposed that we should go on shore and walk. "ah! do my lads, do--it will do you good, jacob; no use moping here a whole tide. i'll take care of the 'barkey. mind you make the boat well fast, and take the sculls into the public-house there. i'll have the supper under weigh when you come back, and then we'll have a night on't. it's a poor heart that never rejoices; and, tom, take a bottle on shore, get it filled, and bring it off with you. here's the money. but i say, tom, honour bright." "honour bright, father;" and to do tom justice, he always kept his promise, especially after the word had passed of "honour bright." had there been gallons of spirits under his charge he would not have tasted a drop after that pledge. "haul up the boat, jacob, quick," said tom, as his father went into the cabin to fetch an empty bottle. tom hastened down below forward and brought up an old gun, which he put under the stern sheets before his father came out on the deck. we then received the bottle from him, and tom called out for the dog tommy. "why, you're not going to take the dog. what's the use of that? i want him here to keep watch with me," said old tom. "pooh! father; why can't you let the poor devil have a run on shore? he wants to eat grass, i am sure, for i watched him this day or two. we shall be back before dark." "well, well, just as you please, tom." tommy jumped into the boat, and away we went. "and now, tom, what are you after?" said i, as soon as we were ten yards from the lighter. "a'ter, jacob, going to have a little shooting on wimbledon common; but father can't bear to see a gun in my hand, because i once shot my old mother. i did pepper her, sure enough; her old flannel petticoat was full of shot, but it was so thick that it saved her. are you anything of a shot?" "never fired a gun in my life." "well, then, we'll fire in turns, and toss up, if you like, for first shot." we landed, carried the sculls up to the public-house, and left the bottle to be filled, and then, with tommy bounding before us, and throwing about his bushy tail with delight, ascended putney hill, and arrived at the green man public-house, at the corner of wimbledon common. "i wonder where green men are to be found?" observed tom, laughing; "i suppose they live in the same country with the _blue_ dogs my father speaks about sometimes. now, then, its time to load." the bowl of a tobacco pipe, full of powder, was then inserted, with an equal dose of shot, and all being ready we were soon among the furze. a half penny decided it was my first shot, and fate further decided that a water-wagtail should be the mark. i took good aim, as i thought, at least i took sufficient time, for i followed him with the muzzle of the gun for three or four minutes at least, as he ran to and fro; at last i fired. tommy barked with delight, and the bird flew away. "i think i must have hit it," said i; "i saw it wag its tail." "more proof of a miss than a hit," replied tom. "had you hit it he'd never have wagged his tail again." "never mind," said i, "better luck next time." tom then knocked a blackbird off a furze bush, and loading the gun, handed it to me. i was more successful than before; a cock sparrow, three yards distant, yielded to the prowess of my arm, and i never felt more happy in my life than in this first successful attempt at murder. gaily did we trudge over the common, sometimes falling in with gravel-pits half full of water, at others bogs and swampy plains, which obliged us to make a circuit. the gun was fired again and again; but our game-bag did not fill very fast. however, if we were not quite so well pleased when we missed as when we hit, tommy was, every shot being followed up with a dozen bounds, and half a minute's barking. at last we began to feel tired, and agreed to repose a while in a cluster of furze bushes. we sat down, pulled out our game, and spread it in a row before us. it consisted of two sparrows, one greenfinch, one blackbird, and three tomtits. all of a sudden we heard a rustling in the furze, and then a loud squeal. it was the dog, who, scenting something, had forced its way into the bush, and had caught a hare, which having been wounded in the loins by some other sportsman, had dragged itself there to die. in a minute we had taken possession of it, much to the annoyance of tommy, who seemed to consider that there was no co-partnership in the concern, and would not surrender his prize until after sundry admonitory kicks. when we had fairly beaten him off we were in an ecstasy of delight. we laid the animal out between us, and were admiring it from the ear to the tip of his tail, when we were suddenly saluted with a voice close to us. "oh, you blam'd young poachers, so i've caught you, have i?" we looked up, and beheld the common-keeper. "come--come along with me; we've a nice clink at wandsworth to lock you up in. i've been looking a'rter you some time. hand your gun here." "i should rather think not," replied i. "the gun belongs to us, and not to you;" and i caught up the gun, and presented the muzzle at him. "what! do you mean to commit murder? why, you young villains!" "do you want to commit a robbery?" retorted i, fiercely; "because if you do, i mean to commit murder. then i shoot him. tom." "no, jacob, no; you mustn't shoot men," replied tom, who perceived that i was in a humour to keep my word with the common-keeper. "indeed, you can't," continued he, whispering to me; "the gun's not loaded." "do you mean to refuse to give me up your gun?" repeated the man. "yes i do," replied i, cocking the lock; "so keep off." "oh! you young reprobates--you'll come to the gallows before long, that's certain. do you refuse to come with me?" "i should rather think we do," replied i. "you refuse, do you? recollect i've caught you in the fact, poaching, with a dead hare in your possession." "well, it's no use crying about it. what's done can't be helped," replied i. "don't you know that all the game, and all the turf, and all the bog, and all the gravel, and all the furze on this common belong to the right honourable earl spencer?" "and all the blackbirds, and all the greenfinches, and all the sparrows, and all the tomtits too, i suppose?" replied i. "to be sure they do--and i'm common-keeper. now you'll give me up that hare immediately." "look you," replied tom, "we didn't kill that hare, the dog caught it, and it is his property. we sha'n't interfere in the matter. if tommy chooses to let you have it, well and good. here, tommy, this here gentleman says," (and tom pointed to the keeper) "that this hare," (and tom pointed to the hare) "is not yours; now will you `watch it,' or let him have it?" at the word `watch it,' tommy laid down with his fore-paws over the hare, and showing a formidable set of ivories, looked fiercely at the man, and growled. "you see what he says; now you may do as you please," continued tom, addressing the man. "yes--very well--you'll come to the gallows, i see that; but i'll just go and fetch half-a-dozen men to help me, and then we'll have you both in gaol." "then, be smart," replied i, jumping up and levelling the gun. tommy jumped up also to fly at the man, but tom caught him by the neck and restrained him. the common-keeper took to his heels, and as soon as he was out of gun-shot, turned round, shook his fist, and then hastened away to obtain the reinforcement he desired. "i wish the gun had been loaded," said i. "why, jacob, what's come over you? would you have fired at him? the man is only doing his duty--we have no business here." "i think otherwise," replied i. "a hare on a common is as much mine as lord spencer's. a common belongs to everybody." "that's my opinion, too; but, nevertheless, if he gets hold of us, he'll have us in gaol; and therefore i propose we make off as fast as we can in the opposite way to which he is gone." we started accordingly, and as the keeper proceeded in the direction of wandsworth, we took the other direction; but it so happened that on turning round, after a quarter of an hour's walk, we perceived the man coming back with three or four others. "we must run for it," cried tom, "and then hide ourselves." after ten minutes' hard run we descended into a hollow and swampy place, looking round to see if they could perceive us, and finding that they were not in sight, we plunged into a thick cluster of furze bushes, which completely concealed us. tommy followed us, and there we lay. "now they never will find us," said tom, "if i can only keep the dog quiet. lie down, tommy. watch, and lie down." the dog appeared to understand what was required; he lay between us perfectly still. we had remained there about half-an-hour when we heard voices. i motioned to tom to give me the powder to load the gun, but he refused. the voices came nearer; tommy gave a low growl. tom held his mouth with his hands. at last they were close to the bushes, and we heard the common-keeper say, "they never went over the hill, that's for certain, the little wagrants; they can't be far off--they must be down in the hollow. come along." "but i'm blessed if i'm not up to my knees in the bog," cried one of the men; "i'll go no further down, dang me!" "well, then let's try the side of the bog," replied the keeper, "i'll show you the way." and the voices retreated, fortunately for us, for there had been a continual struggle between us and the dog for the last minute, i holding his forepaws, and tom jamming up his mouth. we were now all quiet again, but dare not leave our hiding-place. we remained there for half-an-hour, when it became nearly dark, and the sky, which had been quite clear when we set out, clouded over. tom put up his head, looked all round, and perceiving nobody, proposed that we should return as fast as we could; to which i agreed. but we were scarcely clear of the furze in which we had been concealed when a heavy fall of snow commenced, which, with the darkness, prevented us from distinguishing our way. every minute the snow-storm increased, the wind rose, and hurled the flakes into our faces until we were blinded. still we made good way against it, and expected every minute to be on the road, after which our task would be easy. on we walked in silence, i carrying the gun, tom with the hare over his shoulder, and tommy at our heels. for upwards of an hour did we tread our way through the furze, but could find no road. above us all was dark as pitch; the wind howled; our clothes were loaded with snow; and we began to feel no inconsiderable degree of fatigue. at last, quite tired out, we stopped. "tom," said i, "i'm sure we've not kept a straight course. the wind was on our starboard side, and our clothes were flaked with snow on that side, and now you see we've got it in our quarter. what the devil shall we do?" "we must go on till we fall in with something, at all events," replied tom. "and i expect that will be a gravel-pit," replied i; "but never mind, `better luck next time.' i only wish i had that rascal of a common-keeper here. suppose we turn back again, and keep the wind on the starboard side of us as before; we must pitch upon something at last." we did so, but our difficulties increased every moment; we floundered in the bogs, we tumbled over the stumps of the cut furze, and had i not caught bold of tom as he was sliding down he would have been at the bottom of a gravel-pit. this obliged us to alter our course, and we proceeded for a quarter of an hour, in another direction, until, worn out with cold and fatigue, we began to despair. "this will never do, tom," said i, as the wind rose and roared with double fury. "i think we had better get into the furze, and wait till the storm is over." tom's teeth chattered with the cold; but before he could reply, they chattered with fear. we heard a loud scream _overhead_. "what was that?" cried he. i confess that i was as much alarmed as tom. the scream was repeated, and it had an unearthly sound. it was no human voice--it was between a scream and a creak. again it was repeated, and carried along with the gale. i mustered up courage sufficient to look up to where the sound proceeded from; but the darkness was so intense, and the snow blinded me so completely, that i could see nothing. again and again did the dreadful sound ring in our ears, and we remained fixed and motionless with horror; even the dog crouched at our feet trembling. we spoke not a word--neither of us moved; the gun had fallen from my hand; the hare lay at tom's feet; we held each other's hand in silence, and there we remained for more than a quarter of an hour, every moment more and more sinking under the effects of cold, fatigue, and horror. fortunately for us the storm, in which had it continued much longer we should, in all probability, have perished, was by that time over; the snow ceased to fall; the clouds were rolled away to leeward; and a clear sky, bespangled with a thousand twinkling lights, roused us from our state of bodily and mental suffering. the first object which caught my eye was a post within two yards of us. i looked at it, followed it up with my eyes, and, to my horror, beheld a body suspended and swinging in chains over our heads. as soon as i recovered from the shock which the first view occasioned, i pointed it out to tom, who had not yet moved. he looked up, started back, and fell over the dog--jumped up again, and burst out into as loud a laugh as his frozen jaws would permit. "it's old jerry abershaw," said he, "i know him well, and now i know where we are." this was the case; abershaw had, about three years before, been hung in chains on wimbledon common; and the unearthly sound we had heard was the creaking of the rusty iron as the body was swung to-and-fro by the gale. "all's right, jacob," said tom, looking up at the brilliant sky, and then taking up the hare, "we'll be on the road in five minutes." i shouldered the gun, and off we set. "by the lord, that rascally common-keeper was right," continued tom, as we renewed our steps; "he prophesied we should come to the gallows before long, and so we have. well, this has been a pretty turn out. father will be in a precious stew." "better luck next time, tom," replied i; "it's all owing to that turf-and-bog rascal. i wish we had him here." "why, what would you do with him?" "take down old abershaw, and hang him up in his place, as sure as my name's jacob." chapter twenty. our last adventure not fatal--take to my grog kindly--grog makes me a very unkind return--old tom at his yarns again--how to put your foot in a mischief, without having a hand in it--candidates for the cat-o'-nine-tails. we soon recovered the road, and in half-an-hour we were at putney bridge; cold, wet, and tired, but not so bad as when we were stationary under the gallows; the quick walking restored the circulation. tom went in for the bottle of spirits, while i went for the sculls and carried them down to the boat, which was high and dry, and nearly up to the thwarts with snow. when tom joined me, he appeared with two bottles under his arms. "i have taken another upon tick, jacob," said he, "for i'm sure we want it, and so will father say, when he hears our story." we launched our boat, and in a couple of minutes were close to the lighter, on the deck of which stood old tom. "boat ahoy! is that you, lads?" cried he. "yes, father, all's right," replied tom, as we laid in our oars. "thank god!" replied the old man. "boys, boys, how you frightened me? where have you been? i thought you had met with some disaster. how have i been peeping through the snow-storm these last two hours, watching for the boat, and i'm as wet as a shag and as cold as charity. what has been the matter? did you bring the bottle, tom?" "yes, father; brought two, for we shall want them to-night if we go without for a week; but we must all get on dry rigging as fast as possible, and then you shall have the story of our cruise." in a few minutes we had changed our wet clothes and were seated at the cabin-table, eating our supper, and narrating our adventures to the old man. tommy, poor fellow, had his share, and now lay snoring at our feet, as the bottles and pannikins were placed upon the little table. "come, jacob, a drop will do you good," said old tom, filling me one of the pannikins. "a'ter all, it's much better being snug here in this little cabin than shivering with fear and cold under old abershaw's gallows; and tom, you scamp, if ever you go gunning again i'll disinherit you." "what have you got to leave, father, except your wooden legs?" replied tom. "your's would be but a _wooden-leg_-acy." "how do you know but what i can `_post the coal_?'" "so you will, if i boil a pot o' 'tatoes with your legacy--but it will only be char-coal." "well, i believe you are about right, tom; still, somehow or other, the old woman always picks out a piece or two of gold when i'm rather puzzled how to raise the wind. i never keeps no 'count with her. if i follow my legs before she, i hope the old soul will have saved something; for you know when a man goes to kingdom come, his pension goes with him. however, let me only hold on another five years, and then you'll not see her want; will you, tom?" "no, father; i'll sell myself to the king, and stand to be shot at, at a shilling a day, and give the old woman half." "well, tom, 'tis but natural for a man to wish to serve his country; so here's to you, my lad, and may you never do worse! jacob, do you think of going on board of a man-of-war?" "i'd like to serve my apprenticeship first, and then i don't care how soon." "well, my boy, you'll meet more fair play on board of a king's ship than you have from those on shore." "i should hope so," replied i, bitterly. "i hope to see you a man before i die, yet, jacob. i shall very soon be laid up in ordinary--my toes pain me a good deal lately!" "your toes!" cried tom and i both at once. "yes, boys; you may think it odd, but sometimes i feel them just as plain as if they were now on, instead of being long ago in some shark's maw. at nights i has the cramp in them till it almost makes me halloo out with pain. it's a hard thing, when one has lost the sarvice of his legs, that all the feelings should remain. the doctor says as how it's narvous. come, jacob, shove in your pannikin. you seem to take it more kindly than you did." "yes," replied i, "i begin to like grog now." the _now_, however, might be comprehended within the space of the last twenty-four hours. my depressed spirits were raised with the stimulus, and for a time i got rid of the eternal current of thought which pressed upon my brain. "i wonder what your old gentleman, the dominie, as you call him, thought, after he got on shore again," said old tom. "he seemed to be mighty cut up. i suppose you'll give him a hail, jacob?" "no," replied i, "i shall not go near him, nor any one else, if i can help it. mr drummond may think i wish to make it up again. i've done with the shore. i only wish i knew what is to become of me; for you know i am not to serve in the lighter with you." "suppose tom and i look out for another craft, jacob? i care nothing for mr drummond. he said t'other day i was a drunken old swab--for which, with my sarvice to him, he lies. a drunken fellow is one who can't, for the soul of him, keep from liquor when he can get it, and who's overtaken before he is aware of it. now that's not the case with me; i keep sober when there's work to be done; and when i knows that everything is safe under hatches, and no fear of nothing, why then i gets drunk like a rational being, with my eyes open--'cause why?--'cause i chooses." "that's exactly my notion of the thing," observed tom, draining his pannikin, and handing it over to his father for a fresh supply. "mind you keep to that notion, tom, when you gets in the king's sarvice, that's all; or you'll be sure to have your back scratched, which i understand is no joke after all. yet i do remember once, in a ship i was in, when half-a-dozen fellows were all fighting who should be flogged." "pray give us that yarn, father; but before you begin just fill my pannikin. i shoved it over half-an-hour ago, just by way of a hint." "well then," said old tom, pouring out some spirits into tom's pannikin, "it was just as follows. it was when the ship was lying at anchor in bermuda harbour, that the purser sent a breaker of spirits on shore to be taken up to some lady's house whom he was very anxious to splice, and i suppose that he found a glass of grog helped the matter. now, there were about twenty of the men who had liberty to go on shore, to stretch their limbs--little else could they do, poor fellows for the first lieutenant looked sharp after their kits to see that they did not sell any of their rigging; and as for money, we had been five years without touching a farthing of pay, and i don't suppose there was a matter of threepence among the men before the mast. however, liberty's liberty after all; and if they couldn't go ashore and get glorious, rather than not go on shore at all, they went ashore and kept sober perforce. i do think, myself, it's a very bad thing to keep the seamen without a farthing for so long--for you see a man who will be very honest with a few shillings in his pocket is often tempted to help himself, just for the sake of getting a glass or two of grog, and the temptation's very great, that's sartain, 'ticularly in a hot climate, when the sun scorches you, and the very ground itself is so heated that you can hardly bear the naked foot to it. [_this has been corrected; the men have for some time received a portion of their pay on foreign stations, and this portion has been greatly increased during sir james graham's administration_.] but to go on. the yawl was ordered on shore for the liberty men, and the purser gives this breaker, which was at least half full, and i dare say there might be three gallons in it, under my charge as coxswain, to deliver to madam at the house. well, as soon as we landed, i shoulders the breaker, and starts with it up the hill. "`what have you there, tom?' said bill short. "`what i wish i could share with you, bill,' says i; `it's some of old nipcheese's _eights_, that he has sent on shore to bowse his jib up with, with his sweetheart.' "`i've seen the madam,' said holmes to me--for you see all the liberty men were walking up the hill at the same time--`and i'd rather make love to the breaker than to her. she's as fat as an ox, as broad as she's long, built like a dutch schuyt, and as yellow as a nabob.' "`but old tummings knows what he's about,' said a scotch lad of the name of m'alpine; `they say she has lots of gold dust, more ducks and ingons, and more inches of water in her tank than any on the island.' "you see, boys, bermuda be a queer sort of place, and water very scarce; all they get there is a godsend, as it comes from heaven; and they look sharp for the rain, which is collected in large tanks, and an inch or two more of water in the tank is considered a great catch. i've often heard the ladies there talking for a shower:-"`good morning, marm. how do you do this fine morning?' "`pretty well, i tank you, marm. charming shower hab last night.' "`yes, so all say; but me not very lucky. cloud not come over my tank. how many inches of water you get last night, marm?' "`i get good seven inches, and i tink a little bit more, which make me very happy.' "`me no so lucky, marm; so help me god, me only get four inches of water in my tank; and dat nothing.' "well, but i've been yawing again, so now to keep my course. as soon as i came to the house i knocked at the door, and a little black girl opens the jalousies, and put her finger to her thick lips. "`no make noise; missy sleep.' "`where am i to put this?' "`put down there; by-and-by i come fetch it;' and then she closed the jalousies, for fear her mistress should be woke up, and she get a hiding, poor devil. so i puts the breaker down at the door, and walks back to the boat again. now, you see, these liberty men were all by when i spoke to the girl, and seeing the liquor left with no one to guard it, the temptation was too strong for them. so they looked all about them, and then at one another, and caught one another's meaning by the eye; but they said nothing. `i'll have no hand in it,' at last says one, and walked away. `nor i,' said another, and walked away too. at last all of them walked away except eight, and then bill short walks up to the breaker and says-"`i won't have no _hand_ in it, either;' but he gave the breaker a kick, which rolls it away two or three yards from the door. "`nor more will i,' said holmes, giving the breaker another kick, which rolled it out in the road. so they all went on, without having a _hand_ in it, sure enough, till they had kicked the breaker down the hill to the beach. then they were at a dead stand, as no one would spile the breaker. at last a black carpenter came by, and they offered him a glass if he would bore a hole with his gimlet, for they were determined to be able to swear, every one of them; that they had _no hand in it_. well, as soon as the hole was bored, one of them borrowed a couple of little mugs from a black woman, who sold beer, and then they let it run, the black carpenter shoving one mug under as soon as the other was full, and they drinking as fast as they could. before they had half finished, more of the liberty men came down; i suppose they scented the good stuff from above as a shark does anything in the water, and they soon made a finish of it; and when it was all finished, they were all drunk, and made sail for a cruise, that they might not be found too near the empty breaker. well, a little before sunset i was sent on shore with the boat to fetch off the liberty men, and the purser takes this opportunity of getting ashore to see his madam, and the first thing he falls athwart of is his own empty breaker. "`how's this?' says he; `didn't you take this breaker up as i ordered you?' "`yes, sir,' replied i, `i did, and gave it in charge to the little back thing; but madam was asleep, and the girl did not allow me to put it inside the door.' at that he began to storm, and swore that he'd find out the malefactors, as he termed the liberty men, who had emptied his breaker; and away he went to the house. as soon as he was gone we got hold of the breaker, and made a _bull_ of it." "how did you manage that?" inquired i. "why, jacob, a _bull_ means putting a quart or two of water into a cask which has had spirits in it; and what with the little that may be left, and what has soaked in the wood, if you roll it and shake it well, it generally turns out pretty fair grog. at all events its always better than nothing. well, to go on--but suppose we fill up again and take a fresh departure, as this is a tolerably long yarn, and i must wet the threads, or they may chance to break." our pannikins, which had been empty, were all replenished, and then old tom proceeded. "it was a long while before we could pick up the liberty men, who were reeling about every corner of the town, and quite dark before i came on board. the first lieutenant was on deck, and had no occasion to ask me why i waited so long, when he found they were all lying in the stern sheets. `where the devil could they have picked up the liquor?' said he, and then he ordered the master-at-arms to keep them under the half-deck till they were sober. the next morning the purser comes off, and makes his complaint on the quarter-deck as how somebody had stolen his liquor. the first lieutenant reports to the captain, and the captain orders up all the men who came off tipsy. "`which of you took the liquor?' said he. they all swore that they had no hand in it. `then how did you get tipsy? come now, mr short, answer me; you came off beastly drunk--who gave you the liquor?' "`a black fellow, sir,' replied short; which was true enough, as the mugs were filled by the black carpenter, and handed by him. "well, they all swore the same, and then the captain got into a rage, and ordered them all to be put down on the report. the next day the hands were turned up for punishment, and the captain said, `now, my lads, if you won't tell who stole the purser's grog, i will flog you all round. i only want to flog those who committed the theft, for it is too much to expect of seamen that they would refuse a glass of grog when offered to them.' "now, short and the others had a parley together, and they had agreed how to act. they knew that the captain could not bear flogging, and was a very kind-hearted man. so bill short steps out, and says, touching his forelock to the captain, `if you please, sir, if all must be flogged if nobody will peach, i think it better to tell the truth at once. it was i who took the liquor.' "`very well, then,' said the captain; `strip, sir.' so bill short pulls off his shirt, and is seized up. `boatswain's mate,' said the captain, `give him a dozen.' "`beg your honour's pardon,' said jack holmes, stepping out of the row of men brought out for punishment; `but i can't bear to see an innocent man punished, and since one must be flogged, it must be the right one. it warn't bill short that took the liquor; it was i.' "`why, how's this?' said the captain; `didn't you own that you took the liquor, mr short?' "`why, yes, i did say so, 'cause i didn't wish to see _everybody_ flogged--but the truth's the truth, and i had no hand in it.' "`cast him loose--holmes, you'll strip, sir.' holmes stripped and was tied up. `give him a dozen,' said the captain; when out steps m'alpine, and swore it was him, and not holmes; and ax'd leave to be flogged in his stead. at which the captain bit his lips to prevent laughing, and then they knew all was right. so another came forward, and says it was him, and not m'alpine; and another contradicts him again, and so on. at last the captain says, `one would think flogging was a very pleasant affair; you are all so eager to be tied up; but, however, i shan't flog, to please you. i shall find out who the real culprit is, and then punish him severely. in the meantime, you keep them all on the report, mr p---,' speaking to the first lieutenant. `depend upon it, i'll not let you off, although i do not choose to flog innocent men.' so they piped down, and the first lieutenant, who knew that the captain never meant to take any more notice of it, never made no inquiries, and the thing blew over. one day, a month or two after, i told the officers how it was managed, and they laughed heartily." we continued our carouse till a late hour, old tom constantly amusing us with his long yarns; and that night, for the first time, i went to bed intoxicated. old tom and his son assisted me into my bed-place, old tom observing, "poor jacob; it will do him good; his heart was heavy, and now he'll forget it all, for a little time, at all events." "well but, father, i don't like to see jacob drunk," replied young tom. "it's not like him--it's not worthy of him; as for you or me, it's nothing at all; but i feel jacob was never meant to be a toper. i never saw a lad so altered in a short time, and i expect bad will come of it when he leaves us." i awoke, as might be supposed, after my first debauch, with a violent headache, but i had also a fever, brought on by my previous anxiety of mind. i rose, dressed, and went on deck, where the snow was nearly a foot deep. it now froze hard, and the river was covered with small pieces of floating ice. i rubbed my burning forehead with the snow, and felt relief. for some time i assisted tom to heave it overboard, but the fever pressed upon me, and in less than half-an-hour i could no longer stand the exertion. i sat down on the water cask, and pressed my hands to my throbbing temples. "you are not well, jacob?" inquired tom, coming up to me with the shovel in his hand, and glowing with health and exercise. "i am not, indeed, tom," replied i; "feel how hot i am." tom went to his father, who was in the cabin, padding, with extra flannel, his stumps, to defend them from the cold, which always made him suffer much, and then led me into the cabin. it was with much difficulty i could walk; my knees trembled, and my eyesight was defective. old tom took my hand as i sank on the locker. "do you think that it was taking too much last night?" inquired tom of his father. "there's more here than a gallon of liquor would have brought about," replied old tom. "no, no--i see it all. go to bed again, jacob." they put me into bed, and i was soon in a state of stupor, in which i remained until the lighter had arrived at the brentford wharf, and for many days afterwards. chapter twenty one. on a sick bed--fever, firmness, and folly--"bound 'prentice to a waterman"--i take my first lesson in love, and give my first lesson in latin--the love lesson makes an impression on my auricular organ-verily, none are so deaf as those who won't hear. when i recovered my senses, i found myself in bed, and captain turnbull sitting by my side. i had been removed to his house when the lighter had arrived at the wharf. captain turnbull was then talking with mr tomkins, the former head clerk, now in charge. old tom came on shore and stated the condition i was in, and mr tomkins having no spare bed in his house, captain turnbull immediately ordered me to be taken to his residence, and sent for medical advice. during the time i had remained in this state old tom had informed captain turnbull, the dominie, and mr tomkins of the circumstances which had occurred, and how much i had been misrepresented to mr drummond; and not saying a word about the affair of wimbledon common, or my subsequent intemperance, had given it as his opinion that ill-treatment had produced the fever. in this, i believe, he was nearly correct, although my disease might certainly have been aggravated and hastened by those two unmentioned causes. they all of them took my part, and mr turnbull went to london to state my condition to mr drummond, and also to remonstrate at his injustice. circumstances had since occurred which induced mr drummond to lend a ready ear to my justification; but the message i had sent was still an obstacle. this, however, was partly removed by the equivocating testimony of the young clerk, when he was interrogated by captain turnbull and mr drummond; and wholly so by the evidence of young and old tom, who, although in the cabin, had overheard the whole of the conversation; and mr drummond desired captain turnbull to inform me, as soon as i recovered, that all was forgotten and forgiven. it might have been on his part, but not on mine; and when captain turnbull told me so, with the view of raising my spirits, i shook my head as i lay on the pillow. as the reader will have observed, the feeling roused in me by the ill-usage i had received was a _vindictive_ one--one that must have been deeply implanted in my heart, although, till then, it had never been roused into action, and now, once roused, was not to be suppressed. that it was based on pride was evident, and with it my pride was raised in proportion. to the intimation of captain turnbull, i, therefore, gave a decided dissent. "no, sir, i cannot return to mr drummond: that he was kind to me, and that i owe much to his kindness, i readily admit; and now that he has acknowledged his error in supposing me capable of such ingratitude, i heartily forgive him; but i cannot, and will not, receive any more favours from him. i cannot put myself in a situation to be again mortified as i have been. i feel i should no longer have the same pleasure in doing my duty as i once had, and i never could live under the same roof with those who at present serve him. tell him all this, and pray tell little sarah how grateful i feel no her for all her kindness to me, and that i shall always think of her with regret, at being obliged to leave her." and at the remembrance of little sarah i burst into tears, and sobbed on my pillow. captain turnbull, whether he rightly estimated my character, or fell convinced that i had made up my mind, did not renew the subject. "well, jacob," replied he, "we'll not talk of that any more. i'll give your messages just in your own words. now, take your draught, and try to get a little sleep." i complied with this request, and nothing but weakness now remaining, i rapidly regained my strength, and with my strength, my feelings of resentment increased in proportion. nothing but the very weak state that i was in when captain turnbull spoke to me would have softened me down to give the kind message that i did; but my vindictive mind was subdued by disease, and better feelings predominated. the only effect this had was to increase my animosity against the other parties who were the cause of my ill-treatment, and i vowed that they, at least, should one day repent their conduct. the dominie called upon me the following sunday. i was dressed and looking through the window when he arrived. the frost was now intense, and the river was covered with large masses of ice, and my greatest pleasure was to watch them as they floated down with the tide; "thou hast had a second narrow escape, my jacob," said he, after some preliminary observations. "once again did death (_pallida mors_) hover over thy couch; but thou hast arisen, and thy fair fame is again established. when wilt thou be able to visit mr drummond, and be able to thank him for his kindness?" "never, sir," replied i; "i will never again enter mr drummond's house." "nay, jacob, this savoureth of enmity. are not we all likely to be deceived--all likely to do wrong? did not i, even i, in thy presence, backslide into intemperance and folly? did not i disgrace myself before my pupil--and shalt thou, in thy tender years, harbour ill-will against one who had cherished thee when thou wert destitute, and who was deceived with regard to thee by the base and evil-speaking?" "i am obliged to mr drummond for all his kindness, sir," replied i; "but i never wish to enter his house. i was turned out of it, and never will again go into it." "_eheu! jacobe_, thou art in error; it is our duty to forgive as we hope to be forgiven." "i do forgive, sir, if that is what is requested: but i cannot, and will not, accept of further favours." the dominie urged in vain, and left me. mr tomkins also came, and argued the point without success. i was resolved. i was determined to be independent; and i looked to the river as my father, mother, home, and everything. as soon as my health was reinstated, captain turnbull one day came to me. "jacob," said he, "the lighter has returned: and i wish to know if you intend to go on board again, and afterwards go into the vessel into which mr drummond proposes to send you." "i will go into no vessel through mr drummond's means or interest," replied i. "what will you do then?" replied he. "i can always enter on board a man-of-war," replied i, "if the worst comes to the worst; but if i can serve out my apprenticeship on the river, i should prefer it." "i rather expected this answer, jacob, from what you have said to me already; and i have been trying if i cannot help you to something which may suit you. you don't mind being obliged to me?" "o, no; but promise you will never doubt me--never accuse me." my voice faltered, and i could say no more. "no, my lad, that i will not; i know you, as i think, pretty well; and the heart that feels a false accusation as yours does is sure to guard against committing what you are so angry at being accused of. now, jacob, listen to me. you know old deaf stapleton, whose wherry we have so often pulled up and down the river? i have spoken to him to take you as his help, and he has consented. will you like to go? he has served his time, and has a right to take a 'prentice." "yes," replied i, "with pleasure; and with more pleasure, from expecting to see you often." "o, i promise you all my custom, jacob," replied he, laughing. "we'll often turn old stapleton out, and have a row together. is it agreed?" "it is," replied i; "and many thanks to you." "well, then, consider it settled. stapleton has a very good room, and all that's requisite on shore, at fulham. i have seen his place, and i think you will be comfortable." i did not know at the time how much captain turnbull had been my friend--that he had made stapleton take better lodgings, and had made up the difference to him, besides allowing him a trifle per week, and promising him a gratuity occasionally, if i were content with my situation. in a few days i had removed all my clothes to stapleton's, had taken my leave of mr turnbull, and was established as an apprentice to a waterman on the thames. the lighter was still at the wharf when i left, and my parting with old tom and his son was equally and sincerely felt on both sides. "jacob," said old tom, "i likes your pride after all, 'cause why, i think you have some right to be proud; and the man who only asks fair play, and no favour always will rise in this world. but look you, jacob, there's sometimes a current 'gainst a man that no one can make head against; and if so be that should be your case for a time, recollect the old house, the old woman, and old tom, and there you'll always find a hearty welcome, and a hearty old couple who'll share with you what they have, be it good, bad, or indifferent. here's luck to you, my boy; and recollect, i means to go to the expense of painting the sides of my craft blue, and then you'll always know her as she creeps up and down the river." "and jacob," said young tom;--"i may be a wild one, but i'm a true one; if ever you want me in fair weather and in foul--good or bad--for fun or for mischief--for a help, or for a friend in need, through thick or thin, i'm yours, even to the gallows; and here's my hand upon it." "just like you, tom," observed his father; "but i know what you mean, and all's right." i shook hands with them both, and we parted. thus did i remove from the lighter, and at once take up the profession of a waterman; i walked down to the fulham side, where i found stapleton at the door of the public-house, standing with two or three others, smoking his pipe. "well, lad, so you're chained to my wherry for two or three years; and i'm to initiate you into all the rules and regulations of the company. now, i'll tell you one thing, which is, d'ye see, when the river's covered with ice, as it is just now, haul your wherry up high and dry, and smoke your pipe till the river is clear, as i do now." "i might have guessed that," replied i, bawling in his ear, "without you telling me." "very true; but don't bawl in my ear quite so loud, i hears none the better for it; my ears require coaxing, that's all." "why, i thought you were as deaf as a post." "yes, so i be with strangers, 'cause i don't know the pitch of their voice; but with those about me i hear better when they speak quietly-that's human nature. come, let's go home, my pipe is finished, and as there's nothing to be done on the river, we may just as well make all tidy there." stapleton had lost his wife; but he had a daughter, fifteen years old, who kept his lodgings, and _did for him_, as he termed it. he lived in part of some buildings leased by a boat-builder; his windows looked out on the river; and, on the first floor, a bay-window was thrown out, so that at high water the river ran under it. as for the rooms, consisting of five, i can only say that they could not be spoken of as large and small, but as small and smaller. the sitting-room was eight feet square, the two bed-rooms at the back, for himself and his daughter, just held a small bed each, and the kitchen and my room below were to match; neither were the tenements in the very best repair, the parlour especially, hanging over the river, being lop-sided, and giving you the uncomfortable idea that it would every minute fall into the stream below. still, the builder declared that it would last many years without sinking further, and that was sufficient. at all events, they were very respectable accommodations for a waterman, and stapleton paid for them 10 pounds per annum. stapleton's daughter was certainly a very well-favoured girl. she had rather a large mouth; but her teeth were very fine, and beautifully white. her hair was auburn--her complexion very fair, her eyes were large, and of a deep blue, and from her figure, which was very good, i should have supposed her to have been eighteen, although she was not past fifteen, as i found out afterwards. there was a frankness and honesty of countenance about her, and an intellectual smile, which was very agreeable. "well, mary, how do you get on?" said stapleton, as we ascended to the sitting-room. "here's young faithful come to take up with us." "well, father, his bed's all ready; and i have taken so much dirt from the room that i expect we shall be indicted for filling up the river. i wonder what nasty people lived in this house before us." "very nice rooms, nevertheless; ain't they, boy?" "o yes, very nice for idle people; you may amuse yourself looking out on the river, or watching what floats past, or fishing with a pin at high water," replied mary, looking at me. "i like the river," replied i, gravely; "i was born on it, and hope to get my bread on it." "and i like this sitting-room," rejoined stapleton; "how mighty comfortable it will be to sit at the open window, and smoke in the summer time, with one's jacket off!" "at all events you'll have no excuse for dirtying the room, father; and as for the lad, i suppose his smoking days have not come yet." "no," replied i; "but my days for taking off my jacket are, i suspect." "o yes," replied she, "never fear that; father will let you do all the work you please, and look on--won't you, father?" "don't let your tongue run quite so fast, mary; you're not over fond of work yourself." "no; there's only one thing i dislike more," replied she, "and that's holding my tongue." "well, i shall leave you and jacob to make it out together; i am going back to the feathers." and old stapleton walked down stairs, and went back to the inn, saying, as he went out, that he should be back to his dinner. mary continued her employment of wiping the furniture of the room with a duster for some minutes, during which i did not speak, but watched the floating ice on the river. "well," said mary, "do you always talk as you do now? if so, you'll be a very nice companion. mr turnbull who came to my father, told me that you was a sharp fellow, could read, write, and do everything, and that i should like you very much; but if you mean to keep it all to yourself, you might as well not have had it." "i am ready to talk when i have anything to talk about," replied i. "that's not enough. i'm ready to talk about nothing, and you must do the same." "very well," replied i. "how old are you?" "how old am i! o, then you consider me nothing. i'll try hard but you shall alter your opinion, my fine fellow. however, to answer your question, i believe i'm about fifteen." "not more? well, there's an old proverb, which i will not repeat." "i know it, so you may save yourself the trouble, you saucy boy; but now, for your age?" "mine! let me see; well, i believe that i am nearly seventeen." "are you really so old? well, now, i should have thought you no more than fourteen." this answer at first surprised me, as i was very stout and tall for my age; but a moment's reflection told me that it was given to annoy me. a lad is as much vexed at being supposed younger than he really is as a man of a certain age is annoyed at being taken for so much older. "pooh!" replied i; "that shows how little you know about men." "i wasn't talking about men, that i know of; but still, i do know something about them. i've had two sweethearts already." "indeed! and what have you done with them?" "done with them! i jilted the first for the second, because the second was better looking; and when mr turnbull told me so much about you, i jilted the second to make room for you: but now i mean to try if i can't get him back again." "with all my heart," replied i laughing. "i shall prove but a sorry sweetheart, for i have never made love in my life." "have you ever had anybody to make love to?" "no." "that's the reason, mr jacob, depend upon it. all you have to do is to swear that i'm the prettiest girl in the world, that you like me better than anybody else in the world; do anything in the world that i wish you to do--spend all the money you have in the world in buying me ribbons and fairings, and then--" "and then, what?" "why, then, i shall hear all you have to say, take all you have to give, and laugh at you in the bargain." "but i shouldn't stand that long." "o, yes, you would. i'd put you out of humour, and coax you in again; the fact is, jacob faithful, i made my mind up, before i saw you, that you should be my sweetheart, and when i will have a thing, i will, so you may as well submit to it at once. if you don't, as i keep the key of the cupboard, i'll half starve you; that's the way to tame any brute, they say. and i tell you why, jacob, i mean that you shall be my sweetheart; it's because mr turnbull told me that you knew latin; now, tell me, what is latin?" "latin is a language which people spoke in former times, but now they do not." "well, then, you shall make love to me in latin, that's agreed." "and how do you mean to answer me?" "o, in plain english, to be sure." "but how are you to understand me?" replied i, much amused with the conversation. "o, if you make love properly, i shall soon understand you; i shall read the english of it in your eyes." "very well, i have no objection; when am i to begin?" "why, directly, you stupid fellow, to be sure. what a question!" i went close up to mary, and repeated a few words of latin. "now," says i, "look into my eyes, and see if you can translate them." "something impudent, i'm sure," replied she, fixing her blue eyes on mine. "not at all," replied i, "i only asked for this," and i snatched a kiss, in return for which i received a box on the ear, which made it tingle for five minutes. "nay," replied i, "that's not fair; i did as you desired--i made love in latin." "and i answered you, as i said i would, in plain english," replied mary, reddening up to the forehead, but directly after bursting out into a loud laugh. "now, mr jacob, i plainly see that you know nothing about making love. bless me, a year's dangling, and a year's pocket-money should not have given you what you have had the impudence to take in so many minutes. but it was my own fault, that's certain, and i have no one to thank but myself. i hope i didn't hurt you--i'm very sorry if i did; but no more making love in latin. i've had quite enough of that." "well, then, suppose we make friends," replied i, holding out my hand. "that's what i really wished to do, although i've been talking so much nonsense," replied mary. "i know we shall like one another, and be very good friends. you can't help feeling kind towards a girl you've kissed; and i shall try by kindness to make up to you for the box on the ear; so now, sit down, and let's have a long talk. mr turnbull told us that he wished you to serve out your apprenticeship on the river with my father, so that, if you agree, we shall be a long while together. i take mr turnbull's word, not that i can find it out yet, that you are a very good-tempered, good-looking, clever, modest lad; and as an apprentice who remains with my father must live with us, of course i had rather it should be one of that sort than some ugly, awkward brute who--" "is not fit to make love to you," replied i. "who is not fit company for me," replied mary. "i want no more love from you at present. the fact is that father spends all the time he can spare from the wherry at the ale-house, smoking; and it's very dull for me, and having nothing to do, i look out of the window, and make faces at the young men as they pass by, just to amuse myself. now, there was no great harm in that a year or two ago; but now, you know, jacob--" "well now, what then?" "o, i'm bigger, that's all? and what might be called sauciness in a girl may be thought something more of in a young woman. so i've been obliged to leave it off; but being obliged to remain home, with nobody to talk to, i never was so glad as when i heard that you were to come; so you see, jacob, we must be friends. i daren't quarrel with you long, although i shall sometimes, just for variety, and to have the pleasure of making it up again. do you hear me--or what are you thinking of?" "i'm thinking that you're a very odd girl." "i dare say that i am, but how can i help that? mother died when i was five years old, and father couldn't afford to put me out, so he used to lock me in all day till he came home from the river; and it was not till i was seven years old, and of some use, that the door was left open. i never shall forget the day when he told me that in future he should trust me, and leave the door open. i thought i was quite a woman, and have thought so ever since. i recollect that i often peeped out, and longed to run about the world; but i went two or three yards from the door, and felt so frightened, that i ran back as fast as i could. since that i have seldom quitted the house for an hour, and never have been out of fulham." "then you have never been at school?" "o, no--never. i often wish that i had. i used to see the little girls coming home, as they passed our door, so merrily, with their bags from the school-house; and i'm sure, if it were only to have the pleasure of going there and back again for the sake of the run, i'd have worked hard, if for nothing else." "would you like to learn to read and write?" "will you teach me?" replied mary, taking me by the arm, and looking me earnestly in the face. "yes, i will, with pleasure," replied i, laughing. "we will pass the evening better than making love, after all, especially if you hit so hard. how came you so knowing in those matters?" "i don't know," replied mary, smiling; "i suppose, as father says, it's human nature, for i never learnt anything; but you will teach me to read and write?" "i will teach you all i know myself, mary, if you wish to learn. everything but latin--we've had enough of that." "oh! i shall be so much obliged to you. i shall love you so!" "there you are again." "no, no, i didn't mean that," replied mary, earnestly. "i meant that-after all, i don't know what else to say. i mean that i shall love you for your kindness, without your loving me again, that's it." "i understand you; but now, mary, as we are to be such good friends, it is necessary that your father and i should be good friends; so i must ask you what sort of a person he is, for i know but little of him, and, of course, wish to oblige him." "well then, to prove to you that i'm sincere, i will tell you something; my father, in the first place, is a very good tempered sort of man. he works pretty well, but might gain more, but he likes to smoke at the public-house. all he requires of me is his dinner ready, his linen clean, and the house tidy. he never drinks too much, and is always civil spoken; but he leaves me too much alone, and talks too much about human nature, that's all." "but he's so deaf--he can't talk to you." "give me your hand--now promise--for i'm going to do a very foolish thing, which is to trust a man--promise you'll never tell it again." "well, i promise," replied i, supposing her secret of no consequence. "well, then--mind--you've promised. father is no more deaf than you or i." "indeed!" replied i; "why, he goes by the name of deaf stapleton?" "i know he does, and makes everybody believe that he is so; but it is to make money." "how can he make money by that?" "there's many people in business who go down the river, and they wish to talk of their affairs without being overheard as they go down. they always call for deaf stapleton: and there's many a gentleman and lady, who have much to say to each other, without wishing people to listen-you understand me?" "o yes, i understand--latin!" "exactly--and they call for deaf stapleton; and by this means he gets more good fares than any other waterman, and does less work." "but how will he manage now that i am with him?" "o, i suppose it will depend upon his customers; if a single person wants to go down, you will take the sculls; if they call for oars, you will both go; if he considers deaf stapleton only is wanted, you will remain on shore; or, perhaps, he will insist upon your being deaf too." "but i do not like deceit." "no, it's not right; although it appears to me that there is a great deal of it. still i should like you to sham deaf, and then tell me all that people say. it would be so funny. father never will tell a word." "so far, your father, to a certain degree, excuses himself." "well, i think he will soon tell you what i have now told you, but till then you must keep your promise; and now you must do as you please, as i must go down in the kitchen, and get dinner on the fire." "i have nothing to do," replied i; "can i help you?" "to be sure you can, and talk to me, which is better still. come down and wash the potatoes for me, and then i'll find you some more work. well, i do think we shall be very happy." i followed mary stapleton down into the kitchen, and we were soon very busy, and very noisy, laughing, talking, blowing the fire, and preparing the dinner. by the time that her father came home we were sworn friends. chapter twenty two. is very didactic, and treats learnedly on the various senses, and "human nature;" is also diffuse on the best training to produce a moral philosopher--indeed, it contains materials with which to build up one system, and half-a-dozen theories, as these things are now made. i was rather curious, after the secret confided to me by mary stapleton, to see how her father would behave; but when we had sat and talked some time, as he appeared to have no difficulty in answering to any observation in a common pitch of the voice, i observed to him that he was not so deaf as i thought he was. "no, no," replied he; "in the house i hear very well, but in the open air i can't hear at all, if a person speaks to me two yards off. always speak to me close to my ear in the open air, but not loud, and then i shall hear you very well." i caught a bright glance from mary's blue eye, and made no answer. "this frost will hold, i'm afraid," continued stapleton, "and we shall have nothing to do for some days but to blow our fingers and spend our earnings; but there's never much doing at this time of the year. the winter cuts us watermen up terribly. as for me, i smokes my pipe and thinks on human natur'; but what you are to do jacob, i can't tell." "oh, he will teach me to read and write," replied mary. "i don't know that he shall," replied stapleton. "what's the use of reading and writing to you? we've too many senses already, in my opinion, and if so be we have learning to boot, why then all the worse for us." "how many senses are there, father?" "how many! i'm sure i can't tell, but more than enough to puzzle us." "there are only five, i believe," said i; "first, there's _hearing_." "well," replied stapleton "hearing may be useful at times; but not hearing at times is much more convenient. i make twice as much money since i lost the better part of my hearing." "well, then, there's seeing," continued i. "seeing is useful at times, i acknowledge; but i knows this, that if a man could pull a young couple about the river, and not be able to see now and then, it would be many a half-crown in his pocket." "well, then, now we come to _tasting_." "no use at all--only a vexation. if there was no tasting we should not care whether we ate brown bread or roast beef, drank water or xx ale; and in these hard times that would be no small saving." "well, then, let me see, there's _smelling_." "smelling's no use whatever. for one good smell by the river's side there be ten nasty ones; and there is everywhere, to my conviction." "which is the next, jacob?" said mary, smiling archly. "_feeling_." "feeling! that's the worst of the whole. always feel too cold in winter, too hot in summer--feel a blow too; feeling only gives pain; that's a very bad sense." "well, then, i suppose you think we should get on better without our senses." "no, not without all of them. a little hearing and a little seeing be all very well; but there are other senses which you have forgot, jacob. now, one i takes to be the very best of the bunch is _smoking_." "i never heard that was a sense," replied i, laughing. "then you haven't half finished your education, jacob." "are reading and writing _senses_, father?" inquired mary. "to be sure they be, girl; for without sense you can't read and write; and _rowing_ be a sense just as well; and there be many other senses; but, in my opinion, most of the senses be nonsense, and only lead to mischief." "jacob," said mary, whispering to my ear, "isn't _loving_ a sense?" "no, that's nonsense," replied i. "well, then," replied she, "i agree with my father that nonsense is better than sense; but still i don't see why i should not learn to read and write, father." "i've lived all my life without it, and never felt the want of it--why can't you?" "because i do feel the want of it." "so you may, but they leads no no good. look at those fellows at the feathers; all were happy enough before jim holder, who is a scholar, came among them, and now since he reads to them they do nothing but grumble, and growl, and talk about i don't know what--corn laws, and taxes, and liberty, and all other nonsense. now, what could you do more than you do now, if you larnt to read and write?" "i could amuse myself when i've nothing to do, father, when you and jacob are away. i often sit down, after i've done all my work, and think what i shall do next, and at last i look out of the window and make faces at people, because i've nothing better to do. now, father, you must let him learn me to read and write." "well, mary, if you will, you will; but recollect, don't blame me for it--it must be all on your own head, and not on my conscience. i've lived some forty or fifty years in this world, and all my bad luck has been owing to having too much senses, and all my good luck to getting rid of them." "i wish you would tell me how that came to pass," said i; "i should like to hear it very much, and it will be a lesson to mary." "well, i don't care if i do, jacob, only i must light my pipe first; and, mary, do you go for a pot o' beer." "let jacob go, father. i mean him to run on all my errands now." "you mustn't order jacob, mary." "no, no--i wouldn't think of ordering him, but i know he will do it-won't you, jacob?" "yes, with pleasure," replied i. "well, with all my heart, provided it be all for love," said stapleton. "of course, all for love," replied mary, looking at me, "or latin-which, jacob?" "what's latin?" said her father. "oh! that's a new sense jacob has been showing me something of, which, like many others, proved to be nonsense." i went for the beer, and when i returned found the fire burning brightly, and a strong _sense_ of smoking from old stapleton's pipe. he puffed once or twice more, and then commenced his history as follows: "i can't exactly say when i were born, nor where," said old stapleton, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "because i never axed either father or mother, and they never told me, because why, i never did ax, and that be all agreeable to human natur'." here stapleton paused, and took three whiffs of his pipe. "i recollects when i was a little brat about two foot nothing, mother used to whack me all day long, and i used to cry in proportion. father used to cry shame, and then mother would fly at him; he would whack she; she would up with her apron in one corner and cry, while i did the same with my pinbefore in another; all that was nothing but human natur'." [a pause, and six or seven whiffs of the pipe.] "i was sent to school at a penny a week, to keep me out of the way, and out of mischief. i larnt nothing but to sit still on the form and hold my tongue, and so i used to amuse myself twiddling my thumbs, and looking at the flies as they buzzed about the room in the summer time; and in the winter, cause there was no flies of no sort, i used to watch the old missus a-knitting of stockings, and think how soon the time would come when i should go home and have my supper, which, in a child was nothing but human natur'." [puff, puff, puff.] "father and mother lived in a cellar; mother sold coals and 'tatoes, and father used to go out to work in the barges on the river. as soon as i was old enough, the schoolmissus sent word that i ought to learn to read and write, and that she must be paid threepence a week; so father took me away from school, because he thought i had had education enough; and mother perched me on a basket upside down, and made me watch that nobody took the goods while she was busy down below; and then i used to sit all day long watching the coals and 'tatoes, and never hardly speaking to nobody; so having nothing better to do, i used to think about this, and that, and everything, and when dinner would be ready, and when i might get off the basket; for you see _thinking_ be another of the senses, and when one has nothing to do, and nothing to say, to think be nothing more than human natur'." [puff, puff, and a pause for a drink out of the pot.] "at last, i grew a big stout boy, and mother said that i ate too much, and must earn my livelihood somehow or other, and father for once agreed with her; but there was a little difficulty how that was to be done; so until that was got over i did nothing at all but watch the coals and 'tatoes as before. one day mother wouldn't give me wituals enough, so i helped myself; so she whacked me, so i, being strong, whacked she; so father, coming home, whacked me, so i takes to my heels and runs away a good mile before i thought at all about how i was to live; and there i was, very sore, very unhappy, and very hungry." [puff, puff, puff, and a spit.] "i walks on, and on, and then i gets behind a coach, and then the fellow whips me, and i gets down again in a great hurry, and tumbles into the road, and before i could get up again, a gemman, in a gig drives right over me, and breaks my leg. i screams with pain, which if i hadn't had the sense of _feeling_, of course i shouldn't have minded. he pulls up and gets out, and tells me he's very sorry. i tells him so am i. his servant calls some people, and they takes me into a public-house, and lays me on the table all among the pots of beer, sends for a doctor, who puts me into bed, and puts my leg right again; and then i was provided for, for at least six weeks, during which the gemman calls and axes how i feel myself; and i says, `pretty well, i thanky.'" [puff, puff--knock the ashes out, pipe refilled, relighted, a drink of beer, and go on.] "so when i was well, and on my pins again, the gentleman says, `what can i do for you?' and the landlord cuts him short by saying that he wanted a pot-boy, if i liked the profession. now, if i didn't like the pots i did the porter, which i had no share of at home, so i agrees. the gemman pays the score, gives me half a guinea, and tells me not to be lying in the middle of the road another time. i tells him i won't, so he jumps into his gig, and i never cast eyes upon him since. i stayed three years with my master, taking out beer to his customers, and always taking a little out of each pot for myself, for that's nothing but human natur' when you likes a thing; but i never got into trouble until one day i sees my missus a-kissing in the back parlour with a fellow who travels for orders. i never said nothing at first; but at last i sees too much, and then i tells master, who gets into a rage, and goes into his wife, stays with her half-an-hour, and then comes out and kicks me out of the door, calling me a liar, and telling me never to show my face again. i shies a pot at his head, and showed him anything but my face, for i took to my heels, and ran for it as fast as i could. so much for seeing; if i hadn't seen, that wouldn't have happened. so there i was adrift, and good-bye to porter." [puff, puff; "mary, where's my 'baccy stopper?" poke down, puff, puff, spit, and proceed.] "well, i walks towards lunnen, thinking on husbands and wives, porter and human natur', until i finds myself there, and then i looks at all the lighted lamps, and recollects that i haven't no lodging for the night, and then all of a sudden i thinks of my father and mother, and wonders how they be going on. so i thought i'd go and see, and away i went, comes to the cellar, and goes down. there was my mother with a quartern of gin before her, walking to and fro, and whimpering to herself; so says i, `mother, what's the matter now?' at which she jumps up and hugs me, and tells me i'm her only comfort left. i looked at the quartern and thinks otherwise; so down i sits by her side, and then she pours me out a glass, and pours out all her grief, telling me how my father had left her for another woman, who kept another cellar in another street, and how she was very unhappy, and how she had taken to gin--which was nothing but human natur', you see, and how she meant to make away with herself; and then she sent for more quarterns, and we finished them. what with the joy of finding me, and the grief at losing my father, and the quarterns of gin, she went to bed crying drunk and fell fast asleep. so did i, and thought home was home after all. next morning i takes up the business, and finds trade not so bad after all; so i takes the command of all, keeps all the money, and keeps mother in order; and don't allow drinking nor disorderly conduct in the house; but goes to the public-house every night for a pipe and a pot. "well, everything goes on very well for a month, when who should come home but father, which i didn't approve of, because i liked being master. so i, being a strong chap, then says, `if you be come to ill-treat my mother, i'll put you in the kennel, father. be off to your new woman. ar'n't you ashamed of yourself?' says i. so father looks me in the face, and tells me to stand out of the way, or he'll make cat's meat of me; and then he goes to my mother, and after a quarter of an hour of sobbing on her part, and coaxing on his, they kiss and make friends; and then they both turns to me, and orders me to leave the cellar, and never to show my face again. i refuses: father flies at me, and mother helps him; and between the two i was hustled out to find my bread how and where i could. i've never taken a woman's part since." [puff, puff, puff, and a deep sigh.] "i walks down to the water-side, and having one or two shillings in my pocket, goes into a public-house to get a drop of drink and a bed. and when i comes in, i sees a man hand a note for change to the landlady, and she gives him change. `that won't do,' says he, and he was half tipsy: `i gave you a ten-pound note, and this here lad be witness.' `it was only a _one_,' says the woman. `you're a damned old cheat,' says he, `and if you don't give me the change, i'll set your house on fire, and burn you alive.' with that there was a great row, and he goes out for the constable and gives her in charge, and gives me in charge as a witness, and then she gives him in charge, and so we all went to the watchhouse together, and slept on the benches. the next morning we all appeared before the magistrate, and the man tells his story and calls me as a witness; but recollecting how much i had suffered from _seeing_, i wouldn't see anything this time. it might have been a ten-pound note, for it certainly didn't look like a one; but my evidence went rather for than against the woman, for i only proved the man to be drunk; and she was let off, and i walked home with her. so says she, `you're a fine boy, and i'll do you a good turn for what you have done for me. my husband is a waterman, and i'll make you free of the river; for he hasn't no 'prentice, and you can come on shore and stay at the public-house when you ar'n't wanted.' i jumped at the offer, and so, by not _seeing_, i gets into a regular livelihood. well, jacob, how do you like it?" "very much," replied i. "and you, mary?" "o! i like it very much; but i want father to go on, and to know how he fell in love, and married my mother." "well, you shall have it all by-and-by; but now i must take a spell." chapter twenty three. a very sensible chapter, having reference to the senses--stapleton, by keeping his under control, keeps his head above water in his wherry-forced to fight for his wife, and when he had won her, to fight on to keep her--no great prize, yet it made him a prize-fighter. old stapleton finished his pipe, took another swig at the porter, filled, relighted, puffed to try it, cleared his mouth, and then proceeded:-"now, you see, bartley, her husband, was the greatest rogue on the river; he was up to everything, and stood at nothing. he fleeced as much on the water as she did on the land; for i often seed her give wrong change afterwards when people were tipsy, but i made it a rule always to walk away. as for bartley, his was always night-work, and many's the coil of rope i have brought on shore, what, although he might have paid for, he didn't buy it of the lawful owner, but i never _seed_ or _heard_, that was my maxim; and i fared well till i served my time, and then they gave me their old wherry, and built a new one for themselves. so i set up on my own account, and then i seed, and heard, and had all my senses, just as they were before--more's the pity, for no good came of it." [puff, puff, puff, puff.] "the bartleys wanted me to join them, but that wouldn't do; for though i never meddled with other people's concerns, yet i didn't choose to go wrong myself. i've seed all the world cheating each other for fifty years or more, but that's no concern of mine; i can't make the world better; so all i thinks about it is to keep honest myself: and if every one was to look after his own soul, and not trouble themselves about their neighbours, why, then, it would be all the better for human natur'. i plied at the swan stairs, gained my livelihood, and spent it as i got it; for i was then too young to look out a'ter a rainy day. "one night a young woman in a cloak comes down to the stairs with a bundle in her arms, and seems in a very great taking, and asks me for a boat. i hauls out of the row alongside of the yard, and hands her in. she trips as she steps in, and i catches to save her from falling, and in catching her i puts my hand upon the bundle in her arms, and feels the warm face of a baby. `where am i to go, ma'am?' says i. `o! pull across, and land me on the other side,' says she; and then i hears her sobbing to herself, as if her heart would break. when we were in the middle o' the stream, she lifts up her head, and then first she looks at the bundle and kisses it, and then she looks up at the stars which were glittering above in the sky. she kisses the child once more, jumps up, and afore i could be aware of what she was about, she tosses me her purse, throws her child into the water, and leaps in herself. i pulls sharp round immediately, and seeing her again, i made one or two good strokes, comes alongside of her, and gets hold of her clothes. a'ter much ado i gets her into the wherry, and as soon as i seed she was come to again, i pulls her back to the stairs where she had taken me from. as soon as i lands i hears a noise and talking, and several people standing about; it seems it were her relatives, who had missed her, and were axing whether she had taken a boat; and while they were describing her, and the other watermen were telling them how i had taken a fare of that description, i brings her back. well, they takes charge of her, and leads her home; and then for the first time i thinks of the purse at the bottom of the boat, which i picks up, and sure enough there were four golden guineas in it, beside some silver. well, the men who plied at the stairs axed me all about it; but i keeps my counsel, and only tells them how the poor girl threw herself into the water, and how i pulled her out again; and in a week i had almost forgot all about it, when up comes an officer, and says to me, `you be stapleton the waterman?' and i says, `yes, i be.' `then you must come along with me;' and he takes me to the police-office, where i finds the poor young woman in custody for being accused of having murdered her infant. so they begins to tax me upon my bible oath, and i was forced to tell the whole story; for though you may loose all your senses when convenient, yet somehow or another, an oath on the bible brings them all back again. `did you see the child?' said the magistrate. `i seed a bundle,' said i. `did you hear the child cry?' said he. `no,' says i, `i didn't;' and then i thought i had got the young woman off; but the magistrate was an old fox, and had all the senses at his fingers' ends. so says he, `when the young woman stepped into the boat did she give you the bundle?' `no,' says i again. `then you never touched it?' `yes, i did, when her foot slipped.' `and what did it feel like?' `it felt like a piece of human natur'.' says i, `and quite warm like.' `how do you mean?' says he. `why, i took it by the feel for a baby.' `and it was quite warm, was it?' `yes,' replied i, `it was.' `well then, what else took place?' `why, when we were in the middle of the stream she and her child went overboard; i pulled her in again, but could not see the child.' fortunately for the poor girl, they didn't ask me which went overboard first, and that saved her from hanging. she was confined six months in prison, and then let out again; but you see, if it hadn't been for my unfortunately feeling the child, and feeling it was warm, which proved its being alive, the poor young woman would have got off altogether, perhaps. so much for the sense of feeling, which i say is of no use to nobody, but only a vexation." [puff--the pipe out, relighted--puff, puff.] "but, father," said mary, "did you ever hear the history of the poor girl?" "yes, i heard as how it was a hard case, how she had been seduced by some fellow who had left her and her baby, upon which she determined to drown herself, poor thing; and her baby too. had she only tried to drown her baby i should have said it was quite unnatural; but as she wished to drown herself at the same time, i considers that drowning the baby to take it to heaven with her was quite natural, and all agreeable to human natur'. love's a sense which young women should keep down as much as possible, mary; no good comes of that sense." "and yet, father, it appears to me to be human nature," replied mary. "so it is, but there's mischief in it, girl, so do you never have anything to do with it." "was there mischief when you fell in love with my mother and married her?" "you shall hear, mary," replied old stapleton, who recommenced. "it was 'bout two months after the poor girl threw herself into the river that i first seed your mother. she was then mayhap two years older than you may be, and much such a same sort of person in her looks. there was a young man who plied from our stairs, named ben jones; he and i were great friends, and used for to help each other, and when a fare called for oars, used to ply together. one night he says to me, `will, come up, and i'll show you a devilish fine piece of stuff.' so i walks with him, and he takes me to a shop where they dealed in marine stores, and we goes and finds your mother in the back parlour. ben sends for pipes and beer, and we sat down and made ourselves comfortable. now, mary, your mother was a very jilting kind of girl, who would put one fellow off to take another, just as her whim and fancy took her." [i looked at mary, who cast down her eyes.] "now these women do a mint of mischief among men, and it seldom ends well; and i'd sooner see you in your coffin to-morrow, mary, than think you should be one of this flaunting sort. ben jones was quite in for it, and wanted for to marry her, and she had turned off a fine young chap for him, and he used to come there every night, and it was supposed that they would be spliced in the course of a month; but when i goes there she cuts him almost altogether, and takes to me, making such eyes at me, and drinking beer out of my pot, and refusing his'n, till poor jones was quite mad and beside himself. well, it wasn't in human natur' to stand those large blue eyes (just like yours, mary), darting fire at a poor fellow; and when jones got up in a surly humour, and said it was time to go away, instead of walking home arm in arm, we went side by side, like two big dogs with their tails as stiff up as a crowbar, and ready for a fight; neither he nor i saying a word, and we parted without saying good-night. well, i dreamed of your mother all that night, and the next day went to see her, and felt worser and worser each time, and she snubbed jones, and at last told him to go about his business. this was 'bout a month after i had first seen her; and then one day jones, who was a prize-fighter, says to me, `be you a man?' and slaps me on the ear. so, i knowing what he'd been a'ter, pulls off my duds, and we sets to. we fights for ten minutes or so, and then i hits him a round blow on the ear, and he falls down on the _hard_, and couldn't come to time. no wonder, poor fellow! for he had gone to eternity." [here old stapleton paused for half a minute, and passed his hand across his eyes.] "i was tried for manslaughter; but it being proved that he came up and struck me first, i was acquitted, after lying two months in gaol, for i couldn't get no bail; but it was because i had been two months in gaol that i was let off. at first, when i came out, i determined never to see your mother again; but she came to me, and wound round me, and i loved her so much that i couldn't shake her off. as soon as she found that i was fairly hooked, she began to play with others; but i wouldn't stand that, and every fellow that came near her was certain to have a turn out with me, and so i became a great fighter; and she, seeing that i was the best man, and that no one else would come to her, one fine morning agreed to marry me. well, we were spliced, and the very first night i thought i saw poor ben jones standing by my bedside, and, for a week or so, i was not comfortable; but, howsomever, it wore off, i plied at the stairs, and gained my money. but my pipe's out, and i'm dry with talking. suppose i take a spell for a few minutes." stapleton relighted his pipe, and for nearly half-an-hour smoked in silence. what mary's thoughts were i cannot positively assert; but i imagined that, like myself, she was thinking about her mother's conduct and her own. i certainly was making the comparison, and we neither of us spoke a word. "well," continued stapleton, at last, "i married your mother, mary, and i only hope that any man who may take a fancy to you, will not have so much trouble with his wife as i had. i thought that a'ter she were settled she would give up all her nonsense, and behave herself--but i suppose it was in her natur' and she couldn't help it. she made eyes and gave encouragement to the men, until they became saucy and i became jealous, and i had to fight one, and then the other, until i became a noted pugilist. i will say that your mother seemed always very happy when i beat my man, which latterly i always did; but still she liked to be _fit_ for, and i had hardly time to earn my bread. at last, some one backed me against another man in the ring for fifty pound aside, and i was to have half if i won. i was very short of blunt at the time, and i agreed; so, a'ter a little training the battle was fought, and i won easy: and the knowing ones liked my way of hitting so much that they made up another match with a better man, for two hundred pounds; and a lord and other great people came to me, and i was introduced to them at the public-house, and all was settled. so i became a regular prize-fighter, all through your mother, mary. nay, don't cry, child, i don't mean to say that your mother, with all her love of being stared at and talked to, would have gone wrong; but still it was almost as bad in my opinion. well, i was put into training, and after five weeks we met at mousley hurst, and a hard fight it was--but i've got the whole of it somewhere, mary; look in the drawer there, and you'll see a newspaper." mary brought out the newspaper, which was rolled up and tied with a bit of string, and stapleton handed it over to me, telling me to read it aloud. i did so, but i shall not enter into the details. "yes, that's all right enough," said stapleton, who had taken advantage of my reading to smoke furiously, to make up for lost time; "but no good came of it, for one of the gemmen took a fancy to your mother, mary, and tried to win her away from me. i found him attempting to kiss her, and she refusing him--but laughing, and, as i thought, more than half-willing; so i floored him, and put him out of the house, and after that i never would have anything more to say with lords and gemmen, nor with fighting either. i built a new wherry, and stuck to the river, and i shifted my lodgings that i mightn't mix any more with those who knew me as a boxer. your mother was then brought to bed with you, and i hoped for a good deal of happiness, as i thought she would only think of her husband and child; and so she did until you were weaned, and then she went on just as afore. there was a captain of a vessel lying in the river, who used now and then to stop and talk with her; but i thought little about that, seeing how every one talked with her and she with everybody; and besides, she knew the captain's wife, who was a very pretty woman, and used very often to ask mary to go and see her, which i permitted. but one morning, when i was going off to the boat--for he had come down to me to take him to his vessel--just as i was walking away with the sculls over my shoulder, i recollects my 'baccy box, which i had left, and i goes back and hears him say before i came into the door--`recollect, i shall be here again by two o'clock, and then you promised to come on board my ship, and see--.' i didn't hear the rest, but she laughed and said yes, she would. i didn't show myself, but walked away and went to the boat. he followed me, and i rowed him up the river and took my fare--and then i determined to watch them, for i felt mighty jealous. so i lays off on my oars in the middle of the stream, and sure enough i see the captain and your mother get into a small skiff belonging to his ship, and pull away; the captain had one oar and one of his men another. i pulled a'ter them as fast as i could, and at last they seed me; and not wishing me to find her out, she begged them to pull away as fast as they could, for she knew how savage i would be. still i gained upon them, every now and then looking round and vowing vengeance in my heart, when all of a sudden i heard a scream, and perceived their boat to capsize, and all hands in the water. they had not seen a warp of a vessel getting into the row, and had run over it, and, as it tautened, they capsized. your mother went down like a stone, mary, and was not found for three days a'terward; and when i seed her sink i fell down in a fit." here old stapleton stopped, laid down his pipe, and rested his face in his hands. mary burst into tears. after a few minutes he resumed: "when i came to, i found myself on board of the ship in the captain's cabin, with the captain and his wife watching over me--and then i came to understand that it was she who had sent for your mother, and that she was living on board, and that your mother had at first refused, because she knew that i did not like her to be on the river, but wishing to see a ship had consented. so it was not so bad a'ter all, only that a woman shouldn't act without her husband--but you see, mary, all this would not have happened if it hadn't been that i overheard part of what was said; and you might now have had a mother, and i a wife to comfort us, if it had not been for my unfortunate _hearing_--so, as i said before, there's more harm than good that comes from these senses--at least so it has proved to me. and now you have heard my story, and how your mother died, mary; so take care you don't fall into the same fault, and be too fond of being looked at, which it does somehow or another appear to me you have a bit of a hankering a'ter--but like mother, like child, they say, and that's _human natur'_." when stapleton had concluded his narrative, he smoked his pipe in silence. mary sat at the table, with her hands pressed to her temples, apparently in deep thought; and i felt anything but communicative. in half-an-hour the pot of beer was finished, and stapleton rose. "come, mary, don't be thinking so much; let's all go to bed. show jacob his room, and then come up." "jacob can find his own room, father," replied mary, "without my showing him; he knows the kitchen, and there is but one other below." i took my candle, wished them good night, and went to my bed, which, although very homely, was at all events comfortable. chapter twenty four. the warmth of my gratitude proved by a very cold test--the road to fortune may sometimes lead over a bridge of ice--mine lay under it--amor vincet everything but my obstinacy, which young tom and the old dominie in the sequel will prove to their cost. for many days the frost continued, until at last the river was frozen over, and all communication by it was stopped. stapleton's money ran short, our fare became very indifferent, and mary declared that we must all go begging with the market gardeners if it lasted much longer. "i must go and call upon mr turnbull, and ax him to help us," said stapleton, one day, pulling his last shilling out and laying it on the table. "i'm cleaned out; but he's a good gentleman, and will lend me a trifle." in the afternoon stapleton returned, and i saw by his looks that he had been successful. "jacob," said he, "mr turnbull desires that you will breakfast with him to-morrow morning, as he wishes to see you." i set off accordingly at daylight the next morning, and was in good time for breakfast. mr turnbull was as kind as ever, and began telling me long stories about the ice in the northern regions. "by-the-by, i hear there is an ox to be roasted whole, jacob, a little above london bridge; suppose we go and see the fun." i consented, and we took the brentford coach, and were put down at the corner of queen street, from thence we walked to the river. the scene was very amusing and exciting. booths were erected on the ice, in every direction, with flags flying, people walking, and some skating, although the ice was too rough for that pastime. the whole river was crowded with people, who now walked in security over where they, a month before, would have met with death. here and there smoke ascended from various fires, on which sausages and other eatables were cooking; but the great attraction was the ox roasting whole, close to the centre pier of the bridge. although the ice appeared to have fallen at the spot where so many hundreds were assembled, yet as it was now four or five feet thick, there was no danger. here and there, indeed, were what were called rotten places, where the ice was not sound; but these were intimated by placards, warning people not to approach too near; and close to them were ropes and poles for succour, if required. we amused ourselves for some time with the gaiety of the scene, for the sun shone out brightly, and the sky was clear. the wind was fresh from the northward, and piercing cold in the shade, the thermometer being then, it was said, twenty-eight degrees below the freezing point. we had been on the ice about three hours, amusing ourselves, when mr turnbull proposed our going home, and we walked up the river towards blackfriars bridge, where we proposed to land, and take the coach at charing cross. "i wonder how the tide is now," observed mr turnbull to me; "it would be rather puzzling to find out." "not if i can find a hole," replied i, looking for one. "stop, here is one." i threw in a piece of ice, and found that it was strong ebb. we continued our walk over the ice, which was now very rough, when mr turnbull's hat fell off, and the wind catching it, it blew away, skimming across the ice at a rapid rate. mr turnbull and i gave chase, but could scarcely keep up with it, and, at all events, could not overtake it. many people on the river laughed as we passed, and watched us in our chase. mr turnbull was the foremost, and, heedless in the pursuit, did not observe a large surface of rotten ice before him; neither did i, until all at once i heard it break and saw mr turnbull fall in and disappear. many people were close to us, and a rope was laid across the spot to designate the danger. i did not hesitate--i loved mr turnbull, and my love and my feelings of resentment were equally potent. i seized the bight of the rope, twisted it round my arm, and plunged in after, recollecting it was ebb tide: fortunate for mr turnbull it was that he had accidentally put the question. i sank under the ice, and pushed down the stream, and in a few seconds felt myself grappled by him i sought, and at almost the same time, the rope hauling in from above. as soon as they found there was resistance, they knew that i, at least, was attached to it, and they hauled in quicker, not, however, until i had lost my recollection. still i clung to the rope with the force of a drowning man, and mr turnbull did the same to me, and we shortly made our appearance at the hole in which we had been plunged. a ladder was thrown across, and two of the men of the humane society came to our assistance, pulled us out, and laid us upon it. they then drew back and hauled us on the ladder to a more secure situation. we were both still senseless; but having been taken to a public-house on the river-side, were put to bed, and medical advice having been procured, were soon restored. the next morning we were able to return in a chaise to brentford, where our absence had created the greatest alarm. mr turnbull spoke but little the whole time; but he often pressed my hand, and when i requested him to drop me at fulham, that i might let stapleton and his daughter know that i was safe, he consented, saying, "god bless you, my fine boy; i will see you soon." when i went up the stairs of stapleton's lodgings, i found mary by herself; she started up as soon as she saw me. "where _have_ you been?" said she, half crying, half smiling. "under the ice," i replied, "and only thawed again this morning." "are you in earnest, jacob?" said she; "now don't plague and frighten me, i've been too frightened already; i never slept a wink last night;" i then told her the circumstances which had occurred. "i was sure something had happened," she replied. "i told my father so, but he wouldn't believe it. you promised to be at home to give me my lesson, and i know you never break your word; but my father smoked away, and said, that when boys are amused, they forget their promises, and that it was nothing but human natur'. oh, jacob, i'm so glad you're back again, and after what has happened, i don't mind your kissing me for once." and mary held her face towards me, and returned my kiss. "there, that must last you a long while, recollect," said she, laughing; "you must not think of another until you're under the ice again." "then i trust it will be the last," replied i, laughing. "you are not in love with me, jacob, that's clear, or you would not have made that answer," replied mary. i had seen a great deal of mary, and though she certainly was a great flirt, yet she had many excellent and amiable qualities. for the first week after her father had given us the history of his life, his remarks upon her mother appeared to have made a decided impression upon her, and her conduct was much more staid and demure; but as the remembrance wore off, so did her conduct become coquettish and flirting as before; still, it was impossible not to be fond of her, and even with all her caprice there was such a fund of real good feeling and amiableness, which, when called forth, was certain to appear, that i often thought how dangerous and captivating a girl she would be when she grew up. i had again produced the books, which i had thrown aside with disgust, to teach her to read and write. her improvement was rapid, and would have been still more so if she had not been just as busy in trying to make me fond of her as she was in surmounting the difficulties of her lessons. but she was very young; and although, as her father declared, it was her _natur'_ to run after the men, there was every reason to hope that a year or two would render her less volatile, and add to those sterling good qualities which she really possessed. in heart and feeling she was a modest girl, although the buoyancy of her spirits often carried her beyond the bounds prescribed by decorum, and often called forth a blush upon her own animated countenance, when her good sense, or the remarks of others, reminded her of her having committed herself. it was impossible to know mary and not like her, although, at a casual meeting, a rigid person might go away with an impression by no means favourable. as for myself, i must say, that the more i was in her company the more i was attached to her, and the more i respected her. old stapleton came home in the evening. he had, as usual, been smoking, and thinking of human natur', at the feathers public-house. i told him what had happened, and upon the strength of it he sent for an extra pot of beer for mary and me, which he insisted upon our drinking between us--a greater proof of good-will on his part could not have been given. although captain turnbull appeared to have recovered from the effects of the accident, yet it seemed that such was not the case, as the morning after his arrival he was taken ill with shivering and pains in his loins, which ended in ague and fever, and he did not quit his bed for three or four weeks. i, on the contrary, felt no ill effects; but the constitution of a youth is better able to meet such violent shocks than that of a man of sixty years old, already sapped by exposure and fatigue. as the frost still continued, i complied with captain turnbull's request to come up and stay with him, and for many days, until he was able to leave his bed, i was his constant nurse. the general theme of his conversation was on my future prospects, and a wish that i would embark in some pursuit or profession more likely to raise me in the world; but on this head i was positive, and also another point, which was, that i would in future put myself under an obligation to no one. i could not erase from my memory the injuries i had received, and my vindictive spirit continually brooded over them. i was resolved to be independent and free. i felt that in the company i was in i was with my equals, or, if there were any superiority, it was on my part, arising from education, and i never would submit to be again in the society of those above me, in which i was admitted as a favour, and by the major part looked down upon, and at the same time liable, as i had once been, to be turned out with contumely on the first moment of caprice. still, i was very fond of captain turnbull. he had always been kind to me, spoke to me on terms of equality, and had behaved with consistency, and my feelings towards him since the accident had consequently strengthened; but we always feel an increased regard towards those to whom we have been of service, and my pride was softened by the reflection that, whatever might be mr turnbull's good-will towards me, he never could, even if i would permit it, repay me for the life which i had preserved. towards him i felt unbounded regard; towards those who had ill-treated me, unlimited hatred; towards the world in general a mixture of feeling which i could hardly analyse; and, as far as regarded myself, a love of liberty and independence, which nothing would ever have induced me to compromise. as i did not wish to hurt captain turnbull's feelings by a direct refusal to all his proffers of service, and remarks upon the advantages which might arise, i generally made an evasive answer; but when, on the day proposed for my departure, he at once came to the point, offering me everything, and observing that he was childless, and, therefore, my acceptance of his offer would be injurious to nobody; when he took me by the hand, and drawing me near to him, passed his arm round me, and spoke to me in the kind accents of a father, almost entreating me to consent--the tears of gratitude coursed each other rapidly down my cheeks, but my resolution was no less firm--although it was with a faltering, voice that i replied, "you have been very kind to me, sir--very kind--and i shall never forget it; and i hope i shall deserve it--but--mr drummond, and mrs drummond, and sarah, were also kind to me--very kind to me--you know the rest. i will remain as i am, if you please; and if you wish to do me a kindness; if you wish me to love you, as i really do, let me be as i am--free and independent. i beg it of you as the greatest favour that you can possibly confer on me--the only favour which i can accept, or shall be truly thankful for." captain turnbull was some minutes before he could reply. he then said--"i see it is useless, and i will not tease you any more; but, jacob, do not let the fire of injustice which you have received from your fellow-creatures prey so much upon your mind, or induce you to form the mistaken idea that the world is bad. as you live on, you will find much good; and recollect, that those who injured you, from the misrepresentation of others, have been willing, and have offered, to repair their fault. they can do no more, and i wish you could get over this vindictive feeling. recollect, we must forgive, as we hope to be forgiven." "i do sometimes," said i, "for sarah's sake--i can't always." "but you ought to forgive, for other reasons, jacob." "i know i ought--but if i cannot, i cannot." "nay, my boy, i never heard you talk so--i was going to say--wickedly. do you not perceive that you are now in error? you will not abandon a feeling which your own good sense and religion tell you to be wrong--you cling to it--and yet you will admit of no excuse for the errors of others." "i feel what you say--and the truth of it, sir," replied i "but i cannot combat the feeling. i will, therefore, admit every excuse you please for the faults of others; but at the same time, i am surely not to be blamed if i refuse to put myself in a situation where i am again liable to meet with mortification. surely i am not to be censured, if i prefer to work for my bread after my own fashion, and prefer the river to dry land?" "no, that i acknowledge; but what i dislike in the choice is, that it is dictated by feelings of resentment." "_what's done can't be helped_," replied i, quickly, wishing to break off the conversation. "very true, jacob; but i follow that up with another of your remarks, which is, `better luck next time.' god bless you, my boy; take care of yourself, and don't get under the ice again!" "for you i would to-morrow," replied i, taking the proffered hand: "but if i could only see that hodgson near a hole--" "you'd not push him in?" "indeed i would," replied i, bitterly. "jacob, you would not, i tell you--you think so now, but if you saw him in distress you would assist him as you did me. i know you, my boy, better than you know yourself." whether captain turnbull or i were right remains to be proved in the sequel. we then shook hands, and i hastened away to see mary, whom i had often thought of during my absence. "who do you think has been here?" said mary, after our first greeting. "i cannot guess," replied i. "not old tom and his son?" "no; i don't think it was old tom, but it was such an old quiz--with such a nose--o heavens! i thought i should have died with laughing as soon as he went downstairs. do you know, jacob, that i made love to him, just to see how he'd take it. you know who it is now?" "o yes! you mean the dominie, my schoolmaster." "yes, he told me so; and i talked so much about you, and about your teaching me to read and write, and how fond i was of learning, and how i should like to be married to an elderly man who was a great scholar, who would teach me latin and greek, that the old gentleman became quite chatty, and sat for two hours talking to me. he desired me to say that he should call here to-morrow afternoon, and i begged him to stay the evening, as you are to have two more of your friends here. now, who do you think are those?" "i have no others, except old tom beazeley and his son." "well, it is your old tom after all, and a nice old fellow he is, although i would not like him for a husband; but as for his son--he's a lad after my own heart--i'm quite in love with him." "your love will do you no harm, mary; but, recollect, what may be a joke to you may not be so to other people. as for the dominie meeting old beazeley and his son, i don't exactly know how that will suit, for i doubt if he will like to see them." "why not?" inquired mary. upon a promise never to hint at them, i briefly stated the circumstances attending the worthy man's voyage on board of the lighter. mary paused, and then said, "jacob, did we not read the last time that the most dangerous rocks to men were _wine_ and _women_?" "yes, we did, if i recollect right." "humph," said she; "the old gentleman has given plenty of lessons in his time, and it appears that he has received _one_." "we may do so to the last day of our existence, mary." "well, he is a very clever, learned man, i've no doubt, and looks down upon all of us (not you, jacob) as silly people. i'll try if _i_ can't give him a lesson." "you, mary, what can you teach him?" "never mind, we shall see;" and mary turned the discourse on her father. "you know, i suppose, that father is gone up to mr turnbull's." "no, i did not." "yes, he has; he was desired to go there this morning, and hasn't been back since. jacob, i hope you won't be so foolish again, for i don't want to lose my master." "oh, never fear; i shall teach you all you want to know before i die," i replied. "don't be too sure of that," replied mary; "how do you know how much i may wish to have of your company?" "well, if i walk off in a hurry, i'll make you over to young tom beazeley. you're half in love with him already, you know," replied i, laughing. "well, he is a nice fellow," replied she; "he laughs more than you do, jacob." "he has suffered less," replied i, gloomily, calling to mind what had occurred; "but, mary, he is a fine young man, and a good-hearted, clever fellow to boot; and when you do know him, you will like him very much." as i said this, i heard her father coming up stairs; he came in high good-humour with his interview with captain turnbull, called for his pipe and pot, and was excessively fluent upon "_human natur'_." chapter twenty five. "the feast of reason and the flow of soul"--stapleton, on human nature, proves the former; the dominie, in his melting mood, the latter--sall's shoe particularly noted, and the true "reading made easy" of a mind at ease, by old tom. the afternoon of the next day i heard a well-known voice, which carolled forth, as mary huddled up her books, and put them out of the way; for at that time i was, as usual, giving her a lesson:- "and many strange sights i've seen, and long i've been a rover, and everywhere i've been, but now the wars are over. i've been across the line, where the sun will burn your nose off; and i've been in northern climes, where the frost would bite your toes off. fal de ral, fal de ral, fal de ral de liddy." "heave a-head, tom, and let me stump up at my leisure. it's like warping 'gainst wind and tide with me--and i gets up about as fast as lawyers go to heaven." i thought when tom came up first that he had been at unusual trouble in setting off his person, and certainly a better-looking, frank, open, merry countenance was seldom to be seen. in person he was about an inch taller than i, athletic, and well formed. he made up to mary, who, perceiving his impatience, and either to check him before me, or else from her usual feeling of coquetry, received him rather distantly, and went up to old tom, with whom she shook hands warmly. "whew! what's in the wind now, jacob? why, we parted the best friends in the world," said tom, looking at mary. "sheer off yourself, tom," replied i, laughing; "and you'll see that she'll come to again." "oh, oh! so the wind's in that quarter, is it?" replied tom. "with all my heart--i can show false colours as well as she can. but i say, jacob, before i begin my manoeuvres, tell me if you wish me to hoist the neutral flag--for i won't interfere with you." "here's my hand upon it, tom, that the coast is clear as far as i'm concerned; but take care--she's a clipper, and not unlikely to slip through your fingers, even when you have her under your lee, within hail." "let me alone, jacob, for that." "and more, tom, when you're in possession of her, she will require a good man at the helm." "then she's just the craft after my fancy. i hate your steady, slow-sailing craft, that will steer themselves, almost; give me one that requires to be managed by a man and a seaman." "if well manned, she will do anything, depend upon it, tom, for she's as sound below as possible; and although she is down to her bearings on the puff of the moment, yet she'd not careen further." "well, then, jacob, all's right; and now you've told me what tack she's on, see if i don't shape a course to cut her off." "well, jacob, my good boy, so you've been under the water again; i thought you had enough of it when fleming gave you such a twist; but, however, this time you went to sarve a friend, which was all right. my sarvice to you mr stapleton," continued old tom, as stapleton made his appearance. "i was talking to jacob about his last dive." "nothing but human natur'," replied stapleton. "well, now," replied old tom, "i consider that going plump into the river, when covered with ice, to be quite contrary to human natur'." "but not to save a friend, father?" "no--because, that be jacob's nature; so you see one nature conquered the other, and that's the whole long and short of it." "well, now, suppose we sit down and make ourselves comfortable," observed stapleton; "but here be somebody else coming up--who can it be?" "i say, old codger, considering you be as deaf as a post, you hears pretty well," said old tom. "yes, i hear very well in the house, provided people don't speak loud." "well, that's a queer sort of deafness; i think we are all troubled with the same complaint," cried tom, laughing. during this remark, the dominie made his appearance. "_salve domine_," said i upon his entering, taking my worthy pedagogue by the hand. "_et tu quoque, fili mi, jacobe_! but whom have we here? the deaf man, the maiden, and--ehu!--the old man called old tom, and likewise the young tom;" and the dominie looked very grave. "nay, sir," said young tom, going up to the dominie; "i know you are angry with us, because we both drank too much when we were last in your company; but we promise--don't we father?--not to do so again." this judicious reply of young tom's put the dominie more at his ease; what he most feared was raillery and exposure on their parts. "very true, old gentleman; tom and i did bowse our jibs up a little too taut when we last met--but what then?--there was the grog, and there was nothing to do." "all human natur'," observed stapleton. "come, sir, you have not said one word to me," said mary, going up to the dominie. "now you must sit down by me, and take care of me, and see that they all behave themselves and keep sober." the dominie cast a look at mary, which was intended for her alone, but which was not unperceived by young tom or me. "we shall have some fun, jacob," said he, aside, as we all sat down to the table, which just admitted six, with close stowage. the dominie on one side of mary, tom on the other, stapleton next to tom, then i and old tom, who closed in on the other side of the dominie, putting one of his timber toes on the old gentleman's corns, which induced him to lift up his leg in a hurry, and draw his chair still closer to mary, to avoid a repetition of the accident; while old tom was axing pardon, and stapleton demonstrating that, on the part of old tom, not to _feel_ with a wooden leg, and on the part of the dominie, to _feel_ with a bad corn, was all nothing but "_human natur'_." at last we were all seated, and mary, who had provided for the evening, produced two or three pots of beer, a bottle of spirits, pipes, and tobacco. "liberty hall--i smokes," said stapleton, lighting his pipe, and falling back on his chair. "i'll put a bit of clay in my mouth too," followed up old tom; "it makes one thirsty, and enjoy one's liquor." "well, i malts," said tom, reaching a pot of porter, and taking a long pull. "what do you do, jacob?" "i shall wait a little, tom." "and what do you do, sir?" said mary to the dominie. the dominie shook his head. "nay but you must--or i shall think you do not like my company. come, let me fill a pipe for you." mary filled a pipe, and handed it to the dominie, who hesitated, looked at her, and was overcome. he lighted it, and smoked furiously. "the ice is breaking up--we shall have a change of weather--the moon quarters to-morrow," observed old tom, puffing between every observation; "and then honest men may earn their bread again. bad times for you, old codger, heh!" continued he, addressing stapleton. stapleton nodded an assent through the smoke, which was first perceived by old tom. "well, he ar'nt deaf, a'ter all; i thought he was only shamming a bit. i say, jacob, this is the weather to blow your fingers, and make your eyes bright." "rather to blow a cloud and make your eyes water," replied tom, taking up the pot: "i'm just as thirsty with swallowing smoke, as if i had a pipe myself--at all events, i pipe my eye. jacob," continued tom, to me apart, "do look how the old gentleman is _funking_ mary, and casting sheeps' eyes at her through the smoke." "he appears as if he were inclined to board her in the smoke," replied i. "yes, and she to make no fight of it, but surrender immediately," said tom. "don't you believe it, tom; i know her better; she wants to laugh at him--nothing more; she winked her eye at me just now, but i would not laugh, as i did not choose that the old gentleman should be trifled with. i will tax her severely to-morrow." during all this time old tom and stapleton smoked in silence: the dominie made use of his eyes in dumb parlance to mary, who answered him with her own bright glances, and tom and i began to find it rather dull; when at last old tom's pipe was exhausted, and he laid it down; "there, i'll smoke no more--the worst of a pipe is that one can't smoke and talk at the same time. mary, my girl, take your eyes off the dominie's nose, and hand me that bottle of stuff. what, glass to mix it in; that's more genteel than we are on board, tom." tom filled a rummer of grog, took half off at a huge sip, and put it down on the table. "will you do as we do, sir?" said he, addressing the dominie. "nay, friend dux, nay--pr'ythee persuade me not--avaunt!" and the dominie, with an appearance of horror, turned away from the bottle handed towards him by old tom. "not drink anything?" said mary to the dominie, looking at him with surprise, "but indeed you must, or i shall think you despise us, and do not think us fit to be in your company." "nay, maiden, entreat me not. ask anything of me but this," replied the dominie. "ask anything but this--that's just the way people have of refusing," replied mary; "were i to ask anything else, it would be the same answer--`ask anything but this.' now, if you will not drink to please me, i shall quarrel with you. you shall drink a glass, and i'll mix it for you." the dominie shook his head. mary made a glass of grog, and then put it to her lips. "now, if you refuse to drink it, after i have tasted it, i'll never speak to you again." so saying, she handed the glass to the dominie. "verily, maiden, i must needs refuse, for i did make a mental vow." "what vow was that? was it sworn on the bible?" "nay, not on the sacred book, but in my thoughts most solemnly." "oh! i make those vows every day, and never keep one of them; so that won't do. now, observe, i give you one more chance. i shall drink a little more, and if you do not immediately put your lips to the same part of the tumbler, i'll never drink to you again;" mary put the tumbler again to her lips, drank a little, with her eyes fixed upon the dominie, who watched her with distended nostrils and muscular agitation of countenance. with her sweetest smile, she handed him the tumbler; the dominie half held out his hand, withdrew it, put it down again, and by degrees took the tumbler. mary conquered, and i watched the malice of her look as the liquor trickled down the dominie's throat. tom and i exchanged glances. the dominie put down the tumbler, and then, looking round, like a guilty person, coloured up to the eyes; but mary, who perceived that her victory was but half achieved, put her hand upon his shoulder, and asked him to let her taste the grog again. i also, to make him feel more at ease, helped myself to a glass. tom did the same, and old tom with more regard to the feelings of the dominie than in his own bluntness of character i would have given him credit for, said in a quiet tone, "the old gentleman is afraid of grog, because he seed me take a drop too much, but that's no reason why grog ar'n't a good thing, and wholesome in moderation. a glass or two is very well, and better still when sweetened by the lips of a pretty girl; and, even if the dominie does not like it, he's too much of a gentleman not to give up his dislikes to please a lady. more's the merit; for, if he did like it, it would be no sacrifice, that's sartain. don't you think so, my old boozer?" continued he, addressing stapleton, who smoked in silence. "human natur'," replied stapleton, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and spitting under the table. "very true, master; and so here's to your health, mr dominie, and may you never want a pretty girl to talk to, or a glass of grog to drink her health with." "oh, but the dominie don't care about pretty girls, father," replied tom; "he's too learned and clever; he thinks about nothing but the moon, and latin and greek, and all that." "who can say what's under the skin, tom? there's no knowing what is, and what isn't--sall's shoe for that." "never heard of sall's shoe, father; that's new to me." "didn't i ever tell you that, tom?--well, then, you shall have it now-that is, if all the company be agreeable." "oh, yes," cried mary; "pray tell us." "would you like to hear it, sir?" "i never heard of sall sue in my life, and would fain hear her history," replied the dominie; "proceed, friend dux." "well, then, you must know when i was a-board of the terp-sy-chore, there was a fore-topman, of the name of bill harness, a good sort of chap enough, but rather soft in the upper-works. now, we'd been on the jamaica station for some years, and had come home, and merry enough, and happy enough we were (those that were left of us), and we were spending our money like the devil. bill harness had a wife, who was very fond of he, and he was very fond of she, but she was a slatternly sort of a body, never tidy in her rigging, all adrift at all times, and what's more, she never had a shoe up at heel, so she went by the name of slatternly sall, and the first lieutenant, who was a 'ticular sort of a chap, never liked to see her on deck, for you see she put her hair in paper on new year's day, and never changed it or took it out till the year came round again. however, be it as it may be, she loved bill, and bill loved she, and they were very happy together. a'ter all, it ain't whether a woman's tidy without that makes a man's happiness; it depends upon whether she be right within; that is, if she be good-tempered, and obliging, and civil, and 'commodating, and so forth. a'ter the first day or two, person's nothing--eyes get palled, like the cap-stern when the anchor's up to the bows; but what a man likes is, not to be disturbed by vagaries, or gusts of temper. well, bill was happy--but one day he was devilish unhappy, because sall had lost one of her shoes, which wasn't to be wondered at, considering as how she was always slipshod. `who has seen my wife's shoe?' says he. `hang your wife's shoe,' said one, `it warn't worth casting an eye upon;' still he cried out, `who has seen my wife's shoe?' `i seed it,' says another. `where?' says bill. `i seed it down at heel,' says the fellow. but bill still hallooed out about his wife's shoe, which it appeared she had dropped off her foot as she was going up the forecastle ladder to take the air a bit, just as it was dark. at last bill made so much fuss about it that the ship's company laughed, and all called out to each other, `who has seen sall's shoe?--have you got sall's shoe?' and they passed the word fore and aft the whole evening, till they went to their hammocks. notwithstanding, as sall's shoe was not forthcoming, the next morning bill goes on the quarter-deck, and complains to the first lieutenant, as how he had lost sall's shoe. `damn sall's shoe,' said he, `haven't i enough to look after without your wife's confounded shoes, which can't be worth twopence?' well, bill argues that his wife had only one shoe left, and that won't keep two feet dry, and begs the first lieutenant to order a search for it; but the first lieutenant turns away, and tells him to go to the devil, and all the men grin at bill's making such a fuss about nothing. so bill at last goes up to the first lieutenant, and whispers something, and the first lieutenant booms him off with his speaking trumpet, as if he were making too free, in whispering to his commanding officer, and then sends for the master-at-arms. `collier,' says he, `this man has lost his wife's shoe: let a search be made for it immediately--take all the ship's boys, and look everywhere for it; if you find it bring it up to me.' so away goes the master-at-arms with his cane, and collects all the boys to look for sall's shoe--and they go peeping about the maindeck, under the guns, and under the hen-coops, and in the sheep-pen, and everywhere; now and then getting a smart slap with the cane behind, upon the taut part of their trowsers, to make them look sharp, until they all wished sall's shoe at old nick, and her too, and bill in the bargain. at last one of the boys picks it out of the manger, where it had lain all the night, poked up and down by the noses of the pigs, who didn't think it eatable, although it might have smelt human-like; the fact was, it was the same boy who had picked up sall's shoe when she dropped it, and had shied it forward. it sartainly did not seem to be worth all the trouble, but howsomever it was taken aft by the master-at-arms, and laid on the capstern head. then bill steps out and takes the shoe before the first lieutenant, and cuts it open, and from between the lining pulls out four ten pound notes, which sall had sewn up there by way of security; and the first lieutenant tells bill he was a great fool to trust his money in the shoe of a woman who always went slipshod, and tells him to go about his business, and stow his money away in a safer place next time. a'ter, if any thing was better than it looked to be, the ship's company used always to say it was like _sall's shoe_. there you have it all." "well," says stapleton, taking the pipe out of his mouth, "i know a fact, much of a muchness with that, which happened to me when i was below the river, tending a ship at sheerness--for at one time, d'ye see, i used to ply there. she was an old fifty-gun ship, called the adamant, if i recollect right. one day the first lieutenant, who, like yourn, was a mighty particular sort of chap, was going round the maindeck, and he sees an old pair of canvas trowsers stowed in under the trunnion of one of the guns. so says he, `whose be these?' now, no man would answer, because they knowed very well that it would be as good as a fortnight in the black list. with that, the first lieutenant bundles them out of the port, and away they floats astern with the tide. it was about half-an-hour after that, that i comes off with the milk for the wardroom mess, and a man named will heaviside says to me, `stapleton,' says he, `the first lieutenant has thrown my canvas trowsers overboard, and be damned to him; now i must have them back.' `but where be they?' says i: `i suppose down at the bottom by this time, and the flat-fish dubbing their noses into them.' `no, no,' says he, `they wo'n't never sink, but float till eternity; they be gone down with the tide, and they will come back again; only you keep a sharp look-out for them, and i'll give you five shillings if you bring them.' well, i seed little chance of ever seeing them again, or of my seeing five shillings, but as it so happened next tide, the very 'denticle pair of trowsers comes up staring me in the face. i pulls them in, and takes them to will heaviside, who appears to be mightily pleased, and gives me the money. `i wouldn't have lost them for ten, no, not fur twenty pounds,' says he. `at all events you've paid me more than they are worth,' says i. `have i?' says he; `stop a bit;' and he outs with his knife, and rips open the waistband, and pulls out a piece of linen, and out of the piece of linen he pulls out a _child's caul_. `there,' says he, `now you knows why the trowsers wouldn't sink, and i'll leave you to judge whether they ar'n't worth five shillings.' that's my story." "well, i can't understand how it is, that a caul should keep people up," observed old tom. "at all events, a _call_ makes people come up fast enough on board a man-of-war, father." "that's true enough, but i'm talking of a child's caul, not of a boatswain's, tom." "i'll just tell you how it is," replied stapleton, who had recommenced smoking; "it's _human natur'_." "what is your opinion, sir?" said mary to the dominie. "maiden," replied the dominie, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "i opine that it's a vulgar error. sir thomas brown, i think it is, hath the same idea; many and strange were the superstitions which have been handed down by our less enlightened ancestors--all of which mists have been cleared away by the powerful rays of truth." "well, but, master, if a vulgar error saves a man from davy jones's locker, ar'n't it just as well to sew it up in the waistband of your trowsers?" "granted, good dux; if it would save a man; but how is it possible? it is contrary to the first elements of science." "what matter does that make, provided it holds a man up?" "friend dux, thou art obtuse." "well, perhaps i am, as i don't know what that is." "but, father, don't you recollect," interrupted tom, "what the parson said last sunday, that faith saved men? now, master dominie, may it not be faith that a man has in the _caul_ which may save him?" "young tom, thou art astute." "well, perhaps i am, as father said, for i don't know what that is. you knock us all down with your dictionary." "well i do love to hear people make use of such hard words," said mary, looking at the dominie. "how very clever you must be, sir! i wonder whether i shall ever understand them?" "nay, if thou wilt, i will initiate--sweet maiden, wilt steal an hour or so to impregnate thy mind with the seeds of learning, which, in so fair a soil, must needs bring forth good fruit!" "that's a fine word, that _impregnate_--will you give us the english of it, sir?" said young tom to the dominie. "it is english, tom, only the old gentleman _razeed_ it a little. the third ship in the lee line of the channel fleet was a eighty, called the _impregnable_, but the old gentleman knows more about books than sea matters." "a marvellous misconception," quoth the dominie. "there's another," cried tom, laughing; "that must be a three-decker. come, father, here's the bottle, you must take another glass to wash that down." "pray what was the meaning of that last long word, sir," said mary, taking the dominie by the arm, "mis--something." "the word," replied the dominie, "is a compound from conception, borrowed from the latin tongue implying conceiving; and the _mis_ prefixed, which negatives or reverses the meaning; misconception, therefore, implies not to conceive. i can make you acquainted with many others of a similar tendency as _mis_-conception; videlicet, _mis_apprehension, _mis_-understanding, _mis_-contriving _mis_-applying, _mis_--" "dear me, what a many _misses_," cried mary, "and do you know them all?" "indeed do i," replied the dominie, "and many, many more are treasured in my memory, _quod nunc describere tongum est_." "i'd no idea that the old gentleman was given to running after the girls in that way," said old tom to stapleton. "human natur'," replied the other. "no more did i," continued mary; "i shall have nothing to say to him;" and she drew off her chair a few inches from that of the dominie. "maiden," quoth the dominie, "thou art under a mistake." "another miss, i declare," cried tom, laughing. "what an old turk!" continued mary, getting further off. "nay, then, i will not reply," said the dominie indignantly, putting down his pipe, leaning back on his chair, and pulling out his great red handkerchief, which he applied to his nose, and produced a sound that made the windows of the little parlour vibrate for some seconds. "i say, master tom, don't you make too free with your betters," said old tom, when he saw the dominie affronted. "nay," replied the dominie, "there's an old adage which saith, `as the old cock crows, so doth the young.' wherefore didst thou set him the example?" "very true, old gentleman, and i axes your pardon, and here's my hand upon it." "and so do i, sir, and here's my hand upon it," said young tom, extending his hand on the dominie's other side. "friend dux, and thou, young tom, i do willingly accept thy proffered reconciliation; knowing, as i well do, that there may be much mischief in thy composition, but naught of malice." the dominie extended his hands, and shook both those offered to him warmly. "there," said old tom, "now my mind's at ease, as old pigtown said." "i know not the author whom thou quotest from, good dux." "author!--i never said he was an author; he was only captain of a schooner, trading between the islands, that i sailed with a few weeks in the west indies." "perhaps, then, you will relate to the company present the circumstances which took place to put old pegtop's--(i may not be correct in the name)--but whoever it may be--" "pigtown, master." "well, then--that put old pigtown's mind at ease--for i am marvellously amused with thy narrations, which do pass away the time most agreeably, good dux." "with all my heart, old gentleman; but first let us fill up our tumblers. i don't know how it is, but it does appear to me that grog drinks better out of a glass than out of metal and if it wasn't that tom is so careless--and the dog has no respect for crockery any more than persons--i would have one or two on board for particular service; but i'll think about that, and hear what the old woman has to say on the subject. now to my yarn. d'ye see, old pigtown commanded a little schooner, which plied between the isles, and he had been in her for a matter of forty years, and was as well-known as port royal tom." "who might port royal tom be?" inquired the dominie; "a relation of yours?" "i hope not, master, for i wanted none of his acquaintance; he was a shark about twenty feet long who rode guard in the harbour, to prevent the men-of-war's men from deserting, and was pensioned by government." "pensioned by government! nay, but that soundeth strangely. i have heard that pensions have been most lavishly bestowed, but not that it extended so far. truly it must have been a _sinecure_." "i don't know what that last may be," replied old tom, "but i heard our boatswain, in the _minerve_, who talked politics a bit, say, `as how half the pensions were held by a pack of damned sharks;' but in this here shark's case, it wasn't in money, master; but he'd regular rations of bullock's liver to persuade him to remain in the harbour, and no one dare swim on shore when he was cruising round and round the ships. well, old pigtown, with his white trousers and straw hat, red nose and big belly, was as well-known as could be, and was a capital old fellow for remembering and executing commissions, provided you gave him the money first; if not, he always took care to forget them. old pigtown had a son, a little dark or so, which proved that his mother wasn't quite as fair as a lily, and this son was employed in a drogher, that is, a small craft which goes round to the bays of the island, and takes off the sugars to the west india traders. one fine day the drogher was driven out to sea, and never heard of a'terwards. now, old pigtown was very anxious about what had come of his son, and day after day expected he would come back again; but he never did, for very good reasons, as you shall hear by-and-by; and every one knowing old pigtown, and he knowing everybody, it was at least fifty times a day that the question was put to him, `well, pigtown, have you heard anything of your son?' and fifty times a day he would reply, `no; and _my mind's but ill at ease_.' well, it was two or three months afterwards, that when i was in the schooner with him, as we lay becalmed between the islands, with the sun frizzing our wigs, and the planks so hot that you couldn't walk without your shoes, that we hooked a large shark which came bowling under our counter, got him on board and cut him up. when we opened his inside, what should i see but something shining. i took it out, and sure enough it was a silver watch. so i hands it to old pigtown. he looks at it very 'tentively, opens the outside case, reads the maker's name, and then shuts it up again. `this here watch,' says he, `belonged to my son jack. i bought it of a chap in a south whaler for three dollars and a roll of pigtail, and a very good watch it was, though i perceive it to be stopped now. now, d'ye see, it's all clear--the drogher must have gone down in a squall--the shark must have picked up my son jack, and must have _digested_ his body, but has not been able to _digest_ his watch. now i knows what's become of him, and so--_my mind's at ease_.'" "well," observed old stapleton, "i agrees with old poptown, or whatever his name might be, that it were better to know the worst at once than to be kept on the worry all your days; i consider it's nothing but human natur'. why, if one has a bad tooth, which is the best plan, to have it out with one good wrench, or to be eternally tormented, night and day." "thou speakest wisely, friend stapleton, and like a man of resolve--the anticipation is often, if not always, more painful than the reality. thou knowest, jacob, how often i have allowed a boy to remain unbuttoned in the centre of the room for an hour previous to the application of the birch--and it was with the consideration that the impression would be greater upon his mind than even upon his nether parts. all of the feelings in the human breast, that of suspense is--" "worse than _hanging_," interrupted young tom. "even so, boy [_cluck, cluck_], an apt comparison, seeing that in suspense you are hanging, as it were, in the very region of doubt, without being able to obtain a footing even upon conjecture. nay, we may further add another simile, although not so well borne out, which is, that the agony of suspense doth stop the breath of a man for the time, as hanging doth stop it altogether, so that it may be truly said, that suspense is put an end to by suspending." [_cluck, cluck_.] "and now that you've got rid of all that, master, suppose you fill up your pipe," observed old tom. "and i will fill up your tumbler, sir," said mary; "for you must be dry with talking such hard words." the dominie this time made no objection, and again enveloped mary and himself in a cloud of smoke, through which his nose loomed like an indiaman in a channel fog. chapter twenty six. the dominie's bosom grows too warm; so the party and the frost break up--i go with the stream and against it; make money both ways--coolness between mary and me--no chance of a thames' edition of abelard and eloise--love, learning, and latin all lost in a fit of the sulks. "i say, master stapleton, suppose we were to knock out half a port," observed old tom, after a silence of two minutes; "for the old gentleman blows a devil of a cloud: that is, if no one has an objection." stapleton gave a nod of assent, and i rose and put the upper window down a few inches. "ay, that's right, jacob; now we shall see what miss mary and he are about. you've been enjoying the lady all to yourself, master," continued tom, addressing the dominie. "verily and truly," replied the dominie, "even as a second jupiter." "never heard of him." "i presume not; still, jacob will tell thee that the history is to be found in ovid's metamorphoses." "never heard of the country, master." "nay, friend dux, it is a book, not a country, in which thou may'st read how jupiter at first descended unto semele in a cloud." "and pray, where did he come from, master?" "he came from heaven." "the devil he did. well, if ever i gets there, i mean to stay." "it was love, all-powerful love, which induced him, maiden," replied the dominie, turning, with a smiling eye, to mary. "'bove my comprehension altogether," replied old tom. "human natur'," muttered stapleton, with the pipe still between his lips. "not the first vessels that have run foul in a fog," observed young tom. "no, boy; but generally there ar'n't much love between them at those times. but, come, now that we can breathe again, suppose i give you a song. what shall it be, young woman, a sea ditty, or something _spooney_?" "oh, something about love, if you've no objection, sir," said mary, appealing to the dominie. "nay, it pleaseth me maiden, and i am of thy mind. friend dux, let it be anacreontic." "what the devil's that?" cried old tom, lifting up his eyes, and taking the pipe out of his mouth. "nothing of your own, father, that's clear; but something to borrow, for it's to be _on tick_," replied tom. "nay, boy, i would have been understood that the song should refer to women or wine." "both of which are to his fancy," observed young tom to me, aside. "_human natur'_," quaintly observed stapleton. "well, then, you shall have your wish. i'll give you one that might be warbled in a lady's chamber without stirring the silk curtains:- "oh! the days are gone when beauty bright my heart's chain wove, when my dream of life from morn to night was love--still love. new hope may bloom, and days may come, of milder, calmer beam, but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream; oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life, as love's young dream." the melody of the song, added to the spirits he had drunk and mary's eyes beaming on him, had a great effect upon the dominie. as old tom warbled out, so did the pedagogue gradually approach the chair of mary; and as gradually entwine her waist with his own arm, his eyes twinkling brightly on her. old tom, who perceived it, had given me and tom a wink, as he repeated the two last lines; and then we saw what was going on, we burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "boys! boys!" said the dominie, starting up, "thou hast awakened me, by thy boisterous mirth, from a sweet musing created by the harmony of friend dux's voice. neither do i discover the source of thy cachinnation, seeing that the song is amatory and not comic. still, it may not be supposed, at thy early age, that thou canst be affected with what thou art too young to feel. pr'ythee continue, friend dux, and, boys, restrain thy mirth." "though the bard to a purer fame may soar when wild youth's past, though he win the wise, who frowned before, to smile at last, he'll never meet a joy so sweet in all his noon of fame, as when first he sung to woman's ear his soul-felt flame; and at every close she blush'd to hear the once-lov'd name." at the commencement of this verse the dominie appeared to be on his guard; but gradually moved by the power of song, he dropped his elbow on the table, and his pipe underneath it; his forehead sank into his broad palm, and he remained motionless. the verse ended, and the dominie, forgetting all around him, softly ejaculated, without looking up, "eheu! mary." "did you speak to me, sir?" said mary, who, perceiving us tittering, addressed the dominie with a half-serious, half-mocking air. "speak, maiden? nay, i spoke not; yet thou mayest give me my pipe, which apparently hath been abducted while i was listening to the song." "abducted! that's a new word; but it means smashed into twenty pieces, i suppose," observed young tom. "at all events, your pipe is, for you let it fall between your legs." "never mind," said mary, rising from her chair, and going to the cupboard; "here's another, sir." "well, master, am i to finish, or have you had enough of it?" "proceed, friend dux, proceed; and believe that i am all attention." "oh, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot which first love trac'd, still it lingering haunts the greenest spot on memory's waste. 'twas odour fled as soon as shed, 'twas memory's winged dream, 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream; oh, 'twas light that ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream." "nay," said the dominie, again abstracted, "the metaphor is not just. `_life's_ dull stream.' `_lethe tacitus amnis_,' as lucan hath it; but the stream of life flows--ay, flows rapidly--even in my veins. doth not the heart throb and beat--yea, strongly--peradventure too forcibly against my better judgment? `_confiteor misere molle cor esse mihi_,' as ovid saith. yet must it not prevail! shall one girl be victorious over seventy boys? shall i, dominie dobbs, desert my post?--again succumb to--i will even depart, that i may be at my desk at matutinal hours." "you don't mean to leave us, sir?" said mary, taking the dominie's arm. "even so, fair maiden, for it waxeth late, and i have my duties to perform," said the dominie, rising from his chair. "then you will promise to come again." "peradventure i may." "if you do not promise me that you will, i will not let you go now." "verily, maiden--" "promise," interrupted mary. "truly, maiden--" "promise," cried mary. "in good sooth, maiden--" "promise," reiterated mary, pulling the dominie towards her chair. "nay, then, i do promise, since thou wilt have it so," replied the dominie. "and when will you come?" "i will not tarry," replied the dominie; "and now good night to all." the dominie shook hands with us, and mary lighted him downstairs. i was much pleased with the resolution and sense of his danger thus shown by my worthy preceptor, and hoped that he would have avoided mary in future, who evidently wished to make a conquest of him for her own amusement and love of admiration; but still i felt that the promise exacted would be fulfilled, and i was afraid that a second meeting, and that perhaps not before witnesses, would prove mischievous. i made up my mind to speak to mary on the subject as soon as i had an opportunity, and insist upon her not making a fool of the worthy old man. mary remained below a much longer time than was necessary, and when she re-appeared and looked at me, as if for a smile of approval, i turned from her with a contemptuous air. she sat down, and looked confused. tom was also silent, and paid her no attention. a quarter of an hour passed, when he proposed to his father that they should be off, and the party broke up. leaving mary silent and thoughtful, and old stapleton finishing his pipe, i took my candle and went to bed. the next day the moon changed, the weather changed, and a rapid thaw took place. "it's an ill wind that blows nobody good," observed old stapleton; "we watermen will have the river to ourselves again, and the hucksters must carry their gingerbread-nuts to another market." it was, however, three or four days before the river was clear of the ice, so as to permit the navigation to proceed; and during that time, i may as well observe, that there was dissension between mary and me. i showed her that i resented her conduct, and at first she tried to pacify me; but finding that i held out longer than she expected, she turned round, and was affronted in return. short words and no lessons were the order of the day; and as each party seemed determined to hold out, there was little prospect of a reconciliation. in this she was the greatest sufferer, as i quitted the house after breakfast, and did not return until dinner time. at first old stapleton plied very regularly, and took all the fares; but about a fortnight after we had worked together, he used to leave me to look after employment, and remain at the public-house. the weather was now fine, and, after the severe frost, it changed so rapidly that most of the trees were in leaf, and the horse-chestnuts in full blossom. the wherry was in constant demand, and every evening i handed from four to six shillings over to old stapleton. i was delighted with my life, and should have been perfectly happy if it had not been for my quarrel with mary still continuing, she as resolutely refraining from making advances as i. how much may life be embittered by dissension with those you live with, even when there is no very warm attachment; the constant grating together worries and annoys, and although you may despise the atoms, the aggregate becomes insupportable. i had no pleasure in the house; and the evenings, which formerly passed so agreeably, were now a source of vexation, from being forced to sit in company with one with whom i was not on good terms. old stapleton was seldom at home till late, and this made it still worse. i was communing with myself one night, as i had my eyes fixed on my book, whether i should make the first advances, when mary, who had been quietly at work, broke the silence by asking me what i was reading. i replied in a quiet tone. "jacob," said she, in continuation, "i think you have used me very ill to humble me in this manner. it was your business to make it up first." "i am not aware that i have been in the wrong," replied i. "i do not say that you have; but what matter does that make? you ought to give way to a woman." "why so?" "why so! don't the whole world do so? do you not offer everything first to a woman? is it not her right?" "not when she is in the wrong, mary." "yes, when she's in the wrong, jacob; there's no merit in doing it when she's in the right." "i think otherwise; at all events, it depends on how much she has been in the wrong, and i consider you have shown a bad heart, mary." "a bad heart! in what way, jacob?" "in realising the fable of the boys and the frogs with the poor old dominie, forgetting that what may be sport to you is death to him." "you don't mean to say that he'll die of love," replied mary, laughing. "i should hope not: but you may contrive, and you have tried all in your power, to make him very wretched." "and, pray, how do you know that i do not like the old gentleman, jacob? you appear to think that a girl is to fall in love with nobody but yourself. why should i not love an old man with so much learning? i have been told that old husbands are much prouder of their wives than young ones, and pay them more attention, and don't run after other women. how do you know that i am not serious?" "because i know your character, mary, and am not to be deceived. if you mean to defend yourself in that way, we had better not talk any more." "lord, how savage you are! then, suppose i did pay the old gentleman any attention. did the young ones pay me any? did either you, or your precious friend, mr tom, even speak to me?" "no; we saw how you were employed, and we both hate a jilt." "oh, you do. very well, sir; just as you please. i may make both your hearts ache for this some day or another." "forewarned, forearmed, mary; and i shall take care that they are both forewarned as well as myself. as i perceive that you are so decided, i shall say no more. only, for your own sake, and your own happiness, i caution you. recollect your mother, mary, and recollect your mother's death." mary covered her face and burst into tears. she sobbed for a few minutes, and then came to me. "you are right, jacob; and i am a foolish--perhaps wicked--girl; but forgive me, and indeed i will try to behave better. but, as father says, it is human nature in me, and it's hard to conquer our natures, jacob." "will you promise me not to continue your advances to the dominie, mary?" "i will not, if i can help it, jacob. i may forget for the moment, but i'll do all i can. it's not very easy to look grave when one is merry, or sour when one is pleased." "but what can induce you, mary, to practise upon an old man like him? if it were young tom, i could understand it. there might be some credit, and your pride might be flattered by the victory; but an old man--" "still, jacob, old or young, it's much the same. i would like to have them all at my feet, and that's the truth. i can't help it. and i thought it a great victory to bring there a wise old man, who was so full of latin and learning, and who ought to know better. tell me jacob, if old men a how themselves to be caught, as well as young, where is the crime of catching them? isn't there as much vanity in an old man, in his supposing that i really could love him, as there is in me, who am but a young, foolish girl, in trying to make him fond of me?" "that may be; but still recollect that he is in earnest, and you are only joking, which makes a great difference; and recollect further, that in trying at all, we very often lose all." "that i would take my chance of, jacob," replied mary, proudly throwing her curly ringlets back with her hand from her white forehead; "but what i now want is to make friends with you. come, jacob, you have my promise to do my best." "yes, mary, and i believe you, so there's my hand." "you don't know how miserable i have been, jacob, since we quarrelled," said mary, wiping the tears away, which again commenced flowing; "and yet i don't know why, for i'm sure i have almost hated you this last week--that i have; but the fact is, i like quarrelling very well for the pleasure of making it up again; but not for the quarrel to last so long as this has done." "it has annoyed me too, mary, for i like you very much in general." "well, then, now it's all over; but jacob, are you sure you are friends with me?" "yes, mary." mary looked archly at me. "you know the old saw, and i feel the truth of it." "what, `kiss and make friends?'" replied i; "with all my heart," and i kissed her, without any resistance on her part. "no, i didn't mean that, jacob." "what then?" "oh! 'twas another." "well, then, what was the other?" "never mind, i forget it now," said she laughing, and rising from the chair. "now, i must go to my work again, and you must tell me what you've been doing this last fortnight." mary and i entered into a long and amicable conversation till her father came home, when we retired to bed. "i think," said old stapleton, the next morning, "that i've had work enough; and i've belonged to two benefit clubs for so long as to 'title me to an allowance. i think, jacob, i shall give up the wherry to you, and you shall in future give me one-third of your earnings, and keep the rest to yourself. i don't see why you're to work hard all day for nothing." i remonstrated against this excess of liberality; but old stapleton was positive, and the arrangement was made. i afterwards discovered, what may probably occur to the reader, that captain turnbull was at the bottom of all this. he had pensioned old stapleton that i might become independent by my own exertions before i had served my apprenticeship; and after breakfast, old stapleton walked down with me to the beach, and we launched the boat. "recollect, jacob," said he, "one-third, and honour bright;" so saying, he adjourned to his old quarters, the public-house, to smoke his pipe and think of human natur'. i do not recollect any day of my life on which i felt more happy than on this: i was working for myself, and independent. i jumped into my wherry, and, without waiting for a fare, i pushed off, and, gaining the stream, cleaved through the water with delight as my reward; but after a quarter of an hour i sobered down with the recollection that, although i might pull about for nothing for my own amusement, that as stapleton was entitled to one-third, i had no right to neglect his interest; and i shot my wherry into the row, and stood with my hand and fore-finger raised, watching the eye of every one who came towards the hard. i was fortunate that day, and when i returned, was proceeding to give stapleton his share, when he stopped me. "jacob, it's no use dividing now; once a-week will be better. i likes things to come in a lump; cause, d'ye see--it's-it's--_human natur'_." chapter twenty seven. a good fare--eat your pudding and hold your tongue--the dominie crossed in love--the crosser also crossed--i find that "all the world's a stage," not excepting the stern sheets of my wherry--cleopatra's barge apostrophised on the river thames. i consider that the present was the period from which i might date my first launching into human life. i was now nearly eighteen years old, strong, active, and well-made, full of spirits, and overjoyed at the independence which i had so much sighed for. since the period of my dismissal from mr drummond's my character had much altered. i had become grave and silent, brooding over my wrongs, harbouring feelings of resentment against the parties, and viewing the world in general through a medium by no means favourable. i had become in some degree restored from this unwholesome state of mind from having rendered an important service to captain turnbull, for we love the world better as we feel that we are more useful in it; but the independence now given to me was the acme of my hopes and wishes. i felt so happy, so buoyant in mind, that i could even think of the two clerks in mr drummond's employ without feelings of revenge. let it, however, be remembered that the world was all before me in anticipation only. "boat, sir?" "no, thanky, my lad. i want old stapleton--is he here?" "no, sir, but this is his boat." "humph, can't he take me down?" "no, sir; but i can, if you please." "well, then, be quick." a sedate-looking gentleman, about forty-five years of age, stepped into the boat, and in a few seconds i was in the stream, shooting the bridge with the ebbing tide. "what's the matter with deaf stapleton?" "nothing, sir; but he's getting old, and has made the boat over to me." "are you his son?" "no, sir, his 'prentice." "humph! sorry deaf stapleton's gone." "i can be as deaf as he, sir, if you wish it." "humph!" the gentleman said no more at the time, and i pulled down the river in silence; but in a few minutes he began to move his hands up and down, and his lips, as if he was in conversation. gradually his action increased, and words were uttered. at last he broke out:--"it is with this conviction, i may say important conviction, mr speaker, that i now deliver my sentiments to the commons' house of parliament, trusting that no honourable member will decide until he has fully weighed the importance of the arguments which i have submitted to his judgment." he then stopped, as if aware that i was present, and looked at me; but, prepared as i was, there was nothing in my countenance which exhibited the least sign of merriment; or, indeed, of having paid any attention to what he had been saying, for i looked carelessly to the right and left at the banks of the river. he again entered into conversation. "have you been long on the river?" "born on it, sir." "how do you like the profession of a waterman?" "very well, sir; the great point is to have regular customers." "and how do you gain them?" "by holding my tongue; keeping their counsel and my own." "very good answer, my boy. people who have much to do cannot afford to loose even their time on the water. just now i was preparing and thinking over my speech in the house of commons." "so i supposed, sir, and i think the river is a very good place for it, as no one can overhear you except the person whose services you have hired--and you need not mind him." "very true, my lad; but that's why i liked deaf stapleton: he could not hear a word." "but sir, if you've no objection, i like to hear it very much; and you may be sure that i should never say anything about it, if you will trust me." "do you my lad? well, then i'll just try it over again. you shall be the speaker--mind you hold your tongue, and don't interrupt me." the gentleman then began: "mr speaker, i should not have ventured to address the house at this late hour, did i not consider that the importance of the question now before it is--so important--no, that won't do--did i not consider that the question now before it is of that, i may say, paramount importance as to call forth the best energies of every man who is a well-wisher to his country. with this conviction, mr speaker, humble individual as i am, i feel it my duty, i may say, my bounden duty, to deliver my sentiments upon the subject. the papers which i now hold in my hand, mr speaker, and to which i shall soon have to call the attention of the house, will, i trust, fully establish--" "i say, waterman, be you taking that chap to bedlam?" cried a shrill female voice close to us. the speech was stopped; we looked up, and perceived a wherry with two females passing close to us. a shout of laughter followed the observation, and my fare looked very much confused. i had often read the papers in the public-house, and remembering what was usual in the house in case of interruption, called out, "order, order!" this made the gentleman laugh, and as the other wherry was now far off, he recommenced his oration, with which i shall not trouble my readers. it was a very fair speech, i have no doubt, but i forget what it was about. i landed him at westminster bridge, and received treble my fare. "recollect," said he, on paying me, "that i shall look out for you when i come again, which i do every monday morning, and sometimes oftener. what's your name?" "jacob, sir." "very well; good morning, my lad." this gentleman became a very regular and excellent customer, and we used to have a great deal of conversation, independent of debating, in the wherry; and i must acknowledge that i received from him not only plenty of money, but a great deal of valuable information. a few days after this i had an opportunity of ascertaining how far mary would keep her promise. i was plying at the river side as usual, when old stapleton came up to me, with his pipe in his mouth, and said, "jacob, there be that old gentleman up at our house with mary. now, i sees a great deal, but i says nothing. mary will be her mother over again, that's sartain. suppose you go and see your old teacher, and leave me to look a'ter a customer. i begin to feel as if handling the sculls a little would be of sarvice to me. we all think idleness be a very pleasant thing when we're obliged to work but when we are idle, then we feel that a little work be just as agreeable--that's human natur'." i thought that mary was very likely to forget all her good resolutions, from her ardent love of admiration, and i was determined to go and break up the conference. i, therefore, left the boat to stapleton, and hastened to the house. i did not like to play the part of an eavesdropper, and was quite undecided how i should act; whether to go in at once or not, when, as i passed under the window, which was open, i heard very plainly the conversation that was going on. i stopped in the street, and listened to the dominie in continuation--"but, fair maiden, _omnia vincit amor_--here am i, dominie dobbs, who have long passed the grand climacteric, and can already muster three score years--who have authority over seventy boys, being magister princeps et dux of brentford grammar school--who have affectioned only the sciences, and communed only with the classics--who have ever turned a deaf ear to the allurements of thy sex, and ever hardened my heart to thy fascination-here am i, even i, dominie dobbs, suing at the feet of a maiden who had barely ripened into womanhood, who knoweth not to read or write, and whose father earns his bread by manual labour. i feel it all--i feel that i am too old--that thou art too young--that i am departing from the ways of wisdom, and am regardless of my worldly prospects. still, _omnia vincit amor_, and i bow to the all-powerful god, doing him homage through thee, mary. vainly have i resisted--vainly have i, as i have lain in bed, tried to drive thee from my thoughts, and tear thine image from my heart. have i not felt thy presence everywhere? do not i astonish my worthy coadjutor, mistress bately, the matron, by calling her by the name of mary, when i had always before addressed her by her baptismal name of deborah? nay, have not the boys in the classes discovered my weakness, and do they not shout out mary in the hours of play? _mare periculosum et turbidum_ hast thou been to me. i sleep not--i eat not--and every sign of love which hath been adduced by ovidius naso, whom i have diligently collated, do i find in mine own person. speak, then, maiden. i have given vent to my feelings, do thou the same, that i may return, and leave not my flock without their shepherd. speak, maiden." "i will, sir, if you will get up," replied mary, who paused, and then continued. "i think, sir, that i am young and foolish, and you are old and--and--" "foolish, thou wouldst say." "i had rather you said it, sir, than i; it is not for me to use such an expression towards one so learned as you are. i think, sir, that i am too young to marry; and that perhaps you are--too old. i think, sir, that you are too clever--and that i am very ignorant; that it would not suit you in your situation to marry; and that it would not suit me to marry you--equally obliged to you all the same." "perhaps thou hast in thy reply proved the wiser of the two," answered the dominie; "but why, maiden, didst thou raise those feelings, those hopes in my breast, only to cause me pain, and make me drink deep of the cup of disappointment? didst thou appear to cling to me in fondness, if thou felt not a yearning towards me?" "but are there no other sorts of love besides the one you would require, sir? may i not love you because you are so clever, and so learned in latin. may i not love you as i do my father?" "true, true, child; it is all my own folly, and i must retrace my steps in sorrow. i have been deceived--but i have been deceived only by myself. my wishes have clouded my understanding, and have obscured my reason; have made me forgetful of my advanced years, and of the little favour i was likely to find in the eyes of a young maiden. i have fallen into a pit through blindness, and i must extricate myself, sore as will be the task. bless thee, maiden, bless thee! may another be happy in thy love, and never feel the barb of disappointment. i will pray for thee, mary--that heaven may bless thee." and the dominie turned away and wept. mary appeared to be moved by the good old man's affliction, and her heart probably smote her for her coquettish behaviour. she attempted to console the dominie, and appeared to be more than half crying herself. "no, sir, do not take on so, you make me feel very uncomfortable. i have been wrong--i feel i have--though you have not blamed me, i am a very foolish girl." "bless thee, child--bless thee!" replied the dominie, in a subdued voice. "indeed, sir, i don't deserve it--i feel i do not; but pray do not grieve, sir; things will go cross in love. now, sir, i'll tell you a secret, to prove it to you. i love jacob--love him very much, and he does not care for me--i am sure he does not; so, you sir, you are not the only one--who is--very unhappy;" and mary commenced sobbing with the dominie. "poor thing!" said the dominie; "and thou lovest jacob? truly is he worthy of thy love. and, at thy early age, thou knowest what it is to have thy love unrequited. truly is this a vale of tears--yet let us be thankful. guard well thy heart, child, for jacob may not be for thee; nay i feel that he will not be." "and why so, sir?" replied mary, despondingly. "because, maiden--but nay, i must not tell thee; only take my warning, mary--fare thee well? i come not here again." "good-bye, sir, and pray forgive me; this will be a warning to me." "verily, maiden, it will be a warning to us both. god bless thee!" i discovered by the sound that mary had vouchsafed to the dominie a kiss, and heard soon afterwards his steps as he descended the stairs. not wishing to meet him i turned round the corner, and went down to the river, thinking over what had passed. i felt pleased with mary, but i was not in love with her. the spring was now far advanced, and the weather was delightful. the river was beautiful, and parties of pleasure were constantly to be seen floating up and down with the tide. the westminster boys, the funny club, and other amateurs in their fancy dresses, enlivened the scene; while the races for prize wherries, which occasionally took place, rendered the water one mass of life and motion. how i longed for my apprenticeship to be over, that i might try for a prize! one of my best customers was a young man, who was an actor at one of the theatres, who, like the m.p., used to rehearse the whole time he was in the boat; but he was a lively, noisy personage, full of humour, and perfectly indifferent as to appearances. he had a quiz and a quirk for everybody that passed in another boat, and would stand up and rant at them until they considered him insane. we were on very intimate terms, and i was never more pleased than when he made his appearance, as it was invariably the signal for mirth. the first time i certainly considered him to be a lunatic, for playhouse phraseology was quite new to me. "boat, sir," cried i to him as he came to the hard. "my affairs do even drag me homeward. go on; i'll follow thee," replied he, leaping into the boat. "our fortune lies in this jump." i shoved off the wherry: "down, sir?" "down," replied he; pointing downwards with his finger, as if pushing at something. "down, down to hell, and say i sent you there." "thanky, sir, i'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." "our tongue is rough, coz--and my condition is not smooth." we shot the bridge, and went rapidly down with the tide, when he again commenced:- "thus with imagin'd wing our soft scene flies, in motion of no less celerity than that of thought." then his attention was drawn by a collier's boat, pulled by two men as black as chimney-sweeps, with three women in the stern-sheets. they made for the centre of the river, to get into the strength of the tide, and were soon abreast and close to the wherry, pulling with us down the stream. "there's a dandy young man," said one of the women, with an old straw bonnet and very dirty ribbons, laughing, and pointing to my man. "plead you to me, fair dame? i know you not; at ephesus i am but two hours old, as strange unto your town as to your talk." "well, he be a reg'lar rum cove, i've a notion," said another of the women, when she witnessed the theatrical airs of the speaker, who immediately recommenced- "the barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, burn'd on the water--the poop was beaten gold, purple the sails, and so perfumed that the winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, which to the tunes of flutes kept stroke, and made the water, which they beat, to follow faster, as amorous of their strokes. for her own person, it beggar'd all description." "come, i'll be blowed but we've had enough of that, so just shut your pan," said one of the women, angrily. "her gentlewomen, like the naiades, so many mermaids tend her." "mind what you're arter, or your mouth will tend to your mischief, young fellow." "from the barge a strange, invisible perfume hits the sense of the adjacent wharfs." "jem, just run him alongside, and break his head with your oar." "i thinks as how i will, if he don't mend his manners." "i saw her once hop forty paces through the public streets." "you lie, you liver-faced rascal. i never walked the streets in my life. i'm a lawful married woman. jem, do you call yourself a man, and stand this here?" "well, now, sal, but he's a nice young man. now an't he?" observed one of the other women. "away, away, you trifler. love! i know thee not, i care not for thee, kate: this is no world to play with mammets, and to tilt with lips; we must have bloody noses and cracked crowns." "i've a notion you will, too, my hearty," interrupted one of the colliers. "that 'ere long tongue of yours will bring you into disgrace. bill, give her a jerk towards the wherry, and we'll duck him." "my friend," said the actor, addressing me:- "let not his unwholesome corpse come between the wind and my nobility. "let us exeunt, op." although i could not understand his phrases, i knew very well what he meant, and pulling smartly, i shoved towards the shore, and ahead. perceiving this, the men in the boat, at the intimation of the women, who stood up waving their bonnets, gave chase to us, and my companion appeared not a little alarmed. however, by great exertion on my part, we gained considerably, and they abandoned the pursuit. "now, by two-headed janus," said my companion, as he looked back upon the colliers- "nature hath framed strange fellows in her time, some that will evermore peep through their eyes, and laugh like parrots at a bagpiper, and others of such a vinegar aspect that they'll not show their teeth by way of smile, though nestor swear the jest be laughable. "and now," continued he, addressing me, "what's your name, sir? of what condition are you--and of what place, i pray?" amused with what had passed, i replied, "that my name was jacob--that i was a waterman, and born on the river." "i find thee apt; but tell me, art thou perfect that our ship hath touched upon the deserts of bohemia?" "do you land at westminster, sir?" "no: at blackfriars--there attend my coming. "base is the slave who pays; nevertheless, what is your fare, my lad? "what money's in my purse? seven groats and twopence. "by jove, i am not covetous of gold, nor care i who doth feed upon my cost. "but- "i can get no remedy for this consumption of the purse. "here my lad--is that enough?" "yes, sir, i thank you." "remember poor jack, sir," said the usual attendant at the landing place, catching his arm as he careened the wherry on getting out. "if he fall in, good-night--or sink or swim. "jack, there is a penny for you. jacob, farewell--we meet again;" and away he went, taking three of the stone steps at each spring. this gentleman's name was, as i afterwards found out, tinfoil, an actor of second-rate merit on the london boards. the haymarket theatre was where he principally performed, and, as we became better acquainted, he offered to procure me orders to see the play when i should wish to go there. chapter twenty eight. the pic-nic party--sufferings by oil, ice, fire, and water--upon the whole the "divarting vagabonds," as the thespian heroes and heroines are classically termed, are very happy, excepting mr. winterbottom, whose feelings are by sitting down, down to zero. one morning he came down to the hard, and, as usual, i expected that he would go down the river. i ran to my boat, and hauled in close. "no, jacob, no; this day you will not carry caesar and his fortunes, but i have an order for you." "thank you; sir; what is the play?" "the play--pooh! no play; but i hope it will prove a farce, nevertheless, before it's over. we are to have a pic-nic party upon one of those little islands up the river by kew. all sock and buskin, all theatricals: if the wherries upset, the hay-market may shut up, for it will be `_exeunt omnes_' with all its best performers. look you, jacob, we shall want three wherries, and i leave you to pick out the other two--oars in each, of course. you must be at whitehall steps exactly at nine o'clock, and i daresay the ladies won't make you wait more than an hour or two, which, for them, is tolerably punctual." mr tinfoil then entered into the arrangement for remuneration, and walked away; and i was conning over in my mind whom i should select from my brother watermen, and whether i should ask old stapleton to take the other oar in my boat, when i heard a voice never to be mistaken by me- "life is like a summer day warmed by a sunny ray. "lower away yet, tom. that'll do, my trump. "sometimes a dreary cloud, chill blast, or tempest loud. "look out for jacob, tom," cried the old man, as the head of the lighter, with her mast lowered down, made its appearance through the arch of putney bridge, with bright blue streaks on her sides. "here he is, father," replied tom, who was standing forward by the windlass, with the fall in his hand. i had shoved off, on hearing old tom's voice, and was alongside almost as soon as the lighter had passed under the bridge, and discovered old tom at the helm. i sprang on the deck, with the chain-painter of the wherry in my hand, made it fast, and went aft to old tom, who seized my hand. "this is as it should be, my boy, both on the look-out for each other. the heart warms when we know the feeling is on both sides. you're seldom out of our thoughts, boy, and always in our hearts. now, jump forward, for tom's fretting to greet you, i see, and you may just as well help him to sway up the mast when you are there." i went forward, shook hands with tom, and then clapped on the fall, and assisted him to hoist the mast. we then went aft to his father and communicated everything of interest which had passed since our last meeting at the house of old stapleton. "and how's mary?" inquired tom; "she's a very fine lass, and i've thought of her more than once; but i saw that all you said about her was true. how she did flam the poor old dominie!" "i have had a few words with her about it, and she has promised to be wiser," replied i; "but as her father says, `in her it's human natur'.'" "she's a fine craft," observed old tom, "and they always be a little ticklish. but, jacob, you've had some inquiries made after you, and by the women, too." "indeed!" replied i. "yes; and i have had the honour of being sent for into the parlour. do you guess now?" "yes," said i, a gloom coming over my countenance. "i presume it is drummond and sarah whom you refer to?" "exactly." tom then informed me that mrs drummond had sent for him, and asked a great many questions about me, and desired him to say that they were very glad to hear that i was well and comfortable, and hoped that i would call and see her and sarah when i came that way. mrs drummond then left the room, and tom was alone with sarah, who desired him to say, that her father had found out that i had not been wrong; that he had dismissed both the clerks; and that he was very sorry he had been so deceived--"and then," said tom, "miss sarah told me to say from herself, that she had been very unhappy since you had left them, but that she hoped that you would forgive and forget some day or another, and come back to them; and that i was to give you her love, and call next time we went up the river for something that she wanted to send to you. so you perceive, jacob, that you are not forgotten, and justice has been done to you." "yes," replied i, "but it has been too late; so let us say no more about it. i am quite happy as i am." i then told them of the pic-nic party of the next day, upon which tom volunteered to take the other oar in my boat, as he would not be wanted while the barge was at the wharf. old tom gave his consent, and it was agreed he should meet me next morning at daylight. "i've a notion there'll be some fun, jacob," said he, "from what you say." "i think so, too; but you've towed me two miles, and i must be off again, or i shall lose my dinner; so good-bye;" i selected two other wherries in the course of the afternoon, and then returned home. it was a lovely morning when tom and i washed out the boat, and, having dressed ourselves in our neatest clothes, we shoved off in company with the two other wherries, and dropped leisurely down the river with the last of the ebb. when we pulled in to the stairs at whitehall, we found two men waiting for us with three or four hampers, some baskets, an iron saucepan, a frying-pan, and a large tin pail with a cover, full of rough ice to cool the wines. we were directed to put all these articles into one boat; the others to be reserved for the company. "jacob," said tom, "don't let us be kitchen; i'm togged out for the parlour." this point had just been arranged, and the articles put into the wherry, when the party made their appearance, mr tinfoil acting as master of the ceremonies. "fair titania," said he to the lady who appeared to demand, and therefore received, the most attention, "allow me to hand you to your throne." "many thanks, good puck," replied the lady; "we are well placed; but dear me, we haven't brought, or we have lost, our vinaigrette; we positively cannot go without it. what can our women have been about?" "pease-blossom and mustard-seed are much to blame," replied tinfoil; "but shall i run back for it?" "yes," replied the lady, "and be here again ere the leviathan can swim a league." "i'll put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes," replied the gentleman, stepping out of the boat. "won't you be a little out of breath before you come back, sir?" said tom, joining the conversation. this remark, far from giving offence, was followed by a general laugh. before mr tinfoil was out of sight, the lost vinaigrette was dropped out of the lady's handkerchief; he was therefore recalled; and the whole of the party being arranged in the two boats, we shoved off; the third boat, in which the provender had been stowed, followed us, and was occupied by the two attendants, a call-boy and scene-shifter, who were addressed by tinfoil as caliban and stephano. "is all our company here?" said a pert-looking, little pug-nosed man, who had taken upon himself the part of quince the carpenter, in the midsummer night's dream. "you, nick bottom," continued he, addressing another, "are set down for pyramus." the party addressed did not, however, appear to enter into the humour. he was a heavy-made, rather corpulent, white-faced personage, dressed in white jean trousers, white waistcoat, brown coat, and white hat. whether anything had put him out of humour i know not, but it is evident that he was the butt of the ladies and of most of the party. "i'll just thank you," replied this personage, whose real name was winterbottom, "to be quiet, mr western, for i shan't stand any of your nonsense." "oh, mr winterbottom, surely you are not about to sow the seeds of discord so early. look at the scene before you--hear how the birds are singing, how merrily the sun shines and how beautifully the water sparkles! who can be cross on such a morning as this?" "no, miss," replied mr winterbottom, "not at all--not at all--only my name's winterbottom, and not bottom. i don't wear an ass's head to please anybody--that's all. i won't be _bottom_--that's _flat_." "that depends upon circumstances, sir," observed tom. "what business have you to shove your oar in, mr waterman?" "i was hired for the purpose," replied tom, dipping his oar in the water, and giving a hearty stroke. "stick to your own element, then--shove your oar into the water, but not into our discourse." "well, sir, i won't say another word, if you don't like it." "but you may to me," said titania, laughing, "whenever you please." "and to me too," said tinfoil, who was amused with tom's replies. mr winterbottom became very wroth, and demanded to be put on shore directly, but the fairy queen ordered us to obey him at our peril, and mr winterbottom was carried up the river very much against his inclination. "our friend is not himself," said mr tinfoil, producing a key bugle; "but- "music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, to soften rocks, and rend the knotted oak. "and, therefore, will we try the effect of it upon his senses." mr tinfoil then played the air in "midas":- "pray, goody, please to moderate," etcetera. during which mr winterbottom looked more sulky than ever. as soon as the air was finished, another of the party responded with his flute, from the other boat--while mr quince played what he called base, by snapping his fingers. the sounds of the instruments floated along the flowing and smooth water, reaching the ears and attracting the attention of many who, for a time, rested from their labour, or hung listlessly over the gunnels of the vessels, watching the boats, and listening to the harmony. all was mirth and gaiety--the wherries kept close to each other, and between the airs the parties kept up a lively and witty conversation, occasionally venting their admiration upon the verdure of the sloping lawns and feathering trees with which the banks of the noble river are so beautifully adorned; even mr winterbottom had partially recovered his serenity, when he was again irritated by a remark of quince, who addressed him. "you can play no part but pyramus; for pyramus is a sweet-faced man--a proper man as one shall see on a summer's day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore, you must needs play pyramus." "take care i don't play the devil with your physiognomy, mr western," retorted winterbottom. here caliban, in the third boat, began playing the fiddle and singing to it- "gaffer, gaffer's son, and his little jackass, were trotting along the road." the chorus of which ditty was "ee-aw, ee-aw!" like the braying of a jackass. "bless thee, bottom, bless thee; thou art translated," cried quince, looking at winterbottom. "very well--very well, mr western. i don't want to upset the wherry, and therefore you're safe at present, but the reckoning will come--so i give you warning." "slaves of my lamp, do my bidding. i will have no quarrelling here. you, quince, shut your mouth; you, winterbottom, draw in your lips, and i, your queen, will charm you with a song," said titania, waving her little hand. the fiddler ceased playing, and the voice of the fair actress rivetted all our attention. "wilt thou waken, bride of may, while flowers are fresh, and sweet bells chime, listen and learn from my roundelay how all life's pilot boats sailed one day a match with time! "love sat on a lotus-leaf aloft, and saw old time in his loaded boat, slowly he crossed life's narrow tide, while love sat clapping his wings, and cried, `who will pass time?' "patience came first, but soon was gone, with helm and sail to help time on; care and grief could not lend an oar, and prudence said (while he staid on shore), `i wait for time.' "hope filled with flowers her cork-tree bark, and lighted its helm with a glow-worm's spark; then love, when he saw his bark fly past, said, `lingering time will soon be passed, hope outspeeds time.' "wit went nearest old time to pass, with his diamond oar and boat of glass a feathery dart from his store he drew, and shouted, while far and swift it flew, `o mirth kills time!' "but time sent the feathery arrow back, hope's boat of amaranthus miss'd its track; then love bade its butterfly pilots move, and laughing, said `they shall see how love can conquer time.'" i need hardly say that the song was rapturously applauded, and most deservedly so. several others were demanded from the ladies and gentlemen of the party, and given without hesitation; but i cannot now recall them to my memory. the bugle and flute played between whiles, and all was laughter and merriment. "there's a sweet place," said tinfoil, pointing to a villa on the thames; "now, with the fair titania and ten thousand a-year, one could there live happy." "i'm afraid the fair titania must go to market without the latter encumbrance," replied the lady; "the gentleman must find the ten thousand a-year, and i must bring as my dowry--" "ten thousand charms," interrupted tinfoil--"that's most true, and pity 'tis 'tis true. did your fairyship ever hear my epigram on the subject? "let the lads of the east love the maids of _cash-meer_, nor affection with interests clash; far other idolatry pleases us here, we adore but the maids of _mere cash_." "excellent, good puck! have you any more?" "not of my own, but you have heard what winterbottom wrote under the bust of shakespeare last jubilee?" "i knew not that apollo had ever visited him." "you shall hear:- "in _this here_ place the bones of shakespeare lie, but _that ere_ form of his shall never die; a _speedy end and soon_ this world may have, but shakespeare's name shall _bloom_ beyond the grave." "i'll trouble you, mr tinfoil, not to be so very witty at my expense," growled out winterbottom. "i never wrote a line of poetry in my life." "no one said you did, winterbottom; but you won't deny that you wrote those lines." mr winterbottom disdained a reply. gaily did we pass the variegated banks of the river, swept up with a strong flood-tide, and at last arrived at a little island agreed upon as the site of the pic-nic. the company disembarked, and were busy looking for a convenient spot for their entertainment, quince making a rapid escape from winterbottom, the latter remaining on the bank. "jenkins," said he to the man christened caliban, "you did not forget the salad?" "no, sir, i brought it myself. it's on the top of the little hamper." mr winterbottom, who, it appears, was extremely partial to salad, was satisfied with the reply, and walked slowly away. "well," said tom to me, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief, "i wouldn't have missed this for anything. i only wish father had been here. i hope that young lady will sing again before we part." "i think it very likely, and that the fun is only begun," replied i. "but come, let's lend a hand to get the prog out of the boat." "pat! pat! and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. this green plot shall be our stage," cried quince, addressing the others of the party. the locality was approved of, and now all were busy in preparation. the hampers were unpacked, and cold meats, poultry, pies of various kinds, pastry, etcetera, appeared in abundance. "this is no manager's feast," said tinfoil; "the fowls are not made of wood, nor is small beer substituted for wine. don juan's banquet to the commendador is a farce to it." "all the manager's stage banquets are farces, and very sorry jokes into the bargain," replied another. "i wish old morris had to eat his own suppers." "he must get a new set of teeth, or they'll prove a _deal_ too tough." "hiss! turn him out! he's made a _pun_." the hampers were now empty; some laid the cloth upon the grass, and arranged the plates, and knives and forks. the ladies were as busy as the gentlemen--some were wiping the glasses, others putting salt into the salt-cellars. titania was preparing the salad. mr winterbottom, who was doing nothing, accosted her; "may i beg as a favour that you do not cut the salad too small? it loses much of its crispness." "why, what a nebuchadnezzar you are! however, sir, you shall be obeyed." "who can fry fish?" cried tinfoil. "here are two pairs of soles and some eels. where's caliban?" "here i am, sir," replied the man on his knees, blowing up a fire which he had kindled. "i have got the soup to mind." "where's stephano?" "cooling the wine, sir." "who, then, can fry fish, i ask?" "i can, sir," replied tom; "but not without butter." "butter shalt thou have, thou disturber of the element. have we not _hiren_ here?" "i wasn't _hired_ as a cook, at all events," replied tom: "but i'm rather a _dab_ at it." "then shalt thou have the _place_," replied the actor. "with all my heart and _soul_," cried tom, taking out his knife, and commencing the necessary operation of skinning the fish. in half-an-hour all was ready: the fair titania did me the honour to seat herself upon my jacket, to ward off any damp from the ground. the other ladies had also taken their respective seats, as allotted by the mistress of the revels; the tables were covered by many of the good things of this life; the soup was ready in a tureen at one end, and tom had just placed the fish on the table, while mr quince and winterbottom, by the commands of titania, were despatched for the wine and other varieties of potations. when they returned, eyeing one another askance, winterbottom looking daggers at his opponent, and quince not quite easy even under the protection of titania, tom had just removed the frying-pan from the fire with its residuary grease still bubbling. quince having deposited his load, was about to sit down, when a freak came into tom's head, which, however, he dared not put into execution himself; but "a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse," says the proverb. winterbottom stood before tom, and quince with his back to them. tom looked at winterbottom, pointing slily to the frying-pan, and then to the hinder parts of quince. winterbottom snatched the hint and the frying-pan at the same moment. quince squatted himself down with a serge, as they say at sea, quoting at the time--"marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy"--but putting his hands behind him, to soften his fall, they were received into the hot frying-pan, inserted behind him by winterbottom. "oh, lord! oh! oh!" shrieked mr quince, springing up like lightning, bounding in the air with the pain, his hands behind him still adhering to the frying-pan. at the first scream of mr quince, the whole party had been terrified; the idea was that a snake had bitten him, and the greatest alarm prevailed; but when they perceived the cause of the disaster, even his expressions of pain could not prevent their mirth. it was too ludicrous. still the gentlemen and ladies condoled with him, but mr quince was not to be reasoned with. he walked away to the river-side, mr winterbottom slily enjoying his revenge, for no one but tom had an idea that it was anything but an accident. mr quince's party of pleasure was spoiled, but the others did not think it necessary that theirs should be also. a "really very sorry for poor western," and a half-dozen "poor fellows!" intermingled with tittering, was all that his misfortunes called forth after his departure; and then they set to like french falconers. the soup was swallowed, the fish disappeared, joints were cut up, pies delivered up their hidden treasures, fowls were dismembered like rotten boroughs, corks were drawn, others flew without the trouble, and they did eat and were filled. mr winterbottom kept his eye upon the salad, his favourite condiment, mixed it himself, offered it to all, and was glad to find that no one would spare time to eat it; but mr winterbottom could eat for everybody, and he did eat. the fragments were cleared away, and handed over to us. we were very busy, doing as ample justice to them as the party had done before us, when mr winterbottom was observed to turn very pale, and appeared very uneasy. "what's the matter?" inquired mr tinfoil. "i'm--i'm not very well--i--i'm afraid something has disagreed with me. i'm very ill," exclaimed mr winterbottom, turning as white as a sheet, and screwing up his mouth. "it must be the salad," said one of the ladies; "no one has eaten it but yourself, and we are all well." "i--rather think--it must be--oh--i do recollect that i thought the oil had a queer taste." "why there was no oil in the castors," replied tinfoil. "i desired jenkins to get some." "so did i, particularly," replied winterbottom. "oh!--oh, dear--oh, dear!" "jenkins," cried tinfoil, "where did you get the oil for the castors? what oil did you get?--are you sure it was right?" "yes, sir, quite sure," replied jenkins. "i brought it here in a bottle, and put it into the castors before dinner." "where did you buy it?" "at the chemist's, sir. here's the bottle;" and jenkins produced a bottle with _castor_ oil in large letters labelled on the side. the murder was out. mr winterbottom groaned, rose from his seat, for he felt very sick indeed. the misfortunes of individuals generally add to the general quota of mirth, and mr winterbottom's misfortune had the same effect as that of mr quince. but where was poor mr quince all this time? he had sent for the iron kettle in which the soup had been warmed up, and filling it full of thames water, had immersed the afflicted parts in the cooling element. there he sat with his hands plunged deep, when mr winterbottom made his appearance at the same spot and mr quince was comforted by witnessing the state of his enemy. indeed, the sight of winterbottom's distress did more to soothe mr quince's pain than all the thames water in the world. he rose, and leaving winterbottom, with his two hands to his head, leaning against a tree, joined the party, and pledged the ladies in succession, till he was more than half tipsy. in the space of half-an-hour mr winterbottom returned, trembling and shivering as if he had been suffering under an ague. a bumper or two of brandy restored him, and before the day closed in, both winterbottom and quince, one applying stimulants to his stomach, and the other drowning his sense of pain in repeated libations, were in a state (to say the least of it) of incipient intoxication. but there is a time for all things, and it was time to return. the evening had passed freely; song had followed song. tinfoil had tried his bugle, and played not a little out of tune; the flute also neglected the flats and sharps as of no consequence; the ladies thought the gentlemen rather too forward, and, in short, it was time to break up the party. the hampers were repacked, and handed half-empty, into the boat. of wine there was a little left; and by the direction of titania, the plates, dishes, etcetera, only were to be returned, and the fragments divided among the boatmen. the company re-embarked in high spirits, and we had the ebb-tide to return with. just as we were shoving off, it was remembered that the ice-pail had been left under the tree, besides a basket with sundries. the other wherries had shoved off, and they were in consequence brought into our boat, in which we had the same company as before, with the exception of mr western, _alias_ quince, who preferred the boat which carried the hampers, that he might loll over the side, with his hands in the water. mr winterbottom soon showed the effects of the remedy he had taken against the effects of the castor oil. he was uproarious, and it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to sit still in the boat, much to the alarm of titania and the other ladies. he would make violent love to the fairy queen; and as he constantly shifted his position to address her and throw himself at her feet, there was some danger of the boat being upset. at last tom proposed to him to sit on the pail before her, as then he could address her with safety; and winterbottom staggered up to take the seat. as he was seating himself, tom took off the cover, so that he was plunged into the half-liquid ice; but mr winterbottom was too drunk to perceive it. he continued to rant and to rave, and protest and vow, and even spout for some time, when suddenly the quantity of caloric extracted from him produced its effect. "i--i--really believe that the night is damp--the dew falls--the seat is damp, fair titania." "it's only fancy, mr winterbottom," replied titania who was delighted with his situation. "jean trousers are cool in the evening; it's only an excuse to get away from me, and i never will speak again to you if you quit your seat." "the fair titania, the mistress of my soul, and body too, if she pleases--has--but to command--and her slave obeys." "i rather think it is a little damp," said tinfoil; "allow me to throw a little sand upon your seat;" and tinfoil pulled out a large paper bag full of salt, which he strewed over the ice. winterbottom was satisfied, and remained; but by the time we had reached vauxhall bridge, the refrigeration had become so complete that he was fixed on the ice, which the application of the salt had made solid. he complained of cold, shivered, attempted to rise, but could not extricate himself; at last his teeth chattered, and he became almost sober; but he was helpless from the effects of the castor oil, his intermediate intoxication, and his present state of numbness. he spoke less and less; at last he was silent, and when we arrived at whitehall stairs he was firmly fixed in the ice. when released he could not walk, and he was sent home in a hackney-coach. "it was cruel to punish him so, mr tinfoil," said titania. "cruel punishment! why, yes; a sort of _impailment_," replied mr tinfoil, offering his arm. the remainder of the party landed and walked home, followed by the two assistants, who took charge of the crockery; and thus ended the pic-nic party, which, as tom said, was the very funniest day he had ever spent in his life. chapter twenty nine. mr. turnbull "sets his house in order"--mrs. t thinks such conduct very disorderly--the captain at his old tricks with his harpoon--he pays his lady's debts of honour, and gives the applicant a quittance under his own foot--monsieur and madame tagliabue withdraw from the society of "ces barbares les anglais." it was on the sunday after the picnic party, when, feeling i had neglected captain turnbull, and that he would think it unkind of me not to go near him, after having accompanied mary to church, i set off on foot to his villa near brentford. i rang at the porter's lodge, and asked whether he was at home. "yes, sir," replied the old woman at the lodge, who was very communicative, and very friendly with me; "and missus be at home too." i walked up the carriage-drive of one hundred yards, which led to the entrance-door; and when i rang it was opened by a servant i had not seen before as belonging to the establishment. "where is mr turnbull?" inquired i. "he is in his own room, sir," replied the man; "but you must send up your name, if you please, as every one is not admitted." i must observe to the reader that i was not dressed in jacket and trousers. the money i earned was more than sufficient to supply all my expenses, and i had fitted on what are called at sea, and on the river, _long togs_. i was dressed as most people are on shore. the servant evidently took me for a gentleman; and perhaps, as far as dress went, i was entitled to that distinction. many people are received as such in this world with less claims than i had. i gave my name; the man left me at the door, and soon returned, requesting that i would follow him. i must say that i was rather astonished; where were mr mortimer and the two men in flaunting liveries, and long cotton epaulettes with things like little marline-spikes hanging to the ends of them? even the livery was changed, being a plain brown coat, with light blue collar and cuffs. i was, however, soon made acquainted with what had taken place on my entering the apartment of mr turnbull--his study, as mrs t called it, although mr turnbull insisted upon calling it his cabin, a name certainly more appropriate, as it contained but two small shelves of books, the remainder of the space being filled up with favourite harpoons, porpoise skulls, sharks' jaws, corals, several bears' skins, brown and white, and one or two models of the vessels which had belonged to his brother and himself, and which had been employed in the greenland fishery. it was, in fact, a sort of museum of all he had collected during his voyages. esquimaux implements, ornaments and dresses, were lying about in corners; and skins of rare animals, killed by himself, such as black foxes, etcetera, were scattered about the carpet. his sea-chest, full of various articles, was also one of the ornaments of the room, much to the annoyance of mrs t, who had frequently exerted her influence to get rid of it, but in vain. the only articles of furniture were two sofas, a large table in the centre, and three or four heavy chairs. the only attempt at adornment consisted in a dozen coloured engravings, framed and glazed, of walrus shooting, etcetera, taken from the folio works of captains cook and mulgrave; and a sketch or two by his brother, such as the state of the _william_ pressed by an iceberg on the morning of the 25th of january, latitude ---, longitude ---. captain t was in his morning-gown, evidently not very well, at least he appeared harassed and pale. "my dear jacob, this is very kind of you. i did mean to scold you for not coming before; but i'm too glad to see you to find the heart now. but why have you kept away so long?" "i have really been very well employed, sir. stapleton has given me up the wherry, and i could not neglect his interests, even if i did my own." "always right, boy; and how are you getting on?" "i am very happy, sir; very happy, indeed." "i'm glad to hear it, jacob; may you always be so. now, take the other sofa, and let us have a long palaver, as the indians say. i have something to tell you. i suppose you observed a change--heh?" "yes, sir; i observed that mr mortimer was not visible." "exactly. mr mortimer, or john snobbs, the rascal, is at present in newgate for trial: and i mean to send him out on a voyage for the good of his health. i caught the scoundrel at last, and i'll show him no more mercy than i would to a shark that had taken the bait. but that's not all. we have had a regular mutiny and attempt to take the ship from me; but i have them all in irons, and ordered for punishment. jacob, money is but too often a curse, depend upon it." "you'll not find many of your opinion, sir," replied i, laughing. "perhaps not; because those who have it are content with the importance which it gives to them, and won't allow the damnable fact; and because those who have it not are always sighing after it, as if it were the only thing worth looking after in this world. but now, i will just tell you what has happened since i last saw you, and then you shall judge." as, however, captain t's narrative ran to a length of nearly three hours, i shall condense the matter for the information of the reader. it appeared that mrs t had continued to increase the lengths of her drives in her carriage, the number of her acquaintances, and her manifold expenses, until mr t had remonstrated in very strong terms. his remonstrances did not, however, meet with the attention which he had expected; and he found out by accident, moreover, that the money with which he had constantly supplied mrs t, to defray her weekly bills, had been otherwise appropriated; and that the bills for the two last quarters had none of them been paid. this produced an altercation, and a desire on his part to know in what manner these sums had been disbursed. at first the only reply from mrs t, who considered it advisable to brazen it out, and, if possible, gain the ascendancy which was necessary, was a contemptuous toss of her head, which undulated the three yellow ostrich feathers in her bonnet, as she walked out of the room and entered her carriage. this, to mr t, who was a matter-of-fact man, was not very satisfactory; he waited perforce until the carriage returned, and then demanded an explicit answer. mrs t assumed the highest ground, talked about fashionable expenses, her knowledge of what was due to his character, etcetera. mr t rejoined about necessary expenses, and that it was due to his character to pay his tradesmen's bills. mrs t then talked of good-breeding, best society, and her _many plaisers_, as she termed them; mr t did not know what _many pleasures_ meant in french; but he thought she had been indulged in as many as most women since they had come down to this establishment. but to the question: why were not the bills paid, and what had she done with the money? spent it in _pin money. pin_ money! thirty pounds a-week in _pins_! it would have bought harpoons enough for a three years' voyage. she must tell the truth. she wouldn't tell anything, but called for her salts, and called him a _brute_. at all events, he wouldn't be called a _fool_. he gave her till the next morning to consider of it. the next morning the bills were all sent in as requested, and amounted to six hundred pounds. they were paid and receipted. "now, mrs t, will you oblige me by letting me know what you have done with this six hundred pounds?" mrs t would not--she was not to be treated in that manner. mr t was not on board a whaler now, to bully and frighten as he pleased. she would have justice done her. have a separation, alimony, and a divorce. she might have them all if she pleased, but she should have no more money; that was certain. then she would have a fit of hysterics. so she did, and lay the whole of the day on the sofa, expecting mr t would pick her up. but the idea never came into mr t's head. he went to bed; and feeling restless, he rose very early, and saw from his window a cart drive up to the wall, and the parties who came with it leap over and enter the house, and return carrying to it two large hampers. he snatched up one of his harpoons, walked out the other way, and arrived at the cart just as the hampers had been put in, and they were about to drive off; challenged them, and instead of being answered, the horse was flogged, and he nearly run over. he then let fly his harpoon into the horse, which dropped, and pitched out the two men on their heads insensible; secured them, called to the lodge for assistance, sent for constables, and gave them in charge. they proved to be hampers forwarded by mr mortimer, who had been in the habit of so doing for some time. these hampers contained his best wine, and various other articles, which also proved that mr mortimer must have had false keys. leaving the culprits and property in charge of two constables, mr t returned to the house in company with the third constable; the door was opened by mr mortimer, who followed him into his study, told him he should leave the house directly, had always lived with _gentlemen_ before, and requested that he might have what was due to him. mr t thought the request but reasonable, and therefore gave him in charge of the constable. mr snobbs, rather confounded at such ungentlemanly behaviour, was, with the others, marched off to bow street. mr t sends for the other two servants in livery, and assures them that he has no longer any occasion for their services, having the excessive vulgar idea that this peculation must have been known to them. pays them their wages, requests they will take off their liveries, and leave the house. both willing. _they_ also had always lived with _gentlemen_ before. mr t takes the key of the butler's pantry, that the plate may not consider him too vulgar to remain in the house, and then walks to the stables. horses neigh, as if to say they are all ready for their breakfasts; but the door locked. hails the coachman, no answer. returning from the stables, perceives coachee, rather dusty, coming in at the lodge gate; requests to know why he did not sleep at home and take care of his horses. he was missus's coachman, not master's, and could satisfy her, but could not satisfy mr t; who paid him his wages's and, deducting his liveries, sent him after the others. coachee also was very glad to go--had always lived with _gentlemen_ before. meets the lady's maid, who tells him mrs t is much too ill to come down to breakfast. rather fortunate, as there was no breakfast to be had. dresses himself, gets into a pair-horse coach, arrives at the white horse cellar, swallows his breakfast, goes to bow street, commits mr mortimer, _alias_ snobbs, and his confederates for trial. hires a job-man to bring the horses up for sale, and leaves his carriage at the coachmaker's. obtains a temporary footman, and then mr t returns to his villa. a very good morning's work. finds mrs t up in the parlour, very much surprised and shocked at his conduct--at no mr mortimer--at no servants, and indebted to her own maid for a cup of tea. more recriminations--more violence--another threat of alimony, and the carriage ordered, that she may seek counsel. no coachman--no carriage-no horses--no nothing, as her maid declares. mrs t locks herself up in her room, and another day is passed with as little matrimonial comfort as can be expected. in the meantime, the news flies in every direction. brentford is full of it. mr t had been living too fast--is done up--had been had up at bow street--creditors had poured in with bills--servants discharged-carriage and horses seized. mrs t, poor creature, in hysterics, and nobody surprised at it; indeed, everybody expected it. the peters of petercumb hall heard it, and shook their heads at the many upstarts there were in the world. mr smith requested the right honourable lord viscount babbleton never to mention to his father the right honourable marquis of spring-guns, that he had ever been taken to see the turnbulls or that he, mr smith, would infallibly lose his situation in _esse_, and his living in _posse_: and monsieur and madame tagliabue were even more astounded; but they felt deeply, and resolved to pay a visit the next morning, at least monsieur tagliabue did, and madame acknowledged to the propriety of it. the next morning some little order had been restored; the footman hired had been given in charge of a sufficient quantity of plate, the rest had been locked up. the cook was to stay her month; the housemaid had no wish to leave; and as for the lady's maid, she would remain as long as she could to console her poor mistress, and accept what she was inclined to give her in return, in any way of clothes, dresses, etcetera, although, of course, she could not hurt her character by remaining too long in a family where there was no carriage, or gentlemen out of livery. still mr t did obtain some breakfast, and had just finished when monsieur tagliabue was announced, and was received. "ah! monsieur t, i hope madame is better. madame tagliabue did nothing but cry all last night when she heard the very bad news about de debt, and all dat." "very much obliged to madame," replied turnbull, gruffly; "and now, pray sir, what may be your pleasure?" "ah! monsieur turnbull, i feel very much for you; but suppose a gentleman no lose his _honour_, what matter de money?" (mr turnbull stared.) "you see, monsieur turnbull, honour be everything to a gentleman. if a gentleman owe money to one rascally tradesfellow, and not pay him, dat no great matter; but he always pay de debt of honour. every gentleman pay dat. here, monsieur turnbull," (and the little frenchman pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket), "be a leetle note of madame turnbull, which she gave to madame tagliabue, in which she acknowledged she owe two hundred pounds for money lost at _ecarte_. dat you see, monsieur turnbull, be what gentlemen call debt of honour, which every gentleman pay, or else he lose de character, and be called one blackguard by all the world. madame tagliabue and i too much fond of you and madame turnbull not to save your character, and so i come by her wish to beg you to settle this leetle note--this _leetle_ debt of _honour_;" and monsieur tagliabue laid the note on the table, with a very polite bow. mr turnbull examined the note; it was as described by monsieur tagliabue. so, thought he, now the whole story's out; she has been swindled out of her money by this rascally french couple. "now, monsieur tagliabue," said he, "allow me to put a question or two before i pay this money; and if you answer me sincerely, i shall raise no objection. i think mrs t has already lost about six hundred pounds at _ecarte_ before?" (monsieur t, who presumed that mrs turnbull had made him acquainted with the fact, answered in the affirmative.) "and i think that two months ago she never knew what _ecarte_ was." "dat is true; but the ladies are very quick to learn." "well, but now, do you think that, as she knew nothing about the game, and you and your wife are well acquainted with it, it was honourable on your part to allow her to lose so much money!" "ah! monsieur, when a lady say she will play _comment faire_, what can you do?" "but why did you never play at this house, monsieur?" "ah! monsieur turnbull, it is for de lady of de house to propose de game." "very true," replied mr turnbull, writing a cheque for the two hundred pounds; "there is your money, mr tagliabue; and now that you are paid, allow me to observe that i consider you and your wife a couple of swindlers; and beg that you will never enter my doors again." "vat you say, sir! _swind-lare_! god dam! sar, i will have satisfaction." "you've got your money--is that sufficient, or do you want anything else?" replied mr t, rising from his chair. "yes, sar, i do want more--i will have more." "so you shall, then," replied mr turnbull, kicking him out of the room along the passage, and out of the front door. monsieur tagliabue turned round every now and then, and threatened, and then tried to escape, as he perceived the upraised boot of mr turnbull. when fairly out of the house he turned round, "monsieur turnbull, i will have de satisfaction, de terrible satisfaction, for this. you shall pay. by god, sar, you shall pay--de money for this." that evening mr turnbull was summoned to appear at bow street on the following morning for the assault. he met monsieur tagliabue with his lawyer, and acknowledged that he had kicked him out of his house for swindling his wife, refused all accommodation, and was prepared with his bail. monsieur tagliabue stormed and blustered, talked about his acquaintance with the nobility; but the magistrate had seen too much of foreigners to place much reliance on their asseverations. "who are you, monsieur?" "sar, i am a gentleman." "what profession are you of, sir?" "sar, a gentleman has no profession." "but how do you live, monsieur tagliabue?" "as a gentleman always does, sar." "you mentioned lord scrope just now as your particular friend, i think?" "yes, sar, me very intimate with lord scrope; me spend three months at scrope castle with mi lady scrope; mi lady scrope very fond of madame tagliabue." "very well, monsieur tagliabue; we must proceed with another case until mr turnbull's bail arrives. sit down for a little while, if you please." another case was then heard, which lasted about half-an-hour; but previous to hearing it, the magistrate, who knew that lord scrope was in town, had despatched a runner with a note to his lordship, and the answer was now brought back. the magistrate read it, and smiled; went on with the other case, and when it was finished, said, "now, m. tagliabue, you have said that you were intimate with lord scrope." "yes, sar, very intimate." "well, lord scrope i have the pleasure of knowing: and, as he is in town, i wrote a note to him and here is his answer. i will read it." m. tagliabue turned pale as the magistrate read the following:- "dear sir--a fellow of the name you mention came from russia with me as my valet. i discharged him with dishonesty; after he left, lady scrope's attendant, who it appeared was, unknown to us, married to him, left also, and then i discovered the peculations to have been so extensive that had we known where to have laid hold of him, i should certainly have brought them before you. now the affair is forgotten; but a greater scoundrel never existed;--yours, scrope." "now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?" continued the magistrate in a severe tone. m. tagliabue fell on his knees and begged for mercy from the magistrate, from lord scrope, and lastly, from mr turnbull, to whom he proffered the draft for 200 pounds. the magistrate, seeing that mr turnbull did not take it, said to him, "make no ceremony of taking your money back again, mr turnbull; the very offer of it proves that he has gained it dishonestly; and 600 pounds is quite enough to have lost." mr turnbull then took the cheque and tore it in pieces, and the magistrate ordered m. tagliabue to be taken to the alien office, and he was sent to the other side of the channel, in company with his wife, to play _ecarte_ with whomsoever he pleased. thus ended the episode of monsieur tagliabue. chapter thirty. mr. turnbull finds out that money, though a necessary evil, is not a source of happiness--the dominie finds out that a little calumny is more effectual than ovid's remedy for love; and i find out that walking gives one a good appetite for fillet of veal and bacon--i set an example to the clergy in refusing to take money for a seat in church. "and now you see, jacob, what a revolution has taken place; not very pleasant, i grant, but still it was very necessary. i have since been paying all my bills, for the report of my being in difficulty has brought them in fast enough; and i find that in these last five months my wife has spent a whole year's income; so it was quite time to stop." "i agree with you, sir; but what does mrs turnbull say now--has she come to her senses?" "pretty well, i expect, although she does not quite choose to acknowledge it. i have told her that she must dispense with a carriage in future; and so she shall, till i think she deserves it. she knows that she must either have _my company_ in the house, or none at all. she knows that the peters of petercumb hall have cut her, for they did not answer a note of hers, sent by the gardener; and mr smith has written a very violent answer to another of her notes, wondering at her attempting to push herself into the company of the aristocracy. but what has brought her to her senses more than all is the affair of monsieur tagliabue. the magistrate, at my request, gave me the note of lord scrope, and i have taken good care that she could read the police report as well; but the fact is, she is so much mortified that i say nothing to her. she has been following the advice of these french swindlers, who have led her wrong, to be able to cheat her of her money. i expect she will ask me to sell this place, and go elsewhere; but at present we hardly exchange a word during the whole day." "i feel very sorry for her, sir; for i really believe her to be a very good kind-hearted person." "that's like you, jacob--and so she is. at present she is in a state to be pitied. she would throw a share of the blame upon other people, and cannot--she feels it is all herself. all her bubbles of grandeur have burst, and she finds herself not half so respectable as she was before her vanity induced her to cut her former acquaintance, and try to get into the society of those who laughed at her, and at the same time were not half so creditable. but it's that cursed money which has proved her unhappiness--and, i may add, mine." "well, sir, i see no chance of its ever adding to my misfortunes, at all events." "perhaps not, jacob, even if you ever should get any; but, at all events, you may take a little to-morrow, if you please. i cannot ask you to dine here; it would not be pleasant to you, and show a want of feeling to my wife; but i should like you to come up with the wherry to-morrow, and we'll take a cruise." "very well, i shall be at your orders--at what time?" "say ten o'clock if the weather is fine; if not the next day." "then, sir, i'll now wish you good-bye, as i must go and see the dominie." mr turnbull took my hand, and we parted. i was soon at brentford, and was continuing my course through the long, main street, when i met mr and mrs tomkins, the former head clerk who had charge of the brentford wharf. "i was intending to call upon you, sir, after i had paid a visit to my old master." "very well, jacob; and recollect we dine at half-past three--fillet of veal and bacon--don't be late for dinner." i promised that i would not, and in a few minutes more arrived at the grammar school. i looked at its peaked, antiquated front, and called to mind my feelings when, years back, i had first entered its porch. what a difference between the little uncouth, ignorant, savage, tricked out like a harlequin, and now the tall, athletic, well-dressed youth, happy in his independence, and conscious, although not vain, of his acquirements! and i mentally blessed the founders. but i had to talk to the dominie, and to keep my appointment with the veal and bacon at half-past three, so i could not spare any time for meditation. i, therefore, unfolded my arms, and making use of my legs, entered the wicket, and proceeded to the dominie's room. the door was ajar, and i entered without being perceived. i have often been reminded, by flemish paintings which i have seen since, of the picture which then presented itself. the room was not large, but lofty. it had but one window, fitted with small diamond-shaped panes in heavy wood-work, through which poured a broad, but subdued, stream of light. on one side of the window was an ancient armoire, containing the dominie's library, not gilt and lettered but well thumbed and worn. on the other his huge chest of drawers, on which lay, alas! for the benefit of the rising generations, a new birch rod, of large dimensions. the table was in the centre of the room, and the dominie sat at it, with his back to the window, in a dressing-gown, once black, having been a cassock, but now brown with age. he was on his high and narrow-backed chair, leaning forwards, with both elbows on the table, his spectacles on his luxuriant nose, and his hands nearly meeting on the top of his bald crown, earnestly poring over the contents of a book. a large bible, which he constantly made use of, was also on the table, and had apparently been shoved from him to give place to the present object of his meditations. his pipe lay on the floor in two pieces, having been thrown off without his perceiving it. on one side of him was a sheet of paper, on which he evidently had been writing extracts. i passed by him without his perceiving me, and gaining the back of his chair, looked over his shoulder. the work he was so intent upon was "ovid's remedy of love." it appeared that he had nearly finished reading through the whole, for in less than a minute he closed the book, and laying his spectacles down, threw himself back in his chair. "strange," soliloquised the dominie; "yet, verily, is some of his advice important, and i should imagine commendable, yet i do not find my remedy therein. `_avoid idleness_'--yes, that is sage counsel--and employment to one that hath not employed himself may drive away thought; but i have never been idle, and mine hath not been love in idleness; `_avoid her presence_'--that i must do; yet doth she still present herself to mine imagination, and i doubt whether the tangible reality could be more clearly perceptible. even now doth she stand before me in all her beauty. `_read not propertius and tibullus_'--that is easily refrained from; but read what i will, in a minute the type passeth from my eyes, and i see but her face beaming from the page. nay, cast my eyes in what direction i may wist, it is the same. if i looked at the stained wall, the indistinct lines gradually form themselves into her profile; if i look at the clouds, they will assume some of the redundant outlines of her form; if i cast mine eyes upon the fire in the kitchen-grate, the coals will glow and cool until i see her face; nay, but yesterday, the shoulder of mutton upon the spit gyrated until it at last assumed the decapitated head of mary. `_think of her faults and magnify them_'--nay, that were unjust and unchristian. let me rather correct mine own. i fear me that when ovid wrote his picture he intended it for the use of young men, and not for an old fool like me. behold! i have again broken my pipe--the fourth pipe that i have destroyed this week. what will the dame say? already hath she declared me demented, and god knows she is not very far from the truth;" and the dominie covered up his face in his hands. i took this opportunity to step to the door, and appear to enter it, dropping the latch, and rousing the dominie by the noise, who extended to me his hand. "welcome, my son--welcome to thine old preceptor; and to the walls which first received thee, when thou wert cast on shore as a tangle weed from the river. sit, jacob; i was thinking of thee and thine." "what, sir? of old stapleton and his daughter, i suppose." "even so; ye were all in my thoughts at the moment that thou madest thy appearance. they are well?" "yes, sir," replied i. "i see but little of them; the old man is always smoking, and as for the girl--why, the less one sees of her the better, i should say." "nay, jacob, this is new to me; yet is she most pleasant." i knew the dominie's character, and that if anything could cure his unfortunate passion, it would be a supposition on his part that the girl was not correct. i determined at all events to depreciate her, as i knew that what i said would never be mentioned by him, and would therefore do her no harm. still, i felt that i had to play a difficult game, as i was determined not to state what was not the fact. "pleasant, sir; yes, pleasant to everybody; the fact is; i don't like such girls as she is." "indeed, jacob; what, is she light?" i smiled and made no answer. "yet i perceived it not," replied the dominie. "she is just like her mother," observed i. "and what was her mother?" i gave a brief account of her mother, and how she met her death in trying to escape from her husband. the dominie mused. "little skilled am i in women, jacob, yet what thou sayest not only surpriseth but grieveth me. she is fair to look upon." "handsome is that handsome does, sir. she'll make many a man's heart ache yet, i expect." "indeed, jacob. i am full of marvel at what thou hast already told me." "i have seen more of her, sir." "i pray thee tell me more." "no, sir, i had rather not. you may imagine all you please." "still she is young, jacob; when she becometh a wife she might alter." "sir, it is my firm opinion (and so it was), that if you were to marry her to-morrow, she would run away from you in a week." "is that thy candid opinion, jacob?" "i will stake my life upon her so doing, although not as to the exact time." "jacob, i thank thee--thank thee much; thou hast opened mine eyes--thou hast done me more good than ovid. yes, boy; even the ancients, whom i have venerated, have not done me so kind an act as thou, a stripling, whom i have fostered. thou hast repaid me, jacob--thou hast rewarded me, jacob--thou hast protected me, jacob--thou hast saved me, jacob-hast saved me both from myself and from her; for know, jacob--know--that mine heart did yearn towards that maiden; and i thought her even to be perfection. jacob, i thank thee! now leave me, jacob, that i may commune with myself, and search out my own heart, for i am awakened-awakened as from a dream, and i would fain be quite alone." i was not sorry to leave the dominie, for i also felt that i would fain be in company with the fillet of veal and bacon, so i shook hands, and thus ended my second morning call. i was in good time at mr tomkins', who received me with great kindness. he was well pleased with his new situation, which was one of respectability and consequence, independently of profit; and i met at his table one or two people who, to my knowledge, would have considered it degrading to have visited him when only head clerk to mr drummond. we talked over old affairs, not forgetting the ball, and the illuminations, and mr turnbull's _bon mot_ about paradise; and after a very pleasant evening; i took my leave with the intention of walking back to fulham, but i found old tom waiting outside, on the look-out for me. "jacob, my boy, i want you to come down to my old shop one of these days. what day will you be able to come? the lighter will be here for a fortnight at least, i find from mr tomkins, as she waits for a cargo coming by canal, and there is no other craft expected above bridge, so tell me what day will you come and see the old woman, and spend the whole day with us. i wants to talk a bit with you, and ax your opinion about a good many little things." "indeed!" replied i, smiling. "what, are you going to build a new house?" "no, no--not that; but you see, jacob, as i told you last winter, it was time for me to give up night work up and down the river. i'm not so young as i was about fifty years ago, and there's a time for all things. i do mean to give up the craft in the autumn, and go on shore for a _full due_; but, at the same time, i must see how i can make matters out, so tell me what day you will come." "well, then, shall we say wednesday?" "wednesday's as good a day as any other day; come to breakfast, and you shall go away after supper, if you like; if not, the old woman shall sling a hammock for you." "agreed, then; but where's tom?" "tom, i don't know; but i think he's gone after that daughter of stapleton's. he begins to think of the girls now, jacob; but, as the old buffer, her father, says, `it's all human natur'.' howsomever, i never interferes in these matters: they seem to be pretty well matched, i think." "how do you mean?" "why, as for good looks, they be well enough matched, that's sure; but i don't mean that, i mean, he is quite as knowing as she is, and will shift his helm as she shifts hers. 'twill be a long running fight, and when one strikes, t'other won't have much to boast of. perhaps they may sheer off after all--perhaps they may sail as consorts; god only knows; but this i knows, that tom's sweetheart may be as tricky as she pleases, but tom's wife won't be--'cause why? he'll keep her in order. well, good-night; i have a long walk." when i returned home i found mary alone. "has tom been here?" inquired i. "what makes you ask that question?" replied mary. "to have it answered--if you have no objection." "oh, no! well, then, mr jacob, tom has been here, and very amusing he has been." "so he always is," replied i. "and where may you have been?" i told her. "so you saw old dominie. now, tell me, what did he say about me?" "that i shall not tell," replied i; "but i will tell you this, that he will not think about you any more; and you must not expect ever to see him again." "but recollect that he promised." "he kept his promise, mary." "oh, he told you so, did he? did he tell you all that passed?" "no, mary, he never told me that he had been here, neither did he tell me what had passed; but i happen to know all." "i cannot understand that." "still, it is true; and i think, on the whole, you behaved pretty well, although i cannot understand why you gave him a kiss at parting." "good heaven! where were you? you must have been in the room. and you heard every word that passed?" "every word," replied i. "well," said mary, "i could not have believed that you could have done so mean a thing." "mary, rather accuse your own imprudence; what i heard was to be heard by everyone in the street as well as by me. if you choose to have love scenes in a room not eight feet from the ground, with the window wide open, you must not be surprised at every passer-by hearing what you say." "well, that's true. i never thought of the window being open; not that i would have cared if all the world had heard me, if _you_ had not." it never occurred to me till then why mary was annoyed at my having overheard her, but at once i recollected what she had said about me. i made no answer. mary sat down, leaned her forehead against her hands, and was also silent. i, therefore, took my candle and retired. it appeared that mary's pride was much mortified at my having heard her confession of being partial to me--a confession which certainly made very little impression on me, as i considered that she might, a month afterwards, confess the same relative to tom, or any other individual who took her fancy; but in this i did not do her justice. her manners were afterwards much changed towards me; she always appeared to avoid, rather than to seek, further intimacy. as for myself, i continued, as before, very good friends, kind towards her, but nothing more. the next morning i was up at mr turnbull's by the time agreed upon, but before i set off rather a singular occurrence took place. i had just finished cleaning my boat, and had resumed my jacket, when a dark man, from some foreign country, came to the hard with a bundle under his arm. "how much for to go to the other side of the river--how much pence?" "twopence," replied i; but not caring to take him, i continued, "but you only pay one penny to cross the bridge." "i know very well, but suppose you take me?" he was a well-looking, not very dark man; his turban was of coloured cloth--his trousers not very wide; and i could not comprehend whether he was a turk or not; i afterwards found out he was a parsee, from the east indies. he spoke very plain english. as he decided upon crossing, i received him, and shoved off; when we were in the middle of the stream, he requested me to pull a little way up. "that will do," said he, opening his bundle, and spreading a carpet on the stern flooring of the wherry. he then rose, looking at the sun, which was then rising in all its majesty, bowed to it, with his hands raised, three times, then knelt on the carpet, and touched it several times with his forehead, again rose to his feet, took some common field flowers from his vest, and cast them into the stream, bowed again, folded up his carpet, and begged me to pull on shore. "i say my prayers," said the man, looking at me with his dark, piercing eye. "very proper; whom did you say them to?" "to my god." "but why don't you say them on shore?" "can't see sun in the house; suppose i go out little boys laugh and throw mud. where no am seen, river very proper place." we landed, and he took out threepence, and offered it to me. "no, no," said i; "i don't want you to pay for saying your prayers." "no take money?" "yes, take money to cross the river, but not take money for saying prayers. if you want to say them any other morning, come down, and if i am here, i'll always pull you into the stream." "you very good man; i thank you." the parsee made me a low salaam, and walked away. i may here observe that the man generally came down at sunrise two or three days in the week, and i invariably gave him a pull off into the stream, that he might pursue his religious ceremony. we often conversed and at last became intimate. mr turnbull was at the bottom of the lawn, which extended from his house to the banks of the river, looking out for me, when i pulled up. the basket with our dinner, etcetera, was lying by him on the gravel walk. "this is a lovely morning, jacob; but it will be rather a warm day, i expect," said he; "come, let us be off at once; lay in your sculls, and let us get the oars to pass." "how is mrs turnbull, sir?" "pretty well, jacob; more like the molly brown that i married than she has been for some years. perhaps, after all, this affair may turn out one of the best things that ever happened. it may bring her to her senses--bring happiness back to our hearth; if so, jacob, the money is well spent." chapter thirty one. mr. turnbull and i go on a party of pleasure--it turns out to be an adventure, and winds up with a blunderbuss, a tin-box, and a lady's cloak. we pulled leisurely up the stream, talking, and every now and then resting on our oars to take breath; for, as the old captain said, "why should we make a toil of pleasure? i like the upper part of the river best, jacob, because the water is clear, and i love clear water. how many hours have i, when a boy on board ship, hung over the gunwale of a boat, lowered down in a calm, and watch the little floating objects in the dark blue unfathomable water beneath me; objects of all sizes, of all colours, and of all shapes--all of them beautiful and to be admired; yet of them, perhaps, not one in a hundred millions ever meet the eye of man. you know, jacob, that the north seas are full of these animals-you cannot imagine the quantity of them; the sailors call them blubbers, because they are composed of a sort of transparent jelly but the real name i am told is medusae, that is the learned name. the whale feeds on them, and that is the reason why the whale is found where they are." "i should like very much to go a voyage to the whale fishery," replied i; "i've heard so much about it from you." "it is a stirring life, and a hard life, jacob; still it is an exciting one. some voyages will turn out very pleasant, but others are dreadful, from their anxiety. if the weather continues fine, it is all very well; but sometimes when there is a continuance of bad weather, it is dreadful. i recollect one voyage which made me show more grey hairs than all the others, and i think i have been twenty-two in all. we were in the drift ice, forcing our way to the northward, when it came on to blow--the sea rose, and after a week's gale it was tremendous. we had little daylight, and when it was daylight, the fog was so thick that we could see but little; there we were tossing among the large drift ice, meeting immense icebergs which bore down with all the force of the gale, and each time we narrowly escaped perishing: the rigging was loaded with ice; the bows of the ship were cased with it; the men were more than half frozen, and we could not move a rope through a block without pouring boiling water through it first, to clear it out. but then the long, dreary, dreadful nights, when we were rising on the mountain wave, and then pitching down into the trough, not knowing but that at each send we might strike upon the ice below, and go to the bottom immediately afterwards. all pitchy dark--the wind howling, and as it struck you, cutting you to the back-bone with its cold, searching power, the waves dancing all black around you, and every now and then perceiving by its white colour and the foam encircling it a huge mass of ice borne upon you, and hurled against you as if there were a demon, who was using it as an engine for your destruction. i never shall forget the _turning_ of an iceberg during the dreadful gale which lasted for a month and three days." "i don't know what that means, sir." "why, you must know, jacob, that the icebergs are all fresh water, and are supposed to have been detached from the land by the force of the weather and other causes. now, although ice floats, yet it floats deep: that is, if an iceberg is five hundred feet high above the water, it is generally six times as deep below the water--do you understand?" "perfectly, sir." "now, jacob, the water is much warmer than the air, and in consequence, the ice under the water melts away much faster; so that if the iceberg has been some time afloat, at last the part that is below is not so heavy as that which is above; then it turns, that is, it upsets and floats in another position." "i understand you, sir." "well, we were close to an iceberg, which was to windward of us, a very tall one, indeed, and we reckoned that we should get clear of it, for we were carrying a press of sail to effect it. still, all hands were eagerly watching the iceberg, as it came down very fast before the storm. all of a sudden it blew twice as hard as before, and then one of the men shouted out--`_turning, turning_!'--and sure enough it was. there was its towering summit gradually bowing towards us, until it almost appeared as if the peak was over our heads. our fate appeared inevitable, as the whole mountain of ice was descending on the vessel, and would, of course, have crushed us into atoms. we all fell on our knees, praying mentally, and watching its awful descent; even the man at the helm did the same, although he did not let go the spokes of the wheel. it had nearly half turned over, right for us, when the ice below, being heavier on one side than on the other, gave it a more slanting impetus, and shifting the direction of its fall, it plunged into the sea about a cable's length astern of us, throwing up the water to the heavens in foam, and blinding us all with the violence with which it dashed into our faces. for a minute the run of the waves was checked, and the sea appeared to boil and dance, throwing up peaked, pointed masses of water in all directions, one sinking, another rising, the ship rocked and reeled as if she were drunk; even the current of the gale was checked for a moment, and the heavy sails flapped and cleared themselves of their icy varnishing--then all was over. there was an iceberg of another shape astern of us, the gale recommenced, the waves pressed each other on as before, and we felt the return of the gale, awful as it was, as a reprieve. that was a dreadful voyage, jacob, and turned one-third of my hair grey; and what made it worse was, that we had only three fish on board on our return. however, we had reason to be thankful, for eighteen of our vessels were lost altogether, and it was the mercy of god that we were not among the number." "well, i suppose you told me that story to prevent my going a voyage?" "not a bit, jacob; if it should chance that you find it your interest to go to the north pole, or anywhere else, i would say go, by all means; let neither difficulty nor danger deter you; but do not go merely from curiosity; that i consider foolish. it's all very well for those who come back to have the satisfaction to talk of such things, and it is but fair that they should have it; but when you consider how many there are who never come back at all, why, then, it's very foolish to push yourself into needless danger and privation. you are amused with my recollections of arctic voyages; but just call to mind how many years of hardship, of danger, cold, and starvation i have undergone to collect all these anecdotes, and then judge whether it be worth any man's while to go for the sake of mere curiosity." i then amused mr turnbull with the description of the picnic party, which lasted until we had pulled far beyond kew bridge. we thrust the bow of the wherry into a bunch of sedges, and then we sat down to our meal, surrounded by hundreds of blue dragon-flies, that flitted about as if to inquire what we meant by intruding upon their domiciles. we continued there chatting and amusing ourselves till it was late, and then shoved off and pulled down with the stream. the sun had set, and we had yet six or seven miles to return to mr turnbull's house, when we perceived a slight, handsome young man in a skiff, who pulled towards us. "i say, my lads," said he, taking us both for watermen, "have you a mind to earn a couple of guineas with very little trouble?" "oh, yes," replied mr turnbull, "if you can show us how. a fine chance for you, jacob," continued he, aside. "well, then, i shall want your services, perhaps, for not more than an hour; it may be a little longer, as there is a lady in question, and we may have to wait. all i ask is, that you pull well and do your best. are you agreed?" we consented; and he requested us to follow him, and then pulled for the shore. "this is to be an adventure, sir," said i. "so it seems," replied mr turnbull; "all the better. i'm old now, but i'm fond of a spree." the gentleman pulled into a little boat-house by the river's side, belonging to one of the villas on the bank, made fast his boat, and then stepped into ours. "now, we've plenty of time; just pull quietly for the present." we continued down the river, and after we had passed kew bridge, he directed us in shore, on the right side, till we came to a garden sweeping down to the river from a cottage _ornee_, of large dimensions, about fifty yards from the bank. the water was up to the brick-wall, which rose from the river about four or five feet. "that will do, st---, st---, not a word," said he, rising in the stern sheets, and looking over. after a minute or two reconnoitring, he climbed from the boat on to the parapet of the wall, and whistled two bars of an air which i had till then never heard. all was silent. he crouched behind a lilac bush, and in a minute he repeated the same air in a whistle as before; still there was no appearance of movement at the cottage. he continued at intervals to whistle the portion of the air, and at last a light appeared at an upper window: it was removed, and re-appeared three times. "be ready now, my lads," said he. in about two minutes afterwards, a female, in a cloak, appeared, coming down the lawn, with a box in her hand, panting with excitement. "oh, william, i heard your first signal, but i could not get into my uncle's room for the box; at last he went out, and here it is." the gentleman seized the box from her, and handed it to us in the boat. "take great care of that, my lads," said he; "and now, cecilia, we have no time to lose; the sooner you are in the boat the better." "how am i to get down there, william?" replied she. "oh, nothing more easy. stop, throw your cloak into the boat, and then all you have to do is, first to get upon the top of the wall, and then trust to the watermen below and to me above for helping you." it was not, however, quite so easy a matter; the wall was four feet high above the boat, and moreover, there was a trellised work of iron, above a foot high, which ran along the wall. still, she made every effort on her own part, and we considered that we had arranged so as to conquer the difficulty, when the young lady gave a scream. we looked up and beheld a third party on the wall. it was a stout, tall, elderly man, as far as we could perceive in the dark, who immediately seized hold of the lady by the arm, and was dragging her away. this was resisted by the young gentleman, and the lady was relinquished by the other, to defend himself; at the same time that he called out--"help, help! thieves, thieves!" "shall i go to his assistance?" said i to mr turnbull. "one must stay in the boat." "jump up, then, jacob, for i never could get up that wall." i was up in a moment, and gaining my feet, was about to spring to the help of the young man, when four servants, with lights and with arms in their hands, made their appearance, hastening down the lawn. the lady had fainted on the grass; the elderly gentleman and his antagonist were down together, but the elderly gentleman had the mastery, for he was uppermost. perceiving the assistance coming, he called out "look to the watermen, secure them." i perceived that not a moment was to be lost. i could be of no service, and mr turnbull might be in an awkward scrape. i sprang into the boat, shoved off, and we were in the stream and at thirty yards' distance before they looked over the wall to see where we were. "stop, in that boat! stop!" they cried. "fire, if they don't," cried their master. we pulled as hard as we could. a musquetoon was discharged, but the shot dropped short; the only person who fell was the man who fired it. to see us he had stood upon the coping bricks of the wall, and the recoil tumbled him over into the river: we saw him fall, and heard the splash; but we pulled on as hard as we could, and in a few minutes the scene of action was far behind us. we then struck across to the other side of the river, and when we had gained close to the shore we took breath. "well," said mr turnbull, "this is a spree i little looked for; to have a blunderbuss full of shot sent after me." "no," replied i, laughing, "that's carrying the joke rather too far on the river thames." "well, but what a pretty mess we are in: here we have property belonging to god knows whom; and what are we to do with it?" "i think, sir, the best thing we can do is, for you to land at your own house with the property, and take care of it until we find out what all this is about; and i will continue on with the sculls to the hard. i shall hear or find out something about it in a day or two; they may still follow up the pursuit and trace us." "the advice is good," replied mr turnbull, "and the sooner we cut over again the better, for we are nearly abreast of my place." we did so. mr turnbull landed in his garden, taking with him the tin-box (it was what they call a deed-box) and the lady's cloak. i did not wait, but boating the oars, took my sculls and pulled down to fulham as fast as i could. i had arrived, and was pulling gently in, not to injure the other boats, when a man with a lantern came into the wherry. "have you anything in your boat, my man?" said he. "nothing, sir," replied i. the man examined the boat, and was satisfied. "tell me, did you see a boat with two men in it as you came along?" "no, sir," replied i, "nothing has passed me." "where do you come from now?" "from a gentleman's place near brentford." "brentford? oh, then, you were far below them. they are not down yet." "have you a job for me, sir?" said i, not wishing to appear anxious to go away. "no, my man, no; nothing to-night. we are on the lookout, but we have two boats in the stream, and a man at each landing-place." i made fast my boat, shouldered my oars and sculls, and departed, not at all sorry to get away. it appeared that as soon as it was ascertained that we were not to be stopped by being fired at, they saddled horses, and the distance by the road being so much shorter, had, by galloping as hard as they could, arrived at fulham some ten minutes before me. it was, therefore, most fortunate that the box had been landed, or i should have been discovered. that the contents were of value was evident, from the anxiety to secure them; but the mystery was still to be solved. i was quite tired with exertion and excitement when i arrived at stapleton's. mary was there to give me my supper, which i ate in silence, complained of a headache, and went to bed. chapter thirty two. the waterman turns water-knight--i become chivalrous, see a beautiful face, and go with the stream--the adventure seems to promise more law than love, there being papers in the case that is, in a tin-box. that night i dreamed of nothing but the scene, over and over again, and the two bars of music were constantly ringing in my ears. as soon as i had breakfasted the next morning i set off to mr turnbull's, and told him what had occurred. "it was indeed fortunate that the box was landed," said he, "or you might have now been in prison; i wish i had had nothing to do with it; but, as you say, `what's done can't be helped;' i will not give up the box, at all events, until i know which party is entitled to it, and i cannot help thinking that the lady is. but, jacob, you will have to reconnoitre, and find out what this story is. tell me, do you think you could remember the tune which he whistled so often?" "it has been running in my head the whole night, and i have been trying it all the way as i pulled here. i think i have it exact. hear, sir."--i whistled the two bars. "quite correct, jacob, quite correct; well, take care not to forget them. where are you going to-day?" "nowhere, sir." "suppose, then, you pull up the river, and find out the place where we landed, and when you have ascertained that, you can go on and see whether the young man is with the skiff; at all events you may find out something--but pray be cautious." i promised to be very careful, and departed on my errand, which i undertook with much pleasure, for i was delighted with anything like adventure. i pulled up the river, and in about an hour and a-quarter, came abreast of the spot. i recognised the cottage _ornee_, the parapet wall, even the spot where we lay, and perceived that several bricks were detached and had fallen into the river. there appeared to be no one stirring in the house, yet i continued to pull up and down, looking at the windows; at last one opened, and a young lady looked out, who, i was persuaded, was the same that we had seen the night before. there was no wind, and all was quiet around. she sat at the window, leaning her head on her hand. i whistled the two bars of the air. at the first bar she started up, and looked earnestly at me as i completed the second. i looked up; she waved her handkerchief once, and then shut the window. in a few seconds she made her appearance on the lawn, walking down towards the river. i immediately pulled in under the wall. i laid in my sculls, and held on, standing up in the boat. "who are you? and who sent you?" said she, looking down on me, and discovering one of the most beautiful faces i had ever beheld. "no one sent me ma'am," replied i, "but i was in the boat last night. i am sorry you were so unfortunate, but your box and cloak are quite safe." "you were one of the men in the boat. i trust no one was hurt when they fired at you?" "no ma'am." "and where is the box?" "in the house of the person who was with me." "can he be trusted? for they will offer large rewards for it." "i should think so, ma'am," replied i, smiling; "the person who was with me is a gentleman of large fortune, who was amusing himself on the river. he desires me to say that he will not give up the box until he knows to whom the contents legally belong." "good heavens, how fortunate! am i to believe you?" "i should hope so, ma'am." "and what are you, then? you are not a waterman?" "yes, ma'am, i am." she paused, looked earnestly at me for a little while, and then continued, "how did you learn the air you whistled?" "the young gentleman whistled it six or seven times last night before you came. i tried it this morning coming up, as i thought it would be the means of attracting your attention. can i be of any service to you, ma'am?" "service--yes, if i could be sure you were to be trusted--of the greatest service. i am confined here--cannot send a letter--watched as i move--only allowed the garden, and even watched while i walk here. they are most of them in quest of the tin box to-day, or i should not be able to talk to you so long." she looked round at the house anxiously, and then said, "stop here a minute, while i walk a little." she then retreated, and paced up and down the garden walk. i still remained under the wall, so as not to be perceived from the house. in about three or four minutes she returned and said, "it would be very cruel--it would be more than cruel--it would be very wicked of you to deceive me, for i am very unfortunate and very unhappy." the tears started in her eyes. "you do not look as if you would. what is your name?" "jacob faithful, ma'am, and i will be true to my name, if you will put your trust in me. i never deceived any one that i can recollect; and i'm sure i would not you--now that i've seen you." "yes, but money will seduce everybody." "not me, ma'am. i've as much as i wish for." "well, then, i will trust you, and think you sent from heaven to my aid; but how am i to see you? to-morrow my uncle will be back, and then i shall not be able to speak to you one moment, and if seen to speak to you, you will be laid in wait for, and perhaps shot." "well, ma'am," replied i, after a pause, "if you cannot speak, you can write. you see that the bricks on the parapet are loose here. put your letter under this brick--i can take it away even in day-time, without being noticed, and can put the answer in the same place, so that you can secure it when you come out." "how very clever! good heavens, what an excellent idea!" "was the young gentleman hurt, ma'am, in the scuffle last night?" inquired i. "no, i believe not much, but i wish to know where he is, to write to him; could you find out?" i told her where we had met him, and what had passed. "that was lady auburn's," replied she; "he is often there--she is our cousin but i don't know where he lives, and how to find him i know not. his name is william wharncliffe. do you think you could find him out?" "yes, ma'am, with a little trouble it might be done. they ought to know where he is at lady auburn's." "yes, some of the servants might--but how will you get to them?" "that, ma'am, i must find out. it may not be done in one day, or two days, but if you will look every morning under this brick, if there is anything to communicate you will find it there." "you can write and read, then?" "i should hope so, ma'am," replied i, laughing. "i don't know what to make of you. are you really a waterman?" "really, and--" she turned her head round at the noise of a window opening. "you must go--don't forget the brick;" and she disappeared. i shoved my wherry along by the side of the wall, so as to remain unperceived until i was clear of the frontage attached to the cottage; and then, taking my sculls, pulled into the stream; and as i was resolved to see if i could obtain any information at lady auburn's, i had to pass the garden again, having shoved my boat down the river instead of up, when i was under the wall. i perceived the young lady walking with a tall man by her side; he speaking very energetically, and using much gesticulation, she holding down her head. in another minute they were shut out from my sight. i was so much stricken with the beauty and sweetness of expression in the young lady's countenance that i was resolved to use my best exertions to be of service to her. in about an hour-and-a-half i had arrived at the villa, abreast of which we had met the young gentleman, and which the young lady had told me belonged to lady auburn. i could see no one in the grounds, nor indeed in the house. after watching a few minutes, i landed as near to the villa as i could, made fast the wherry, and walked round to the entrance. there was no lodge, but a servant's door at one side. i pulled the bell, having made up my mind how to proceed as i was walking up. the bell was answered by an old woman, who, in a snarling tone, asked me "what did i want?" "i am waiting below, with my boat, for mr wharncliffe; has he come yet?" "mr wharncliffe! no--he's not come; nor did he say that he would come; when did you see him?" "yesterday. is lady auburn at home?" "lady auburn--no; she went to town this morning; everybody goes to london now, that they may not see the flowers and green trees, i suppose." "but i suppose mr wharncliffe will come," continued i, "so i must wait for him." "you can do just as you like," replied the old woman, about to shut the gate in my face. "may i request a favour of you, ma'am, before you shut the gate--which is, to bring me a little water to drink, for the sun is hot, and i have had a long pull up here;" and i took out my handkerchief and wiped my face. "yes, i'll fetch you some," replied she, shutting the gate and going away. "this don't seem to answer very well," thought i to myself. the old woman returned, opened the gate, and handed me a mug of water. i drank some, thanked her, and returned the mug. "i am very tired," said i; "i should like to sit down and wait for the gentleman." "don't you sit down when you pull?" inquired the old woman. "yes," replied i. "then you must be tired of sitting, i should think, not of standing; at all events, if you want to sit, you can sit in your boat, and mind it at the same time." with this observation she shut the door upon me, and left me without any more comment. after this decided repulse on the part of the old woman, i had nothing to do but take her advice--viz., to go and look after my boat. i pulled down to mr turnbull's, and told him my good and bad fortune. it being late, he ordered me some dinner in his study, and we sat there canvassing over the affair. "well," said he, as we finished, "you must allow me to consider this as my affair, jacob, as i was the occasion of our getting mixed up in it. you must do all that you can to find this young man, and i shall hire stapleton's boat by the day until we succeed; you need not tell him so, or he may be anxious to know why. to-morrow you go down to old beazeley's?" "yes, sir; you cannot hire me to-morrow." "still i shall, as i want to see you to-morrow morning before you go. here's stapleton's money for yesterday and to-day and now good-night." i was at mr turnbull's early the next morning, and found him with the newspapers before him. "i expected this, jacob," said he; "read that advertisement." i read as follows:--"whereas, on friday night last, between the hours of nine and ten, a tin box, containing deeds and papers, was handed into a wherry from the grounds of a villa between brentford and kew, and the parties who owned it were prevented from accompanying the same. this is to give notice, that a reward of twenty pounds will be paid to the watermen, upon their delivering up the same to messrs. james and john white, of number 14 lincoln's inn fields. as no other parties are authorised to receive the said tin box of papers, all other applications for it must be disregarded. an early attention to this advertisement will oblige." "there must be papers of no little consequence in that box, jacob, depend upon it," said mr turnbull; "however, here they are, and here they shall remain until i know more about it; that's certain. i intend to try what i can do myself with the old woman, for i perceive the villa is to be let for three months--here is the advertisement in the last column. i shall go to town to-day, and obtain a ticket from the agent, and it is hard but i'll ferret out something. i shall see you to-morrow. now you may go, jacob." i hastened away, as i had promised to be down to old tom's to breakfast; an hour's smart pulling brought me to the landing-place, opposite to his house. chapter thirty three. a ten-pound householder occupied with affairs of state--the advantage of the word "implication"--an unexpected meeting and a reconciliation-resolution versus bright black eyes--verdict for the defendant, with heavy damages. the house of old tom beazeley was situated on the verge of battersea fields, about a mile-and-a-half from the bridge bearing the same name; the river about twenty yards before it--the green grass behind it, and not a tree within half-a-mile of it. there was nothing picturesque in it but its utter loneliness; it was not only lonely, but isolated, for it was fixed upon a delta of about half-an-acre, between two creeks, which joined at about forty yards from the river, and ran up through the fields, so that the house was at high water upon an island, and at low water was defended by an impassable barrier of mud, so that the advances to it could be made only from the river, where a small _hard_, edged with posts worn down to the conformation of decayed double-teeth, offered the only means of access. the house itself was one storey high; dark red bricks, and darker tiles upon the roof; windows very scarce and very small, although built long before the damnable tax upon light, for it was probably built in the time of elizabeth, to judge by the peculiarity of the style of architecture observable in the chimneys; but it matters very little at what epoch was built a tenement which was rented at only ten pounds per annum. the major part of the said island was stocked with cabbage plants; but on one side there was half a boat set upright, with a patch of green before it. at the time that old beazeley hired it there was a bridge rudely constructed of old ship plank, by which you could gain a path which led across the battersea fields; but as all the communications of old tom were by water, and mrs beazeley never ventured over the bridge, it was gradually knocked away for firewood, and when it was low-water, one old post, redolent of mud, marked the spot where the bridge had been. the interior was far more inviting. mrs beazeley was a clean person and frugal housewife, and every article in the kitchen, which was the first room you entered, was as clean and as bright as industry could make it. there was a parlour also, seldom used; both of the inmates, when they did meet, which was not above a day or two in three weeks, during the time that old beazeley was in charge of the lighter, preferring comfort to grandeur. in this isolated house, upon this isolated spot, did mrs beazeley pass a life of most isolation. and yet, perhaps there never was a more lively or a more happy woman than mrs beazeley, for she was strong and in good health, and always employed. she knew that her husband was following up his avocation on the river, and laying by a provision for their old age, which she herself was adding considerably to it by her own exertions. she had married old tom long before he had lost his legs, at a time when he was a prime, active sailor, and the best man of the ship. she was a net-maker's daughter, and had been brought up to the business, at which she was very expert. the most difficult part of the art is that of making large _seines_ for taking sea-fish; and when she had no order for those to complete, the making of casting-nets beguiled away her time as soon as her household cares had been disposed of. she made money and husbanded it, not only for herself and her partner, but for her son, young tom, upon whom she doted. so accustomed was she to work hard and be alone that it was most difficult to say whether she was most pleased or most annoyed when her husband and son made their appearance for a day or two, and the latter was alternately fondled and scolded during the whole of his sojourn. tom, as the reader may suppose from a knowledge of his character, caring about as much for the one as the other. i pulled into the _hard_, and made fast my boat. there was no one outside the door when i landed; on entering, i found them all seated at the table, and a grand display of fragments, in the shape of herring-bones, etcetera. "well, jacob--come at last--thought you had forgot us; piped to breakfast at eight bells--always do, you know," said old tom, on my making my appearance. "have you had your breakfast, jacob?" said mrs beazeley. "no," replied i; "i was obliged to go up to mr turnbull's, and that detained me." "no more sodgers, jacob," said tom; "father and i eat them all." "have you?" replied mrs beazeley, taking two more red herrings out of the cupboard, and putting them on the fire to grill; "no, no, master tom, there's some for jacob yet." "well, mother, you make nets to some purpose, for you've always a fish when it's wanted." i despatched my breakfast, and as soon as all had been cleared away by his wife, old tom, crossing his two timber legs, commenced business, for it appeared, what i was not aware of, that we had met on a sort of council-of-war. "jacob, sit down by me; old woman, bring yourself to an anchor in the high chair. tom, sit anywhere, so you sit still." "and leave my net alone, tom," cried his mother, in parenthesis.--"you see, jacob, the whole long and short of it is this--i feel my toes more and more, and flannel's no longer warm. i can't tide it any longer, and i think it high time to lie up in ordinary and moor abreast of the old woman. now, there's tom, in the first place, what's to do with he? i think that i'll build him a wherry, and as i'm free of the river he can finish his apprenticeship with my name on the boat; but to build him a wherry would be rather a heavy pull for me." "if you mean to build it yourself, i think it will prove a _heavy pull_ for me," replied tom. "silence, tom; i built you, and god knows you're light enough." "and, tom, leave my net alone," cried his mother. "father made me light-fingered, mother." "ay, and light-hearted too, boy," rejoined the dame, looking fondly at her son. "well," continued old tom, "supposing that tom be provided for in that way; then now i comes to myself. i've an idea that i can do a good bit of work in patching up boats; for you see i always was a bit of a carpenter, and i know how the builders extortionate the poor watermen when there's a trifle amiss. now, if they knew i could do it, they'd all come to me fast enough; but then there's a puzzle. i've been thinking this week how i can make them know it. i can't put out a board and say, beazeley, _boat-builder_, because i'm no boatbuilder, but still i want a sign." "lord, father, haven't you got one already?" interrupted young tom; "you've half a boat stuck up there, and that means that you're half a boat-builder." "silence, tom, with your frippery; what do you think. jacob?" "could you not say, `boats repaired here?'" "yes, but that won't exactly do; they like to employ a builder--and there's the puzzle." "not half so puzzling as this net," observed tom, who had taken up the needle, unseen by his mother, and begun to work; "i've made only ten stitches, and six of them are long ones." "tom, tom, you good-for-nothing--why don't you let my net alone?" cried mrs beazeley; "now 'twill take me as much time to undo ten stitches as to have made fifty." "all right, mother." "no, tom, all's wrong; look at these meshes?" "well, then, all's fair, mother." "no, all's foul, boy; look how it's tangled." "still, i say, all's fair, mother, for it is but fair to give the fish one or two chances to get away, and that's just what i've done; and now, father, i'll settle your affair to your own satisfaction, as i have mother's." "that will be queer satisfaction, tom, i guess; but let's hear what you have to say." "then, father, it seems that you're no boat-builder, but you want people to fancy that you are--a'n't that the question?" "why, 'tis something like it, tom, but i do nobody no harm." "certainly not; it's only the boats which will suffer. now, get a large board, with `boats _built to order_, and boats repaired, by tom beazeley.' you know if any man is fool enough to order a boat, that's his concern; you didn't say you're a boat-builder, although you have no objection to try your hand." "what do you say jacob?" said old tom, appealing to me. "i think that tom has given very good advice, and i would follow it." "ah! tom has a head," said mrs beazeley, fondly. "tom, let go my net again, will you? what a boy you are! now touch it again if you dare," and mrs beazeley took up a little poker from the fire-place and shook it at him. "tom has a head, indeed," said young tom, "but as he has no wish to have it broken, jacob, lend me your wherry for half-an-hour, and i'll be off." i assented, and tom, first tossing the cat upon his mother's back, made his escape, crying: "lord, molly, what a fish--" as the animal fixed in its claws to save herself from falling, making mrs beazeley roar out and vow vengeance, while old tom and i could not refrain from laughter. after tom's departure the conversation was renewed, and everything was finally arranged between old tom and his wife, except the building of the wherry, at which the old woman shook her head. the debate would be too long, and not sufficiently interesting to detail; one part, however, i must make the reader acquainted with. after entering into all the arrangements of the house, mrs beazeley took me upstairs to show me the rooms, which were very neat and clean. i came down with her, and old tom said, "did the old woman show you the room with the white curtains, jacob?" "yes," replied i, "and a very nice one it is." "well, jacob, there's nothing sure in this world. you're well off at present, and `leave well alone' is a good motto; but recollect this, that room is for you when you want it, and everything else we can share with you. it's offered freely, and you will accept it the same. is it not, old lady?" "yes, that it is, jacob; but may you do better--if not, i'll be your mother for want of a better." i was moved with the kindness of the old couple; the more so as i did not know what i had done to deserve it. old tom gave me a hearty squeeze of the hand, and then continued--"but about this wherry--what do you say, old woman?" "what will it cost?" replied she, gravely. "cost; let me see--a good wherry, with sculls and oars, will be a matter of thirty pounds." the old woman screwed up her mouth, shook her head, and then walked away to prepare for dinner. "i think she could muster the blunt, jacob, but she don't like to part with it. tom must coax her. i wish he hadn't shied the cat at her. he's too full of fun." as old beazeley finished, i perceived a wherry pulling in with some ladies. i looked attentively, and recognised my own boat, and tom pulling. in a minute more they were at the _hard_, and who, to my astonishment, were there seated, but mrs drummond and sarah. as tom got out of the boat and held it steady against the _hard_, he called to me; i could not do otherwise than go and assist them out; and once more did i touch the hands of those whom i never thought to meet again. mrs drummond retained my hand a short time after she landed, saying, "we are friends, jacob, are we not!" "oh, yes, madam," replied i, much moved, in a faltering voice. "i shall not ask that question," said sarah, gaily, "for we parted friends." and as i recalled to mind her affectionate behaviour, i pressed her hand, and the tears glistened in my eyes as i looked into her sweet face. as i afterwards discovered, this was an arranged plan with old and young tom, to bring about a meeting without my knowledge. mrs beazeley courtesied and stroked her apron--smiled at the ladies, looked very _cat_-ish at tom, showed the ladies into the house, where old tom assisted to do the honours after his own fashion, by asking mrs drummond if she would like to _whet her whistle_ after her _pull_. mrs drummond looked round to me for explanation, but young tom thought proper to be interpreter. "father wants to know, if you please, ma'am, whether, after your _pull_ in the boat, you wouldn't like to have a _pull_ at the brandy bottle?" "no," replied mrs drummond, smiling; "but i should be obliged for a glass of water. will you get me one, jacob?" i hastened to comply, and mrs drummond entered into conversation with mrs beazeley. sarah looked at me, and went to the door, turning back as inviting me to follow. i did so, and we soon found ourselves seated on the bench in the old boat. "jacob," said she, looking earnestly at me, "you surely will be friends with _my_ father?" i think i should have shaken my head, but she laid an emphasis on _my_, which the little gipsy knew would have its effect. all my resolutions, all my pride, all my sense of injury vanished before the mild, beautiful eyes of sarah, and i replied hastily, "yes, miss sarah, i can refuse _you_ nothing." "why _miss_, jacob?" "i am a waterman, and you are much above me." "that is your own fault; but say no more about it." "i must say something more, which is this: do not attempt to make me leave my present employment; i am happy, because i am independent; and that i will, if possible, be for the future." "any one can pull an oar, jacob." "very true, miss sarah, and is under no obligation to any one by so earning his livelihood. he works for all and is paid for all." "will you come and see us, jacob? come to-morrow--now do--promise me. will you refuse your old playmate, jacob?" "i wish you would not ask that." "how then can you say that you are friends with my father? i will not believe you unless you promise to come." "sarah," replied i, earnestly, "i will come; and to prove to you that we are friends, i will ask a favour of him." "oh, jacob, this is kind indeed," cried sarah, with her eyes swimming with tears. "you have made me so--so very happy!" the meeting with sarah humanised me, and every feeling of revenge was chased from my memory. mrs drummond joined us soon after, and proposed to return. "and jacob will pull us back," cried sarah. "come, sir, look after your _fare_, in both senses. since you will be a waterman, you shall work." i laughed and handed them to the boat. tom took the other oar, and we were soon at the steps close to their house. "mamma, we ought to give these poor fellows something to drink; they've worked very hard," said sarah, mocking. "come up, my good men." i hesitated. "nay, jacob, if tomorrow why not to-day? the sooner these things are over the better." i felt the truth of this observation, and followed her. in a few minutes i was again in that parlour in which i had been dismissed, and in which the affectionate girl burst into tears on my shoulder, as i held the handle of the door. i looked at it, and looked at sarah. mrs drummond had gone out of the room to let mr drummond know that i had come. "how kind you were, sarah!" said i. "yes, but kind people are cross sometimes, and so am i--and so was--" mr drummond came in, and stopped her. "jacob, i am glad to see you again in my house; i was deceived by appearances, and did you injustice." how true is the observation of the wise man, that a soft word turneth away wrath; that mr drummond should personally acknowledge that he was wrong to me--that he should confess it--every feeling of resentment was gone, and others crowded in their place. i recollected how he had protected the orphan--how he had provided him with instruction--how he had made _his_ house a home to me--how he had tried to bring me forward under his own protection i recollected--which, alas! i never should have forgotten--that he had treated me for years with kindness and affection, all of which had been obliterated from my memory by one single act of injustice. i felt that i was a culprit, and burst into tears; and sarah, as before, cried in sympathy. "i beg your pardon, mr drummond," said i, as soon as i could speak; "i have been very wrong in being so revengeful after so much kindness from you." "we both have been wrong--but say no more on the subject, jacob; i have an order to give, and then i will come up to you again;" and mr drummond quitted the room. "you dear, good boy," said sarah, coming up to me. "now, i really do love you." what i might have replied was put a stop to by mrs drummond entering the room. she made a few inquiries about where i at present resided, and sarah was catechising me rather inquisitively about mary stapleton, when mr drummond re-entered the room, and shook me by the hand with a warmth which made me more ashamed of my conduct towards him. the conversation became general, but still rather embarrassed, when sarah whispered to me "what is the favour you would ask of my father?" i had forgotten it at the moment, but i immediately told him that i would be obliged if he would allow me to have a part of the money belonging to me which he held in his possession. "that i will, with pleasure, and without asking what you intend to do with it, jacob. how much do you require?" "thirty pounds, if there is so much." mr drummond went down, and in a few minutes returned with the sum in notes and guineas. i thanked him, and shortly afterwards took my leave. "did not young beazeley tell you i had something for you, jacob?" said sarah, as i wished her good-bye. "yes; what is it?" "you must come and see," replied sarah, laughing. thus was a finale to all my revenge brought about by a little girl of fifteen years old, with large dark eyes. tom had taken his glass of grog below, and was waiting for me at the steps. we shoved off, and returned to his father's house, where dinner was just ready. after dinner old tom recommenced the argument; "the only hitch," says he, "is about the wherry. what do you say, old woman?" the old woman shook her head. "as that is the only hitch," said i, "i can remove it, for here is the money for the wherry, which i make a present to tom," and i put the money into young tom's hand. tom counted it out before his father and mother, much to their astonishment. "you are a good fellow, jacob," said tom; "but i say, do you recollect wimbledon common?" "what then?" replied i. "only jerry abershaw, that's all." "do not be afraid, tom, it is honestly mine." "but how did you get it, jacob," said old tom. it may appear strange, but, impelled by a wish to serve my friends, i had asked for the money which i knew belonged to me, but never thought of the manner in which it had been obtained. the question of old tom recalled everything to my memory, and i shuddered when i recollected the circumstances attending it. i was confused, and did not like to reply. "be satisfied, the money is mine," replied i. "yes, jacob, but how?" replied mrs beazeley; "surely you ought to be able to tell how you got so large a sum." "jacob has some reason for not telling, missus, depend upon it; mayhap mr turnbull, or whoever gave it to him, told him to hold his tongue." but this answer would not satisfy mrs beazeley, who declared she would not allow a farthing to be taken unless she knew how it was obtained. "tom, give back the money directly," said she, looking at me suspiciously. tom laid it on the table before me, without saying a word. "take it, tom," said i, colouring up. "i had it from my mother." "from your mother, jacob!" said old tom. "nay, that could not well be, if my memory sarves me right. still it may be." "deary me, i don't like this at all," cried mrs beazeley, getting up, and wiping her apron with a quick motion. "oh, jacob, that must be--not the truth." i coloured up to the tips of my ears at being suspected of falsehood. i looked round, and saw that even tom and his father had a melancholy doubt in their countenances; and certainly my confused appearance would have caused suspicion in anybody. "i little thought," said i, at last, "when i hoped to have so much pleasure in giving, and to find that i had made you happy in receiving the money, that it would have proved a source of so much annoyance. i perceive that i am suspected of having obtained it improperly, and of not having told the truth. that mrs beazeley may think so, who does not know me, is not to be wondered at; but that you," continued i, turning to old tom, "or you," looking at his son, "should suspect me, is very mortifying; and i did not expect it. i tell you that the money is mine, honestly mine, and obtained from my mother. i ask you, do you believe me?" "i, for one, do believe you, jacob," said young tom, striking his fist on the table. "i can't understand it, but i know you never told a lie, or did a dishonourable act since i've known you." "thank you, tom," said i, taking his proffered hand. "and i would swear the same, jacob," said old tom; "although i have been longer in the world than my boy has, and have, therefore, seen more; and sorry am i to say, many a good man turned bad, from temptation being too great; but when i looked in your face, and saw the blood up to your forehead, i did feel a little suspicious, i must own; but i beg your pardon, jacob; no one can look in your face now and not see that you are innocent. i believe all you say, in spite of the old woman and--the devil to boot--and there's my hand upon it." "why not tell--why not tell?" muttered mrs beazeley, shaking her head, and working at her net faster than ever. but i had resolved to tell, and did so, narrating distinctly the circumstances by which the money had been obtained. i did it, however, with feelings of mortification which i cannot express. i felt humiliation--i felt that, for my own wants, that money i never could touch. still my explanation had the effect of removing the doubts even of mrs beazeley, and harmony was restored. the money was accepted by the old couple, and promised to be applied for the purpose intended. "as for me, jacob," said tom, "when i say i thank you, you know i mean it. had i had the money, and you had wanted it, you will believe me when i say that i would have given it to you." "that i'm sure of, tom." "still, jacob, it is a great deal of money, and i shall lay by my earnings as fast as i can, that you may have it in case you want it; but it will take many a heavy pull and many a shirt wet with labour before i can make up a sum like that." i did not stay much longer after this little fracas; i was hurt--my pride was wounded by suspicion, and fortunate it was that the occurrence had not taken place previous to my meeting with mrs drummond and sarah, otherwise no reconciliation would have taken place in that quarter. how much are we the sport of circumstances, and how insensibly they mark out our career in this world? with the best intentions we go wrong; instigated by unworthy motives, we fall upon our feet, and the chapter of accidents has more power over the best regulated mind than all the chapters in the bible. chapter thirty four. how i was revenged upon my enemies--we try the bars of music but find that we are barred out--being no go, we go back. i shook hands with tom, who perceiving that i was vexed, had accompanied me down to the boat, with his usual sympathy, and had offered to pull with me to fulham, and walk back; which offer i declined, as i wished to be alone. it was a fine moonlight night, and the broad light and shadow, with the stillness of all around, were peculiarly adapted to my feelings. i continued my way up the river, revolving in my mind the scenes of the day; the reconciliation with one whom i never intended to have spoken to again; the little quarrel with those whom i never expected to have been at variance with, and that at the time when i was only exerting myself to serve them; and then i thought of sarah, as an oasis of real happiness in this contemplated desert, and dwelt upon the thought of her as the most pleasant and calming to my still agitated mind. thus did i ruminate till i had passed putney bridge, forgetting that i was close to my landing place, and continuing, in my reverie, to pull up the river, when my cogitations were disturbed by a noise of men laughing and talking, apparently in a state of intoxication. they were in a four-oared wherry, coming down the river, after a party of pleasure, as it is termed, generally one ending in intoxication, i listened. "i tell you i can spin an oar with any man in the king's service," said the man in the bow, "now look." he threw his oar out of the rowlocks, spun it in the air, but unfortunately did not catch it when it fell, and consequently it went through the bottom, starting two of the planks of the fragile-built boat, which immediately filled with water. "hilloa! waterman!" cried another, perceiving me, "quick, or we shall sink." but the boat was nearly up to the thwarts in water before i could reach her, and just as i was nearly alongside she filled and turned over. "help, waterman; help me first; i'm senior clerk," cried a voice which i well knew. i put out my oar to him as he struggled in the water, and soon had him clinging to the wherry. i then tried to catch hold of the man who had sunk the boat by his attempt to toss the oar, but he very quietly said, "no, damn it, there's too many; we shall swamp the wherry; i'll swim on shore"--and suiting the action to the word, he made for the shore with perfect self-possession, swimming in his clothes with great ease and dexterity. i picked up two more, and thought that all were saved, when turning round, and looking towards the bridge, i saw resplendent in the bright beams of the moon, and "round as its orb," the well-remembered face of the stupid young clerk who had been so inimical to me, struggling with all his might. i pulled to him, and putting out my oar over the bow, he seized it after rising from his first sink, and was, with the other three, soon clinging to the side of the wherry. "pull me in--pull me in, waterman!" cried the head clerk, whose voice i had recognised. "no; you will swamp the boat." "well, but pull me in, if not the others. i'm the senior clerk." "can't help that; you must hold on," replied i, "while i pull you on shore; we shall soon be there." i must say that i felt a pleasure in allowing him thus to hang in the water. i might have taken them all in certainly, although at some risk, from their want of presence of mind and hurry, arising from the feeling of self-preservation; but i desired them to hold on, and pulled for the landing-place; which we soon gained. the person who had preferred swimming had arrived before us, and was waiting on the beach. "have you got them all, waterman?" said he. "yes, sir, i believe so; i have four." "the tally is right," replied he, "and four greater galloots were never picked up; but never mind that. it was my nonsense that nearly drowned them; and, therefore, i'm very glad you've managed so well. my jacket went down in the boat, and i must reward you another time." "thank you, sir, no occasion for that, it's not a regular fare." "nevertheless, give us your name." "oh, you may ask mr hodgson, the senior clerk, or that full-moon-faced fellow--they know my name." "waterman, what do you mean?" replied mr hodgson, shivering with cold. "very impudent fellow," said the junior of the round face. "if they know your name, they won't tell it," replied the other. "now, i'll first tell you mine, which is lieutenant wilson, of the navy; and now let's have yours, that i may ask for it; and tell me what stairs you ply from." "my name is jacob faithful, sir," replied i; "and you may ask your friends whether they know it or not when their teeth don't chatter quite so much." at the mention of my name the senior and junior clerk walked off, and the lieutenant, telling me that i should hear from him again, was about to leave. "if you mean to give me money, sir, i tell you candidly i shall not take it. i hate these two men for the injuries they have heaped on me; but i don't know how it is, i feel a degree of pleasure in having saved them, that i wish for no better revenge. so farewell, sir." "spoken as you ought, my lad--that's glorious revenge. well, then, i will not come; but if ever we meet again i shall never forget this night and jacob faithful." he held out his hand, shook mine warmly, and walked away. when they were gone, i remained for some little time quite stupified at the events of the day. the reconciliation--the quarrel--the revenge. i was still in thought when i heard the sound of a horse's hoofs. this recalled me, and i was hauling up my boat, intending to go home to stapleton's; but with no great eagerness. i felt a sort of dislike to mary stapleton, which i could not account for; but the fact was i had been in company with sarah drummond. the horse stopped at the foot of the bridge; and the rider giving it to his servant, who was mounted on another, to hold, came down to where i was hauling up my boat. "my lad, is it too late for you to launch your boat? i will pay you well." "where do you wish to go to, sir? it is now past ten o'clock." "i know it is, and i hardly expected to find a waterman here; but i took the chance. will you take me about two miles up the river?" i looked at the person who addressed me, and was delighted to recognise in him the young man who had hired mr turnbull and me to take him to the garden, and who had been captured when we escaped with the tin box; but i did not make myself known. "well, sir, if you wish it, i've no objection," replied i, putting my shoulder to the bow of my wherry, and launching her again into the water. at all events, this has been a day of adventure, thought i, as i threw my sculls again into the water, and commenced pulling up the stream. i was some little while in meditation whether i should make myself known to the young man; but i decided that i would not. let me see, thought i, what sort of a person this is-whether he is as deserving as the young lady appeared to consider. "which side, sir?" inquired i. "the left," was the reply. i knew that well enough, and i pulled in silence until nearly up to the wall of the garden which ran down to the band of the river. "now pull in to that wall, and make no noise," was the injunction; which i obeyed, securing the boat to the very part where the coping bricks had been displaced. he stood up, and whistled the two bars of the tune as before, waited five minutes, repeated it, and watched the windows of the house; but there was no reply, or signs of anybody being up or stirring. "it is too late; she is gone to rest." "i thought there was a lady in the case, sir," observed i. "if you wish to communicate with her, i think i could manage it." "could you?" replied he. "stop a moment; i'll speak to you by-and-by." he whistled the tune once more, and after waiting another ten minutes, dropped himself down on the stern sheets, and told me to pull back again. after a minute's silence he said to me, "you think you could communicate with her, you say. pray, how do you propose?" "if you will write a letter, sir, i'll try to let it come to her hand." "how?" "that, sir, you must leave me to find out, and trust to opportunity; but you must tell me what sort of a person she is, that i may not give it to another; and also, who there is in the house that i must be careful does not see me." "very true," replied he. "i can only say that if you do succeed, i will reward you handsomely; but she is so strictly watched that i am afraid it will be impossible. however, a despairing, like a drowning man, will catch at a straw; and i will see whether you will be able to assist me." he then informed me that there was no one in the house except her uncle and his servants, all of whom were spies upon her; that my only chance was watching if she were permitted to walk in the garden alone, which might be the case; and perhaps, by concealing myself from eight o'clock in the morning till the evening under the parapet wall, i might find an opportunity. he directed me to be at the foot of the bridge next morning at seven o'clock, when he would come with a letter written for me to deliver, if possible. we had then arrived at fulham. he landed, and putting a guinea in my hand, mounted his horse, which his servant [had] walked up and down, waiting for him, and rode off. i hauled up my boat and went home, tired with the manifold events of the day. mary stapleton who had sat up for me, was very inquisitive to know what had occasioned my coming home so late; but i evaded her questions, and she left me in anything but good-humour; but about that i never felt so indifferent. the next morning the servant made his appearance with the letter, telling me that he had orders to wait till the evening; and i pulled up the river. i placed it under the loose brick, as agreed upon with the young lady, and then shoved off to the other side of the river, where i had a full view of the garden, and could notice all that passed. in half-an-hour the young lady came out, accompanied by another female, and sauntered up and down the gravel-walk. after a while she stopped, and looked on the river, her companion continuing her promenade. as if without hoping to find anything there, she moved the brick aside with her foot; perceiving the letter, she snatched it up eagerly, and concealed it in her dress, and then cast her eyes on the river. it was calm, and i whistled the bar of music. she heard it, and turning away, hastened into the house. in about half-an-hour she returned, and watching her opportunity, stooped down to the brick. i waited a few minutes, when both she and her companion went into the house. i then pulled in under the wall, lifted up the brick, took the letter, and hastened back to fulham; when i delivered the letter to the servant, who rode off with it as fast as he could; and i returned home quite pleased at the successful issue of my attempt, and not a little curious to learn the real facts of this extraordinary affair. chapter thirty five. the dominie reads me a sermon out of the largest book i ever fell in with, covering nearly two acres of ground--the pages not very easy to turn over, but the type very convenient to read without spectacles--he leaves off without shutting his book, as parsons usually do at the end of their sermons. the next day being sunday, as usual i went to see the dominie and mr turnbull. i arrived at the school just as all the boys were filing off, two and two, for church, the advance led by the usher, and the rear brought up by the dominie in person, and i accompanied them. the dominie appeared melancholy and out of spirits--hardly exchanging a word with me during our walk. when the service was over he ordered the usher to take the boys home, and remained with me in the churchyard, surveying the tombstones, and occasionally muttering to himself. at last the congregation dispersed, and we were alone. "little did i think, jacob," said he, at last, "that when i bestowed such care upon thee in thy childhood, i should be rewarded as i have been! little did i think that it would be to the boy who was left destitute that i should pour out my soul when afflicted, and find in him that sympathy which i have long lost, by the removal of those who were once my friends! yes, jacob, those who were known to me in my youth-those few in whom i confided and leant upon--are now lying here in crumbling dust, and the generation hath passed away; and i now rest upon thee, my son, whom i have directed in the right path, and who hast, by the blessing of god, continued to walk straight in it. verily, thou art a solace to me, jacob; and though young in years, i feel that in thee i have received a friend, and one that i may confide in. bless thee, jacob! bless thee, my boy! and before i am laid with those who have gone before me, may i see thee prosperous and happy! then i will sing the _nunc dimittis_, then will i say, `now, lord, let thy servant depart in peace.'" "i am happy, sir," replied i, "to hear you say that i am of any comfort to you, for i feel truly grateful for all your kindness to me; but i wish that you did not require comfort." "jacob, in what part of a man's life does he not require comfort and consolation; yea, even from the time when, as a child, he buries his weeping face in his mother's lap till the hour that summons him to his account? not that i consider this world to be, as many have described it, a `vale of tears'; no, jacob; it is a beautiful world, a glorious world, and would be a happy world, if we would only restrain those senses and those passions with which we have been endowed, that we may fully enjoy the beauty, the variety, the inexhaustible bounty of a gracious heaven. all was made for enjoyment and for happiness; but it is we ourselves who, by excess, defile that which otherwise were pure. thus, the fainting traveller may drink wholesome and refreshing draughts from the bounteous, overflowing spring; but should he rush heedlessly into it, he muddies the source, and the waters are those of bitterness. thus, jacob, was wine given to cheer the heart of man; yet, didst not thou witness me, thy preceptor, debased by intemperance? thus, jacob, were the affections implanted in us as a source of sweetest happiness, such as those which now yearn in my breast towards thee; yet hast thou seen me, thy preceptor, by yielding to the infatuation and imbecility of threescore years, dote, in my folly, upon a maiden, and turn the sweet affections into a source of misery and anguish." i answered not, for the words of the dominie made a strong impression upon me, and i was weighing them in my mind. "jacob," continued the dominie, after a pause, "next to the book of life, there is no subject of contemplation more salutary than the book of death, of which each stone now around us may be considered as a page, and each page contains a lesson. read that which is now before us. it would appear hard that an only child should have been torn away from its doting parents, who have thus imperfectly expressed their anguish on the tomb; it would appear hard that their delight, their solace, the object of their daily care, of their waking thoughts, of their last imperfect recollections as they sank into sleep, of their only dreams, should thus have been taken from them; yet did i know them, and heaven was just and merciful. the child had weaned them from their god; they lived but in him; they were without god in the world. the child alone had their affections, and they had been lost had not he in his mercy removed it. come this way, jacob." i followed the dominie till he stood before another tombstone in the corner of the churchyard. "this stone, jacob, marks the spot where lies the remains of one who was my earliest and dearest friend--for in my youth i had friends, because i had anticipations, and little thought that it would have pleased god that i should do my duty in that station to which i have been called. he had one fault, which proved a source of misery through life, and was the cause of an untimely death. he was of a revengeful disposition. he never forgave an injury, forgetting, poor, sinful mortal, for how much he had need to be forgiven. he quarrelled with his relations; he was shot in a duel with his friend! i mention this, jacob, as a lesson to thee; not that i feel myself worthy to be thy preceptor, for i am humbled, but out of kindness and love towards thee, that i might persuade thee to correct that fault in thy disposition." "i have already made friends with mr drummond, sir," answered i; "but still your admonition shall not be thrown away." "hast thou, jacob? then is my mind much relieved. i trust thou wilt no longer stand in thine own light, but accept the offers which, in the fulness of his heart to make redress, he may make unto thee." "nay, sir, i cannot promise that; i wish to be independent and earn my own livelihood." "then hear me, jacob, for the spirit of prophecy is on me; the time will come when thou shalt bitterly repent. thou hast received an education by my unworthy endeavours, and hast been blessed by providence with talents far above the situation in life to which thou wouldst so tenaciously adhere; the time will come when thou wilt repent, yea, bitterly repent. look at that marble monument with the arms so lavishly emblazoned upon it. that, jacob, is the tomb of a proud man, whose career is well known to me. he was in straitened circumstances, yet of gentle race--but like the steward in the scripture, `work he could not, to beg he was ashamed.' he might have prospered in the world, but his pride forbade him. he might have made friends, but his pride forbade him. he might have wedded himself to wealth and beauty, but there was no escutcheon, and his pride forbade him. he did marry, and entail upon his children poverty. he died, and the little he possessed was taken from his children's necessities to build this record to his dust. do not suppose that i would check that honest pride which will prove a safeguard from unworthy actions. i only wish to check that undue pride which will mar thy future prospects. jacob, that which thou termest _independence_ is naught but pride." i could not acknowledge that i agreed with the dominie, although something in my breast told me that he was not wrong. i made no answer. the dominie again spoke. "yes; it is a beautiful world for the spirit of god is on it. at the separation of chaos it came over the water, and hath since remained with us, everywhere, but invisible. we see his hand in the variety and the beauty of creation, but his spirit we see not; yet do we feel it in the still small voice of conscience, which would lead us into the right path. now, jacob, we must return, for i have the catechism and collects to attend to." i took leave of the dominie, and went to mr turnbull's, to whom i gave an account of what had passed since i last saw him. he was much pleased with my reconciliation with the drummonds, and interested about the young lady to whom appertained the tin box in his possession. "i presume, jacob, we shall now have that mystery cleared up." "i have not told the gentleman that we have possession of the box," replied i. "no; but you told the young lady, you silly fellow; and do you think she will keep it a secret from him?" "very true; i had forgotten that." "jacob, i wish you to go to mr drummond's and see his family again; you ought to do so." i hesitated. "nay, i shall give you a fair opportunity without wounding that pride of yours, sir," replied mr turnbull; "i owe him for some wine he purchased for me, and i shall send the cheque by you." to this i assented, as i was not sorry of an opportunity of seeing sarah. i dined with mr turnbull, who was alone, his wife being on a visit to a relation in the country. he again offered me his advice as to giving up the profession of a waterman; but if i did not hear him with so much impatience as before, nor use so many arguments against it, i did not accede to his wishes, and the subject was dropped. mr turnbull was satisfied that my resistance was weakened, and hoped in time to have the effect that he desired. when i went home mary told me that tom beazeley had been there, that his wherry was building, that his father had given up the lighter, and was now on shore very busy in getting up his board to attract customers, and obtain work in his new occupation. i had not launched my wherry the next morning when down came the young gentleman to whom i had despatched the letter. "faithful," said he, "come to the tavern with me; i must have some conversation with you." i followed him, and as soon as we were in a room, he said, "first, let me pay my debt, for i owe you much;" and he laid five guineas on the table. "i find from cecilia that you have possession of the tin case of deeds which has been so eagerly sought after by both parties. why did you not say so? and why did you not tell me that it was you whom i hired on the night when i was so unfortunate?" "i considered the secret as belonging to the young lady, and having told her, i left it to her discretion to make you acquainted or not as she pleased." "it was thoughtful and prudent of you, at all events, although there was no occasion for it. nevertheless, i am pleased that you did so, as it proves you to be trustworthy. now, tell me, who is the gentleman who was with you in the boat, and who has charge of the box? observe, faithful, i do not intend to demand it. i shall tell him the facts of the case in your presence, and then leave him to decide whether he will surrender up the papers to the other party or to me. can you take me there now?" "yes, sir," replied i, "i can, if you please; i will pull you up in half an hour. the house is at the river's side." the young gentleman leaped into my wherry, and we were soon in the parlour of mr turnbull. i will not repeat the conversation in detail, but give an outline of the young man's story. chapter thirty six. a long story, which ends in the opening of the tin box, which proves to contain deeds much more satisfactory to mr. wharncliffe than the deeds of his uncle--begin to feel the blessings of independence, and suspect that i have acted like a fool--after two years' consideration, i become quite sure of it, and, as tom says, "no mistake." "the gentleman who prevented my taking off the young lady is uncle to both of us. we are, therefore, first cousins. our family name is wharncliffe. my father was a major in the army. he died when i was young, and my mother is still alive, and is sister to lady auburn. the father and mother of cecilia are both dead. he went out to india to join his brother, another uncle, of whom i shall speak directly. he has now been dead three years, and out of the four brothers there is only one left, my uncle; with whom cecilia is living, and whose christian name is henry. he was a lawyer by profession, but he purchased a patent place, which he still enjoys. my father, whose name was william, died in very moderate circumstances; but still he left enough for my mother to live upon, and to educate me properly. i was brought up to the law under my uncle henry, with whom, for some years, i resided. cecilia's father, whose name was edward, left nothing; he had ruined himself in england, and had gone out to india at the request of my uncle there, whose name was james, and who had amassed a large fortune. soon after the death of cecilia's father, my uncle james came home on furlough, for he held a very high and lucrative situation under the company. a bachelor from choice, he was still fond of young people; and having but one nephew and one niece to leave his money to, as soon as he arrived with cecilia, whom he brought with him, he was most anxious to see me. he therefore took up his quarters with my uncle henry, and remained with him during his sojourn in england; but my uncle james was of a very cold and capricious temper. he liked me best because i was a boy, and one day declared i should be his heir. the next day he would alter his intention, and declare that cecilia, of whom he was very fond, should inherit everything. if we affronted him, for at the age of sixteen as a boy, and fourteen as a girl, worldly prospects were little regarded, he would then declare that we should not be a shilling the better for his money. with him money was everything: it was his daily theme of conversation, his only passion; and he valued and respected people in proportion to what they were supposed to possess. with these feelings he demanded for himself the greatest deference from cecilia and me, as his expectant heirs. this he did not receive; but on the whole he was pleased with us, and after remaining three years in england, he returned to the east indies. i had heard him mention to my uncle henry his intention of making his will, and leaving it with him before he sailed; but i was not certain whether it had been done or not. at all events, my uncle henry took care that i should not be in the way; for at that time my uncle carried on his profession as a lawyer, and i was working in his office. it was not until after my uncle james returned to india that he gave up business and purchased the patent place which i mentioned. cecilia was left with my uncle henry, and as we lived in the same house, our affections, as we grew up, ripened into love. we often used to laugh at the threats of my uncle james, and agreed that whoever might be the fortunate one to whom he left his property, we would go halves, and share it equally. "in the meantime i still followed up my profession in another house, in which i at present am a partner. four years after the return of my uncle james to india news came home of his death; but it was also stated that no will could be found, and it was supposed that he died intestate. of course my uncle henry succeeded as heir-at-law to the whole property, and thus were the expectations and hopes of cecilia and of myself dashed to the ground. but this was not the worst of it: my uncle, who had witnessed our feelings for each other, and had made no comment, as soon as he was in possession of the property, intimated to cecilia that she should be his heiress, provided that she married according to his wishes; and pointed out to her that a fortune such as she might expect would warrant the alliance of the first nobleman in the kingdom; and he very plainly told me that he thought it advisable that i should find lodgings for myself, and not be any longer an inmate in the same house as was my cousin, as no good would result from it. thus, sir, we were not only disappointed in our hopes, but thwarted in our affections, which had for some time been exchanged. maddened at this intimation, i quitted the house; and at the same time the idea of my uncle james having made a will still pressed upon me, as i called to mind what i had heard him say to my uncle henry previous to his sailing for india. there was a box of deeds and papers, the very box now in your possession, which my uncle invariably kept in his bedroom. i felt convinced that the will, if not destroyed (and i did not believe my uncle would dare to commit an act of felony), was in that box. had i remained in the house i would have found some means to have opened it; but this was no longer possible. i communicated my suspicions to cecilia, and begged her to make the attempt, which would be more easy as my uncle would not suspect her of being bold enough to venture it, even if he had the suspicion. cecilia promised, and one day my uncle fortunately left his keys upon his dressing-table when he came down to breakfast, and went out without missing them. cecilia discovered them, and opened the box, and amongst other parchments found a document labelled outside as the will of our uncle james; but women understand little about these things, and she was in such trepidation for fear that my uncle should return that she could not examine it very minutely. as it was, my uncle did return for his keys just as she had locked the box and placed the keys upon the table. he asked her what she was doing there, and she made some excuse. he saw the keys on the table, and whether suspecting her, for she coloured up very much, or afraid that the attempt might be made at my suggestion, he removed the box and locked it up in a closet, the key of which, i believe, he left with his banker in town. when cecilia wrote to me an account of what had passed, i desired her to find the means of opening the closet, that we might gain possession of the box; and this was easily effected, for the key of another closet fitted the lock exactly. i then persuaded her to put herself under my protection, with the determination that we would marry immediately; and we had so arranged that the tin box was to have accompanied us. you are aware, sir, how unfortunately our plan turned out--at least, so far unfortunately, that i lost, as i thought, not only cecilia, but the tin box, containing, as i expect, the will of my uncle, of which i am more than ever convinced from the great anxiety shown by my uncle henry to recover it. since the loss he has been in a state of agitation, which has worn him to a shadow. he feels that his only chance is that the waterman employed might have broken open the box, expecting to find money in it, and being disappointed, have destroyed the papers to avoid detection. if such had been the case, and it might have been had it not fallen into such good hands, he then would have obtained his only wish, that of the destruction of the will although not by his own hands. now, sir, i have given you a full and honest account of the affair, and leave you to decide how to act." "if you leave me to decide, i shall do it very quickly," replied mr turnbull. "a box has fallen into my hands, and i do not know who is the owner. i shall open it, and take a list of the deeds in contains, and advertise them in the _times_ and other newspapers. if your dead uncle's will is in it it will, of course, be advertised with the others, and after such publicity your uncle henry will not venture, i presume, to say a word, but be too glad not to be exposed." mr turnbull ordered a locksmith to be summoned, and the tin box was opened. it contained the document of the uncle's purchase of the patent place in the courts, and some other papers, but it also contained the parchment so much looked after--the last will and testament of james wharncliffe, esquire, dated two months previous to his quitting england. "i think," observed mr turnbull, "that in case of accident, it may be as well that this will should be read before witnesses. you observe, it is witnessed by henry wharncliffe, with two others. let us take down their names." the will was read by young wharncliffe, at the request of mr turnbull. strange to say, the deceased bequeathed the whole of his property to his nephew, william wharncliffe, and his niece, cecilia, provided they married; if they did not, they were left 20,000 pounds each, and the remainder of the fortune to go to the first male child born after the marriage of either niece or nephew. to his brother the sum of 10,000 pounds was bequeathed, with a liberal arrangement, to be paid out of the estate, so long as his niece lived with him. the will was read, and returned to mr turnbull, who shook hands with mr wharncliffe, and congratulated him. "i am so much indebted to you, sir, that i can hardly express my gratitude, but i am still more indebted to this intelligent lad, faithful. you must no longer be a waterman, faithful," and mr wharncliffe shook my hand. i made no answer to the latter observation, for mr turnbull had fixed his eye upon me: i merely said that i was very happy to have been of use to him. "you may truly say, mr wharncliffe," observed mr turnbull, "that your future prosperity will be through his means; and, as it appears by the will that you have 9000 pounds per annum safe in the funds, i think you ought to give a prize wherry, to be rowed for every year." "and i will take that," replied i, "for a receipt in full for my share in the transaction." "and now," said mr turnbull, interrupting mr wharncliffe, who was about to answer me, "it appears to me that it may be as well to avoid any exposure--the case is too clear. call upon your uncle--state in whose hands the documents are--tell him that he must submit to your terms, which are, that he proves the will, and permits the marriage to take place immediately, and that no more will be said on the subject. he, as a lawyer, knows how severely and disgracefully he might be punished for what he has done, and will be too happy now to accede to your terms. in the meantime i keep possession of the papers, for the will shall never leave my hands until it is lodged in doctors' commons." mr wharncliffe could not but approve of this judicious arrangement, and we separated; and, not to interfere with my narrative, i may as well tell the reader at once that mr wharncliffe's uncle bowed to circumstances, pretended to rejoice at the discovery of the will, never mentioned the loss of his tin box, put the hand of cecilia into that of william, and they were married one month after the meeting at mr turnbull's, which i have now related. the evening was so far advanced before this council-of-war was over, that i was obliged to defer the delivery of the cheque to mr drummond until the next day. i left about eleven o'clock, and arrived at noon; when i knocked at the door the servant did not know me. "what did you want?" "i wanted to speak with mrs or miss drummond, and my name is faithful." he desired me to sit down in the hall while he went up; "and wipe your shoes, my lad." i cannot say that i was pleased at this command, as i may call it, but he returned, desiring me to walk up, and i followed him. i found sarah alone in the drawing-room. "jacob, i'm so glad to see you, and i'm sorry that you were made to wait below, but--if people who can be otherwise will be watermen, it is not our fault. the servants only judge by appearances." i felt annoyed for a moment, but it was soon over. i sat down by sarah, and talked with her for some time. "the present i had to make you was a purse of my own knitting, to put your earnings in;" said she, laughing; and then she held up her finger in mockery, crying, "boat, sir; boat, sir. well, jacob, there's nothing like independence, after all, and you must not mind my laughing at you." "i do not heed it, sarah," replied i; (but i did mind it very much) "there is no disgrace." "none whatever, i grant; but a want of ambition, which i cannot understand. however, let us say no more about it." mrs drummond came into the room and greeted me kindly. "when can you come and dine with us, jacob? will you come on wednesday?" "oh, mamma! he can't come on wednesday; we have company on that day." "so we have, my dear; i had forgotten it; but on thursday we are quite alone: will you come, then on thursday, jacob?" i hesitated, for i felt that it was because i was a waterman that i was not admitted to the table where i had been accustomed to dine at one time, whoever might be invited. "yes, jacob," said sarah, coming to me, "it must be thursday, and you must not deny us; for although we have greater people on wednesday, the party that day will not be so agreeable to me as your company on thursday." the last compliment from sarah decided me, and i accepted the invitation. mr drummond came in, and i delivered to him mr turnbull's cheque. he was very kind, but said little further than that he was glad that i had promised to dine with them on thursday. the footman came in and announced the carriage at the door, and this was a signal for me to take my leave. sarah, as she shook hands with me, laughing, asserted that it was not considerate in them to detain me any longer, as i must have lost half-a-dozen good fares already; "so go down to your boat, pull off your jacket, and make up for lost time," continued she; "one of these days mamma and i intend to go on the water, just to patronise you." i laughed and went away, but i was cruelly mortified. i could not be equal to them, because i was a waterman. the sarcasm of sarah was not lost upon me; still there was so much kindness mixed with it that i could not be angry with her. on the thursday i went there, as agreed; they were quite alone; friendly and attentive; but still there was a degree of constraint which communicated itself to me. after dinner mr drummond said very little; there was no renewal of offers to take me into his employ, nor any inquiry as to how i got on in the profession which i had chosen. on the whole, i found myself uncomfortable, and was glad to leave early, nor did i feel at all inclined to renew my visit. i ought to remark that mr drummond was now moving in a very different sphere than when i first knew him. he was consignee of several large establishments abroad, and was making a rapid fortune. his establishment was also on a very different scale, every department being appointed with elegance and conducive to luxury. as i pulled up the river something within my breast told me that the dominie's prophecy would turn out correct, and that i should one day repent of my having refused the advances of mr drummond--nay, i did not exactly know whether i did not, even at that moment, very much doubt the wisdom of my asserting my independence. and now, reader, that i may not surfeit you with an uninteresting detail, you may allow nearly two years to pass away before i recommence my narrative. the events of that time i shall sum up in one or two pages. the dominie continued the even tenor of his way--blew his nose and handled his rod with as much effect as ever. i seldom passed a sunday without paying him a visit, and benefiting by his counsel. mr turnbull was always kind and considerate, but gradually declining in health, having never recovered from the effects of his submersion under the ice. of the drummonds i saw but little; when we did meet, i was kindly received, but i never volunteered a call, and it was usually from a message through tom that i went to pay my respects. sarah had grown a very beautiful girl, and the well-known fact of mr drummond's wealth, and her being an only daughter, was an introduction to a circle much higher than they had been formerly accustomed to. every day, therefore, the disparity increased, and i felt less inclined to make my appearance at their house. stapleton, as usual, continued to smoke his pipe and descant upon _human natur'_. mary had grown into a splendid woman, but coquettish as ever. poor tom beazeley was fairly entrapped by her charms, and was a constant attendant upon her, but she played him fast and loose--one time encouraging and smiling on him, at another rejecting and flouting him. still tom persevered, for he was fascinated, and having returned me the money advanced for his wherry, he expended all his earnings on dressing himself smartly, and making presents to her. she had completely grown out of any control from me, and appeared to have a pleasure in doing everything she knew i disapproved; still, we were on fair friendly terms as inmates of the same house. old tom beazeley's board was up, and he had met with great success; and all day he might be seen hammering at the bottom of boats of every description, and heard, at the same time, lightening his labour with his variety of song. i often called there on my way up and down the river, and occasionally passed a few hours listening to his yarns, which, like his songs, appeared to be inexhaustible. with respect to myself, it would be more a narrative of feelings than of action. my life glided on as did my wherry--silently and rapidly. one day was but the forerunner of another, with slight variety of incident and customers. my acquaintance, as the reader knows, were but few, and my visits occasional. i again turned to my books during the long summer evenings, in which mary would walk out, accompanied by tom and other admirers. mr turnbull's library was at my service, and i profited much. after a time reading became almost a passion, and i was seldom without a book in my hand. but although i improved my mind, i did not render myself happier. on the contrary, i felt more and more that i had committed an act of egregious folly in thus asserting my independence. i felt that i was superior to my station in life, and that i had lived with those who were not companions--that i had thrown away, by foolish pride, those prospects of advancement which had offered themselves, and that i was passing my youth unprofitably. all this crowded upon me more and more every day, and i bitterly repented, as the dominie told me that i should, my spirit of independence--now that it was too late. the offers of mr drummond were never renewed, and mr turnbull, who had formed the idea that i was still of the same opinion, and who, at the same time, in his afflicted state--for he was a martyr to the rheumatism--naturally thought more of himself and less of others, never again proposed that i should quit my employment. i was still too proud to mention my wishes, and thus did i continue plying on the river, apathetic almost as to gain, and only happy when, in the pages of history or among the flowers of poetry, i could dwell upon times that were past, or revel in imagination. thus did reading, like the snake which is said to contain in its body a remedy for the poison of its fangs, become, as it enlarged my mind, a source of discontent at my humble situation; but, at the same time, the only solace in my unhappiness, by diverting my thoughts from the present. pass, then, nearly two years, reader, taking the above remarks as an outline, and filling up the picture from the colours of your imagination, with incidents of no peculiar value, and i again resume my narrative. chapter thirty seven. a chapter of losses to all but the reader, though at first tom works with his wit, and receives the full value of his exertions--we make the very worst bargain we ever made in our lives--we lose our fare, we lose our boat, and we lose our liberty--all loss and no profit--fair very unfair--two guineas worth of argument not worth twopence, except on the quarter-deck of a man-of-war. "jacob," said tom to me, pulling his wherry into the _hard_, alongside of mine, in which i was sitting with one of mr turnbull's books in my hand; "jacob, do you recollect that my time is up to-morrow? i shall have run off my seven years, and when the sun rises i shall be free of the river. how much more have you to serve?" "about fifteen months, as near as i can recollect, tom.--boat, sir?" "yes; oars, my lad; be smart, for i am in a hurry. how's tide?" "down, sir, very soon; but it's now slack water. tom, see if you can find stapleton." "pooh! never mind him, jacob, i'll go with you. i say, jones, tell old `_human natur'_' to look after my boat," continued tom, addressing a waterman of our acquaintance. "i thought you had come up to see _her_," said i to tom, as we shoved off. "see _her_ at jericho first," replied tom "she's worse than a dog vane." "what, are you _two_ again?" "two indeed--it's all two--we are two fools. she is too fanciful; i am too fond; she behaves too ill, and i put up with too much. however, it's all _one_." "i thought it was all _two_ just now, tom." "but two may be made one, jacob, you know." "yes, by the parson: but you are no parson." "anyhow, i am something like one just now," replied tom, who was pulling the foremost oar; "for you are a good clerk, and i am sitting behind you." "that's not so bad," observed the gentleman in the stern-sheets, whom we had forgotten in the colloquy. "a waterman would make but a bad parson, sir," replied tom. "why so?" "he's not likely to practice as he preaches." "again, why so?" "because all his life he looks one way and pulls another." "very good--very good, indeed." "nay, sir, good in practice, but still not good _in deed_--there's a puzzle." "a puzzle, indeed, to find such a regular chain of repartee in a wherry." "well, sir, if i'm a regular chain to-day, i shall be like an irregular watch to-morrow." "why so, my lad?" "because i shall be _out of my time_." "take that, my lad," said the gentleman, tossing half-a-crown to tom. "thanky, sir; when we meet again may you have no more wit than you have now." "how do you mean?" "not wit enough to keep your money, sir--that's all!" "i presume you think that i have not got much." "which, sir; wit or money?" "wit, my lad." "nay, sir, i think you have both: the first you purchased just now; and you would hardly have bought it, if you had not money to spare." "but i mean wit of my own." "no man has wit of his own; if he borrows it, it's not his own; if he has it in himself, it's _mother_ wit, so it's not his." we pulled into the stairs near london bridge, and the gentleman paid me his fare. "good-bye, my lad," said he to tom. "fare-you-well, for well you've paid your fare," replied tom, holding out his arm to assist him out of the boat. "well, jacob, i've made more by my head than by my hands this morning. i wonder, in the long run, which gains most in the world." "head, tom, depend upon it; but they work best together." here we were interrupted--"i say, you watermen, have you a mind for a good fare?" cried a dark-looking, not over clean, square-built, short young man, standing on the top of the flight of steps. "where to, sir?" "gravesend, my jokers, if you ain't afraid of salt water." "that's a long way, sir," replied tom; "and for salt water, we must have salt to our porridge." "so you shall, my lads, and a glass of grog into the bargain." "yes; but the bargain a'n't made yet, sir. jacob, will you go?" "yes, but not under a guinea." "not under two guineas," replied tom, aside. "are you in a great hurry, sir?" continued he, addressing the young man. "yes, in a devil of a hurry; i shall lose my ship. what will you take me for?" "two guineas, sir." "very well. just come up to the public-house here, and put in my traps." we brought down his luggage, put it into the wherry, and started down the river with the tide. our fare was very communicative, and we found out that he was the master's mate of the _immortalite_, forty-gun frigate, lying off gravesend, which was to drop down next morning and wait for sailing orders at the downs. we carried the tide with us, and in the afternoon were close to the frigate, whose blue ensign waved proudly over the taffrail. there was a considerable sea arising from the wind meeting the tide, and before we arrived close to her we had shipped a great deal of water; and when we were alongside, the wherry, with the chest in her bows, pitched so heavily that we were afraid of being swamped. just as a rope had been made fast to the chest, and they were weighing it out of the wherry, the ship's launch with water came alongside, and, whether from accident or wilfully, i know not, although i suspect the latter, the midshipman who steered her shot her against the wherry, which was crushed in, and immediately filled, leaving tom and me in the water, and in danger of being jammed to death between the launch and the side of the frigate. the seamen in the boat, however, forced her off with their oars, and hauled us in, while our wherry sank with her gunwale even with the water's edge, and floated away astern. as soon as we had shaken ourselves a little, we went up the side, and asked one of the officers to send a boat to pick up our wherry. "speak to the first lieutenant--there he is," was the reply. i went up to the person pointed out to me; "if you please, sir--" "what the devil do you want?" "a boat, sir, to--" "a boat! the devil you do!" "to pick up our wherry, sir," interrupted tom. "pick it up yourself," said the first lieutenant, passing us, and hailing the men aloft. "maintop, there, hook on your stays. be smart. lower away the yards. marines and after-guard, clear launch. boatswain's mate." "here, sir." "pipe marines and after-guard to clear launch." "aye, aye, sir." "but we shall lose our boat, jacob," said tom to me. "they stove it in, and they ought to pick it up." tom then went up to the master's mate, which he had brought on board, and explained our difficulty. "upon my soul, i dar'n't say a word. i'm in a scrape for breaking my leave. why the devil didn't you take care of your wherry, and haul a-head when you saw the launch coming?" "how could we, when the chest was hoisting out?" "very true. well, i am very sorry for you, but i must look after my chest." so saying, he disappeared down the gangway ladder. "i'll try it again, anyhow," said tom, going up to the first lieutenant. "hard case to lose our boat and our bread, sir," said tom touching his hat. the first lieutenant, now that the marines and after-guard were at a regular stamp and go, had, unfortunately more leisure to attend to us. he looked at us earnestly, and walked aft to see if the wherry was yet in sight. at that moment up came the master's mate, who had not yet reported himself to the first lieutenant. "tom," said i, "there is a wherry close to, let us get into it, and go after our boat ourselves." "wait one moment to see if they will help us--and get our money, at all events," replied tom; and we both walked aft. "come on board, sir," said the master's mate, touching his hat with humility. "you've broke your leave, sir," replied the first lieutenant, "and now i've to send a boat to pick up the wherry through your carelessness." "if you please, they are two very fine young men," observed the mate. "make capital foretopmen. boat's not worth sending for, sir." this hint, given by the mate to the first lieutenant, to regain his favour, was not lost. "who are you, my lads?" said the first lieutenant to us. "watermen, sir." "watermen, heh? was that your own boat?" "no, sir," replied i; "it belongs to the man that i serve with." "oh, not your own boat? are you an apprentice, then?" "yes, sir, both apprentices." "show me your indentures." "we don't carry them about with us." "then how am i to know that you are apprentices?" "we can prove it, sir, if you wish it." "i do wish it; at all events, the captain will wish it." "will you please to send for the boat, sir? she's almost out of sight." "no, my lads, i can't find king's boats for such service." "then we had better go ourselves, tom," said i, and we went forward to call the waterman, who was lying on his oars close to the frigate. "stop--stop--not so fast. where are you going, my lads?" "to pick up our boat, sir." "without my leave, heh?" "we don't belong to the frigate, sir." "no; but i think it very likely that you will, for you have no protections." "we can send for them, and have them down by to-morrow morning." "well, you may do so if you please, my lads; but you can not expect me to believe everything that is told me. now, for instance, how long have you to serve, my lad?" said he, addressing tom. "my time is up to-morrow, sir." "up to-morrow. why, then, i shall detain you until tomorrow, and then i shall press you." "if you detain me now, sir, i am pressed to-day." "oh, no! you are only detained until you prove your apprenticeship, that's all." "nay, sir, i certainly am pressed during my apprenticeship." "not at all, and i'll prove it to you. you don't belong to the ship until you are victualled on her books. now i sha'n't _victual_ you to-day, and therefore you won't be _pressed_." "i shall be pressed with hunger at all events," replied tom, who never could lose a joke. "no you sha'n't; for i'll send you both a good dinner out of the gun-room. so you won't be pressed at all," replied the lieutenant, laughing at tom's reply. "you will allow me to go, sir, at all events," replied i; for i knew that the only chance of getting tom and myself clear was my hastening to mr drummond for assistance. "pooh! nonsense; you must both row in the same boat as you have done. the fact is, my lads, i've taken a great fancy to you both, and i can't make up my mind to part with you." "it's hard to lose our bread this way," replied i. "we will find you bread, and hard enough you will find it," replied the lieutenant, laughing; "it's like a flint." "so we ask for bread, and you give us a stone," said tom; "that's 'gainst scripture." "very true, my lad; but the fact is, all the scriptures in the world won't man the frigate. men we must have, and get them how we can, and where we can, and when we can. necessity has no law; at least it obliges us to break through all laws. after all, there's no great hardship in serving the king for a year or two, and filling your pockets with prize-money. suppose you volunteer?" "will you allow us to go on shore for half-an-hour to think about it?" replied i. "no. i'm afraid of the crimps dissuading you. but i'll give you till to-morrow morning, and then i shall be sure of one at all events." "thanky for me," replied tom. "you're very welcome," replied the first lieutenant, as, laughing at us, he went down the companion-ladder to his dinner. "well, jacob, we are in for it," said tom, as soon as we were alone. "depend upon it there's no mistake this time." "i am afraid not," replied i, "unless we can get a letter to your father, or mr drummond, who, i am sure, would help us. but that dirty fellow, who gave the lieutenant the hint, said the frigate sailed to-morrow morning; there he is, let us speak to him." "when does the frigate sail!" said tom to the master's mate, who was walking the deck. "my good fellow, it's not the custom on board of a man-of-war for men to ask officers to answer such impertinent questions. it's quite sufficient for you to know that when the frigate sails you will have the pleasure of sailing in her." "well, sir," replied i, nettled at his answer, "at all events you will have the goodness to pay us our fare. we have lost our wherry, and our liberty, perhaps, through you; we may as well have our two guineas." "two guineas! it's two guineas you want, heh." "yes, sir, that was the fare we agreed upon." "why you must observe, my men," said the master's mate, hooking a thumb into each armhole of his waistcoat, "there must be a little explanation as to that affair. i promised you two guineas as watermen; but now that you belong to a man-of-war, you are no longer watermen. i always pay my debts honourably when i can find the lawful creditors; but where are the watermen?" "here we are sir." "no, my lads, you are men-of-war's men now, and that quite alters the case." "but we are not so yet, sir; even if it did alter the case, we are not pressed yet." "well, then, you'll be to-morrow, perhaps; at all events we shall see. if you are allowed to go on shore again, i owe you two guineas as watermen; and if you are detained as men-of-war's men, why then you will only have done your duty in pulling down one of your officers. you see, my lads, i say nothing but what's fair." "well, sir, but when you hired us we were watermen," replied tom. "very true, so you were; but recollect the two guineas were not due until you had completed your task, which was not until you came on board. when you came on board you were pressed, and became men-of-war's men. you should have asked for your fare before the first lieutenant got hold of you. don't you perceive the justice of my remarks?" "can't say i do, sir; but i perceive there's very little chance of our being paid," said tom. "you are a lad of discrimination," replied the master's mate. "and now i advise you to drop the subject, or you may induce me to pay you `man-of-war fashion.'" "how's that, sir?" "over the face and eyes, as the cat paid the monkey," replied the master's mate, walking leisurely away. "no go, tom," said i, smiling at the absurdity of the arguments. "i'm afraid it's _no go_ in every way, jacob. however, i don't care much about it. i have had a little hankering after seeing the world, and perhaps now's as well as an other time; but i'm sorry for you, jacob." "it's all my own fault," replied i; and i fell into one of those reveries so often indulged in of late, as to the folly of my conduct in asserting my independence, which had now ended in my losing my liberty. but we were cold from the ducking we had received, and moreover, very hungry. the first lieutenant did not forget his promise: he sent us a good dinner, and a glass of grog each, which we discussed under the half-deck, between two of the guns. we had some money in our pockets, and we purchased some sheets of paper from the bum-boat people, who were on the main-deck supplying the seamen, and i wrote to mr drummond and mr turnbull, as well as to mary and old tom, requesting the two latter to forward our clothes to deal, in case of our being detained. tom also wrote to comfort his mother, and the greatest comfort which he could give was, as he said, to promise to keep sober. having entrusted these letters to the bumboat woman, who promised faithfully to put them into the post-office, we had then nothing else to do but to look out for some place to sleep. our clothes had dried on us, and we were walking under the half-deck: but not a soul spoke to, or even took the least notice of us. in a newly-manned ship just ready to sail there is a universal feeling of selfishness prevailing among the ship's company. some, if not most, had, like us, been pressed, and their thoughts were occupied with their situation and the change in their prospects. others were busy making their little arrangements with their wives or relations; while the mass of the seamen, not yet organised by discipline or known to each other, were in a state of disunion and individuality, which naturally induced every man to look after himself without caring for his neighbour. we therefore could not expect, nor did we receive, any sympathy; we were in a scene of bustle and noise, yet alone. a spare topsail, which had been stowed for the present between two of the guns, was the best accommodation which offered itself. we took possession of it, and, tired with exertion of mind and body, were soon fast asleep. chapter thirty eight. there are many ups and downs in this world--we find ourselves in the downs--our captain comes on board, and gives us a short sermon upon antipathies, which most of us never heard the like of--he sets us all upon the go with his stop watch, and never calls the watch until the watch is satisfied with all hands. at daylight the next morning we were awakened with a start by the shrill whistles of the boatswain and his mates piping all hands to unmoor. the pilot was on board, and the wind was fair. as the frigate had no anchor down, but was hanging to the moorings in the river, we had nothing to do but to cast off, sheet home, and in less than half-an-hour we were under all sail, stemming the last quarter of the flood tide. tom and i had remained on the gangway watching the proceedings but not assisting, when the ship being fairly under sail, the order was given by the first lieutenant to coil down the ropes. "i think, jacob, we may as well help," said tom laying hold of the main tack, which was passed aft, and hauling it forward. "with all my heart," replied i, and i hauled it forward, while he coiled it away. while we were thus employed the first lieutenant walked forward and recognised us. "that's what i like, my lads," said he; "you don't sulk, i see, and i sha'n't forget it." "i hope you won't forget that we are apprentices, sir, and allow us to go on shore," replied i. "i've a shocking bad memory in some things," was his reply, as he continued forward to the forecastle. he did not, however, forget to victual us that day, and insert our names, in pencil, upon the ship's books; but we were not put into any mess, or stationed. we anchored in the downs on the following morning. it came on to blow hard in the afternoon, and there was no communication with the shore, except the signal was made, third day, when it moderated, and the signal was made "prepare to weigh, and send boat for captain." in the meantime several boats came off, and one had a postman on board. i had letters from mr drummond and mr turnbull, telling me that they would immediately apply to the admiralty for our being liberated, and one from mary, half of which was for me, and the rest to tom. stapleton had taken tom's wherry and pulled down to old tom beazeley with my clothes, which, with young tom's, had been despatched to deal. tom had a letter from his mother, half indited by his father, and the rest from herself; but i shall not trouble the reader with the contents, as he may imagine what was likely to be said upon such an occasion. shortly afterwards our clothes, which had been sent to the care of an old shipmate of tom's father, were brought on board, and we hardly had received them when the signalman reported that the captain was coming off. there were so many of the men in the frigate who had never seen the captain that no little anxiety was shown by the ship's company to ascertain how far, by the "_cut of his jib_," that is, his outward appearance, they might draw conclusions as to what they might expect from one who had such unlimited power to make them happy or miserable. i was looking out of the maindeck port with tom, when the gig pulled alongside, and was about to scrutinise the outward and visible signs of the captain, when i was attracted by the face of a lieutenant sitting by his side, whom i immediately recognised. it was mr wilson, the officer who had spun the oar and sunk the wherry, from which, as the reader may remember, i rescued my friends, the senior and junior clerk. i was overjoyed at this, as i hoped that he would interest himself in our favour. the pipe of the boatswain re-echoed as the captain ascended the side. he appeared on the quarter-deck--every hat descending to do him honour; the marines presented arms, and the marine officer at their head lowered the point of his sword. in return, the omnipotent personage, taking his cocked hat with two fingers and a thumb, by the highest peak, lifted it one inch off his head, and replaced it, desiring the marine officer to dismiss the guard. i had now an opportunity, as he paced to and fro with the first lieutenant, to examine his appearance. he was a tall, very large-boned, gaunt man, with an enormous breadth of shoulders, displaying herculean strength (and this we found he eminently possessed). his face was of a size corresponding to his large frame; his features were harsh, his eye piercing, but his nose, although bold, was handsome, and his capacious mouth was furnished with the most splendid row of large teeth that i ever beheld. the character of his countenance was determination rather than severity. when he smiled the expression was agreeable. his gestures and his language were emphatic, and the planks trembled with his elephantine walk. he had been on board about ten minutes, when he desired the first lieutenant to turn the hands up, and all the men were ordered on the larboard side of the quarter-deck. as soon as they were all gathered together, looking with as much awe on the captain as a flock of sheep at a strange, mischief-meaning dog, he thus addressed them--"my lads, as it so happens that we are all to trust to the same planks, it may be just as well that we should understand one another. i _like_ to see my officers attentive to their duty, and behave themselves as gentlemen. i _like_ to see my men well disciplined, active, and sober. what i _like_ i _will have_--you understand me. now," continued he, putting on a stern look--"now, just look in my face, and see if you think you can play with me." the men looked in his face, and saw that there was no chance of playing with him; and so they expressed by their countenances. the captain appeared satisfied by their mute acknowledgments, and to encourage them, smiled, and showed his white teeth, as he desired the first lieutenant to pipe down. as soon as the scene was over, i walked up to mr wilson, the lieutenant, who was standing aft, and accosted him. "perhaps, sir, you do not recollect me; but we met one night when you were sinking in a wherry, and you asked my name." "and i recollect it, my lad; it was faithful, was it not?" "yes, sir;" and i then entered into an explanation of our circumstances, and requested his advice and assistance. he shook his head. "our captain," said he, "is a very strange person. he has commanding interest, and will do more in defiance of the rules of the admiralty than any one in the service. if an admiralty order came down to discharge you, he would obey it; but as for regulations, he cares very little for them. besides, we sail in an hour. however, i will speak to him, although i shall probably get a rap on the knuckles, as it is the business of the first lieutenant, and not mine." "but, sir, if you requested the first lieutenant to speak?" "if i did, he would not, in all probability; men are too valuable, and the first lieutenant knows that the captain would not like to discharge you. he will, therefore, say nothing until it is too late, and then throw all the blame upon himself for forgetting it. our captain has such interest that his recommendation would give a commander's rank to-morrow, and we must all take care of ourselves. however, i will try, although i can give you very little hopes." mr wilson went up to the captain, who was still walking with the first lieutenant, and, touching his hat, introduced the subject, stating, as an apology, that he was acquainted with me. "oh, if the man is an acquaintance of yours, mr wilson, we certainly must decide," replied the captain with mock politeness. "where is he?" i advanced, and tom followed me. we stated our case. "i always like to put people out of suspense," said the captain, "because it unsettles a man--so now hear me; if i happened to press one of the blood-royal, and the king, and the queen, and all the little princesses were to go down on their knees, i'd keep him, without an admiralty order for his discharge. now, my lads, do you perceive your chance?" then turning away to mr wilson, he said, "you will oblige me by stating upon what grounds you ventured to interfere in behalf of these men, and i trust your explanation will be satisfactory. mr knight," continued he, to the first lieutenant, "send these men down below, watch, and station them." we went below by the gangway ladder and watched the conference between the captain and mr wilson, who, we were afraid, had done himself no good by trying to assist us. but when it was over the captain appeared pleased, and mr wilson walked away with a satisfied air. as i afterwards discovered it did me no little good. the hands were piped to dinner, and after dinner we weighed and made sail, and thus were tom and i fairly, or rather unfairly, embarked in his majesty's service. "well, tom," said i, "it's no use crying. what's done can't be helped; here we are; now let us do all we can to make friends." "that's just my opinion, jacob. hang care; it killed the cat; i shall make the best of it, and i don't see why we may not be as happy here as anywhere else. father says we may, if we do our duty, and i don't mean to shirk mine. the more the merrier, they say, and i'll be hanged but there's not enough of us here." i hardly need say that, for the first three or four days, we were not very comfortable; we had been put into the seventh mess, and were stationed in the foretop; for although we had not been regularly bred up as seaman, the first lieutenant so decided, saying, that he was sure that, in a few weeks, there would be no smarter men in the ship. we were soon clear of the channel, and all hands were anxious to know our destination, which, in this almost solitary instance, had been really kept a secret, although surmises were correct. there is one point which, by the present arrangements, invariably makes known whether a ship is "fitting foreign," or for home service, which is, by the stores and provisions ordered on board; and these stores are so arranged, according to the station to which the vessel is bound, that it is generally pretty well known what her destination is to be. this is bad, and at the same time easily remedied; for if every ship, whether for home service or foreign, was ordered to fit foreign, no one would be able to ascertain where she was about to proceed. with a very little trouble strict secrecy might be preserved, now that the navy board is abolished; but during its existence that was impossible. the _immortalite_ was a very fast sailing vessel, and when the captain (whose name i have forgotten to mention, it was hector maclean) opened his sealed orders, we found that we were to cruise for two months between the western isles and madeira, in quest of some privateers, which had captured many of our outward-bound west indiamen, notwithstanding they were well protected by convoy, and, after that period, to join the admiral at halifax, and relieve a frigate which had been many years on that station. in a week we were on our station, the weather was fine, and the whole of the day was passed in training the men to the guns, small arms, making and shortening sail, reefing topsails, and manoeuvring the ship. the captain would never give up his point, and sometimes we were obliged to make or shorten sail twenty times running until he was satisfied. "my lads," he would say to the ship's company, sending for them aft, "you have done this pretty well; you have only been two minutes; not bad for a new ship's company, but i _like_ it done in a minute and a-half. we'll try again." and sure enough it was try again, until in a minute and a-half it was accomplished. then the captain would say, "i knew you could do it, and having once done it, my lads, of course you can do it again." tom and i adhered to our good resolutions. we were as active and as forward as we could be; and mr knight, the first lieutenant, pointed us out to the captain. as soon as the merits of the different men were ascertained, several alterations were made in the watch and station bills, as well as in the ratings on the ship's books, and tom and i were made _second_ captains, larboard and starboard, of the foretop. this was great promotion for so young hands, especially as we were not bred as regular sailors; but it was for the activity and zeal which we displayed. tom was a great favourite among the men, always joking, and ready for any lark or nonsense; moreover, he used to mimic the captain, which few others dared do. he certainly seldom ventured to do it below; it was generally in the foretop, where he used to explain to the men what he _liked_. one day we both ventured it, but it was on an occasion which excused it. tom and i were aft, sitting in the jolly boat astern, fitting some of her gear, for we belonged to the boat at that time, although we were afterwards shifted into the cutter. the frigate was going about four knots through the water, and the sea was pretty smooth. one of the marines fell overboard, out of the forechains. "man overboard," was cried out immediately, and the men [became] very busy clearing away the starboard cutter, with all the expedition requisite on such an occasion. the captain was standing aft on the signal chest when the marine passed astern; the poor fellow could not swim, and tom turning to me said, "jacob, i should _like_ to save that jolly," and immediately dashed overboard. "and i should _like_ to help you, tom," cried i, following him. the captain was close to us, and heard us both. between us we easily held up the marine, and the boat had us all on board in less than a minute. when we came on deck the captain was at the gangway. he showed his white teeth, and shook the telescope in his hand at us. "i heard you both; and i should _like_ to have a good many more impudent fellows like you." we continued our cruise, looking sharp out for the privateers, but without success; we then touched at madeira for intelligence, and were informed that they had been seen more to the southward. the frigate's head was turned in that direction until we were abreast of the canary isles, and then we traversed east and west, north or south, just as the wind and weather, or the captain's _like_ thought proper. we had now cruised seven weeks out of our time without success, and the captain promised five guineas to the man who should discover the objects of our search. often did tom and i climb to the mast-head and scan the horizon, and so did many others: but those who were stationed at the look-out were equally on the alert. the ship's company were now in a very fair state of discipline, owing to the incessant practice, and every evening the hands were turned up to skylark--that is, to play and amuse themselves. there was one amusement which was the occasion of a great deal of mirth, and it was a favourite one of the captain's, as it made the men smart. it is called, "follow my leader." one of the men leads, and all who choose follow him: sometimes forty or fifty will join. whatever the leader does, the rest must do also; wherever he goes they must follow. tom, who was always the foremost for fun, was one day the leader, and after having scampered up the rigging, laid out on the yards, climbed in by the lifts, crossed from mast to mast by the stays, slid down by the backstays, blacked his face in the funnel, in all which motions he was followed by about thirty others, hallooing and laughing, while the officers and other men were looking on and admiring their agility, a novel idea came into tom's head; it was then about seven o'clock in the evening, the ship was lying becalmed, tom again sprang up the rigging, laid out to the main yard-arm, followed by me and the rest, and as soon as he was at the boom iron, he sprang up, holding by the lift, and crying out, "follow my leader," leaped from the yard-arm into the sea. i was second, and crying out, "follow my leader" to the rest, i followed him, and the others, whether they could swim or not, did the same, it being a point of honour not to refuse. the captain was just coming up the ladder, when he saw, as he imagined, a man tumble overboard, which was tom in his descent; but how much more was he astonished at seeing twenty or thirty more tumbling off by twos or threes, until it appeared that half the ship's company were overboard. some of the men who could not swim, but were too proud to refuse to follow, were nearly drowned. as it was, the first lieutenant was obliged to lower the cutter to pick them up, and they were all brought on board. "confound that fellow," said the captain to the first lieutenant; "he is always at the head of all mischief. follow my leader, indeed! send tom beazeley here." we all thought that tom was about to catch it. "hark ye, my lad," said the captain; "a joke's a joke, but everybody can't swim as well as you. i can't afford to lose any of my men by your pranks, so don't try that again--i don't _like_ it." every one thought that tom got off very cheaply; but he was a favourite with the captain, although that never appeared but indirectly; "beg pardon, sir," replied tom, with great apparent humility, "but they were all so dirty--they'd blacked themselves at the funnel, and i thought a little washing would not do them any harm." "be off, sir, and recollect what i have said," replied the captain, turning away, and showing his white teeth. i heard the first lieutenant say to the captain, "he's worth any ten men in the ship, sir. he keeps them all alive and merry, sets such a good example." chapter thirty nine. "to be, or not to be," that is the question--splinters on board of a man-of-war very different from splinters in the finger on shore--tom prevents this narrative from being wound up by my going down--i receive a lawyer's letter, and instead of being annoyed, am delighted with it. in the meantime, tom had gone up to the fore-royal arm, and was looking round for the five guineas, and just as the conversation was going on, cried out, "sail ho!" "strange sail reported." "where," cried the first lieutenant, going forward. "right under the sun." "mast-head there--do you make her out?" "yes, sir; i think she's a schooner; but i can only see down to her mainyard." "that's one of them, depend upon it," said the captain. "up there, mr wilson, and see what you make of her. who is the man who reported it?" "tom beazeley, sir." "confound that fellow, he makes all my ship's company jump overboard, and now i must give him five guineas. what do you make of her, mr wilson?" "a low schooner, sir, very rakish indeed, black sides. i cannot make out her ports; but i should think she can show a very pretty set of teeth. she is becalmed as well as we." "well, then, we must whistle for a breeze. in the meantime, mr knight, we will have the boats all ready." if you whistle long enough the wind is certain to come. in about an hour the breeze did come, and we took it down with us; but it was too dark to distinguish the schooner, which we had lost sight of as soon as the sun had set. about midnight the breeze failed us, and it was again calm. the captain and most of the officers were up all night, and the watch were employed preparing the boats for service. it was my morning watch, and at break of day i saw the schooner from the foresail-yard about four miles to the north west. i ran down on deck and reported her. "very good, my lad. i have her, mr knight," said the captain, who had directed his glass to where i pointed; "and i will have her too, one way or the other. no signs of wind. lower down the cutters. get the yards and stays hooked all ready. we'll wait a little, and see a little more of her when it's broad daylight." at broad daylight the schooner, with her appointments, was distinctly to be made out. she was pierced for sixteen guns, and was a formidable vessel to encounter with the boats. the calm still continuing, the launch, yawl, and pinnace were hoisted out, manned, and armed. the schooner got out her sweeps, and was evidently preparing for their reception. still the captain appeared unwilling to risk the lives of his men in such a dangerous conflict, and there we all lay alongside, each man sitting in his place with his oar raised on end. cat's-paws of wind, as they call them, flew across the water here and there, ruffling its smooth surface, portending that a breeze would soon spring up, and the hopes of this chance rendered the captain undecided. thus did we remain alongside, for tom and i were stationed in the first and second cutters until twelve o'clock, when we were ordered out to take a hasty dinner, and the allowance of spirits was served out. at one it was still calm. had we started when the boats were first hoisted out the affair would have been long before decided. at last, the captain, perceiving that the chance of a breeze was still smaller then than in the forenoon, ordered the boats to shove off. we were still about the same distance from the privateer, from three-and-a-half to four miles. in less than half-an-hour we were within gun-shot; the privateer swept her broadside to us, and commenced firing guns with single round shot, and with great precision. they _ricochetted_ over the boats, and at every shot we made sure of our being struck. at this time a slight breeze swept along the water. it reached the schooner, filled her sails, and she increased her distance. again it died away, and we neared her fast. she swept round again, and recommenced firing, and one of her shot passed through the second cutter, in which i was stationed, ripping open three of her planks, and wounding two men beside me. the boat, heavy with the gun, ammunition chests, etcetera, immediately filled and turned over with us, and it was with difficulty that we could escape from the weighty hamper that was poured out of her. one of the poor fellows, who had not been wounded, remained entangled under the boat, and never rose again. the remainder of the crew rose to the surface and clung to the side of the boat. the first cutter hauled to our assistance, for we had separated to render the shot less effectual; but it was three or four minutes before she was able to render us any assistance, during which time the other two wounded men, who had been apparently injured in the legs or body, exhausted with loss of blood, gradually unloosed their holds and disappeared under the calm, blue water. i had received a splinter in my left arm, and held on longer than the others who had been maimed, but i could not hold on till the cutter came. i lost my recollection, and sank. tom, who was in the bow of the cutter, perceiving me go down, dived after me, brought me up again to the surface, and we were both hauled in. the other five men were also saved. as soon as we were picked up, the cutter followed the other boats, which continued to advance towards the privateer. i recovered my senses, and found that a piece of one of the thwarts of the boat, broken off by the shot, had been forced through the fleshy part of my arm below the elbow, where it still remained. it was a very dangerous as well as a painful wound. the officer of the boat, without asking me, laid hold of the splinter and tore it out; but the pain was so great, from its jagged form, and the effusion of blood so excessive after this operation, that i again fainted. fortunately no artery was wounded, or i must have lost my arm. they bound it up, and laid me at the bottom of the boat. the firing from the schooner was now very warm; and we were within a quarter of a mile of her, when the breeze sprang up, and she increased her distance a mile. there was a prospect of wind from the appearance of the sky, although, for a time, it again died away. we were within less than half-a-mile of the privateer, when we perceived that the frigate was bringing up a smart breeze, and rapidly approached the scene of conflict. the breeze swept along the water and caught the sails of the privateer, and she was again, in spite of all the exertions of our wearied men, out of gun-shot; and the first lieutenant very properly decided upon making for the frigate, which was now within a mile of us. in less than ten minutes the boats were hoisted in; and the wind now rising fast, we were under all sail, going at the rate of seven miles an hour; the privateer having also gained the breeze, and gallantly holding her own. i was taken down into the cockpit, the only wounded man brought on board. the surgeon examined my arm, and at first shook his head, and i expected immediate amputation; but on re-examination he gave his opinion that the limb might be saved. my wound was dressed, and i was put into my hammock, in a screened bulk under the half-deck, where the cooling breeze from the ports fanned my feverish cheeks. but i must return to the chase. in less than an hour the wind had increased, so that we could with difficulty carry our royals; the privateer was holding her own about three miles right a-head, keeping our three masts in one. at sunset they were forced to take in the royals, and the sky gave every prospect of a rough gale. still we carried on every stitch of canvas which the frigate could bear; keeping the chase in sight with our night-glasses, and watching all her motions. the breeze increased; before morning there was a heavy sea, and the frigate could only carry top-gallant sails over double-reefed top-sails. at daylight we had neared the schooner, by the sextants, about a quarter of a mile, and the captain and officers went down to take some repose and refreshment, not having quitted the deck for twenty-four hours. all that day did we chase the privateer, without gaining more than a mile upon her, and it now blew up a furious gale: the topgallant sails had been before taken in; the top-sails were close reefed, and we were running at the speed of nearly twelve miles an hour; still so well did the privateer sail, that she was barely within gunshot when the sun went down below the horizon, angry and fiery red. there was now great fear that she would escape, from the difficulty of keeping the glasses upon her during the night, in a heavy sea, and the expectation that she would furl all sail and allow us to pass her. it appeared, however, that this manoeuvre did not enter into the head of the captain of the privateer; he stood on under a press of sail, which even in day-time would have been considered alarming; and at daylight, owing to the steerage during the night never being so correct as during the day, she had recovered her distance, and was about four miles from us. the gale, if anything, had increased, and captain maclean determined, notwithstanding, to shake a reef out of the topsails. in the morning, as usual, tom came to my cot, and asked me how i was? i told him i was better and in less pain, and that the surgeon had promised to dress my wound after breakfast, for the bandages had not been removed since i had first come on board. "and the privateer, tom, i hope we shall take her; it will be some comfort to me that she is captured." "i think we shall, if the masts stand, jacob; but we have an enormous press of sail, as you may guess by the way in which the frigate jumps; there is no standing on the forecastle, and there is a regular waterfall down in the waist from forward. we are nearing her now. it is beautiful to see how she behaves: when she heels over, we can perceive that all her men are lashed on deck, and she takes whole seas into her fore and aft mainsail, and pours them out again as she rises from the lurch. she deserves to escape, at all events." she did not, however, obtain her deserts, for about twelve o'clock in the day we were within a mile of her. at two, the marines were firing small arms at her, for we would not yaw to fire at her a gun, although she was right under our bows. when within a cable's length we shortened sail, so as to keep at that distance astern, and the chase, after having lost several men by musketry, the captain of her waved his hat in token of surrender. we immediately shortened sail to keep the weather-gage, pelting her until every sail was lowered down: we then rounded to, keeping her under our lee, and firing at every man who made his appearance on deck. taking possession of her was a difficult task: a boat could hardly live in such a sea and when the captain called aloud for volunteers, and i heard tom's voice in the cutter as it was lowering down, my heart misgave me lest he should meet with some accident. at last i knew, from the conversation on deck, that the cutter had got safe on board, and my mind was relieved. the surgeon came up and dressed my arm, and i then received comparative bodily as well as mental relief. it was not until the next day, when we lay to, with the schooner close to us, that the weather became sufficiently moderate to enable us to receive the prisoners, and put our own men and officers on board. the prize proved to be an american-built schooner, fitted out as a french privateer. she was called the _cerf agile_, mounting fourteen guns, of nearly three hundred tons measurement, and with a crew of one hundred and seventy men, of which forty-eight were away in prizes. it was perhaps fortunate that the boats were not able to attack her, as they would have received a very warm reception. thus did we succeed in capturing this mischievous vessel, after a chase of two hundred and seventy miles. as soon as all the arrangements were made, we shaped our course, with the privateer in company, for halifax, where we arrived in about five weeks. my wound was now nearly healed, but my arm had wasted away, and i was unable to return to my duty. it was well known that i wrote a good hand, and i volunteered, as i could do nothing else, to assist the purser and the clerk with the ship's books, etcetera. the admiral was at bermuda, and the frigate which we were to relieve had, from the exigence of the service, been despatched down to the honduras, and was not expected back for some months. we sailed from halifax to bermuda, and joined the admiral, and after three weeks we were ordered on a cruise. my arm was now perfectly recovered, but i had become so useful in the clerk's office that i was retained, much against my own wishes: but the captain _liked_ it, as tom said and after that there was no more said about the matter. america was not the seat of war at that period; and, with the exception of chasing french runners, there was nothing to be done on the north american station. i have, therefore, little to narrate during the remainder of the time that i was on board the frigate. tom did his duty in the foretop, and never was in any disgrace; on the contrary, he was a great favourite both with officers and men, and took more liberties with the captain than any one else dared to have done; but captain maclean knew that tom was one of his foremost and best men, always active, zealous, and indifferent as to danger, and tom knew exactly how far he could venture to play with him. i remained in the clerk's office, and as it was soon discovered that i had received an excellent education, and always behaved myself respectfully to my superiors, i was kindly treated, and had no reason to complain of a man-of-war. such was the state of affairs when the other frigate arrived from the honduras, and we, who had been cruising for the last four months in boston bay, were ordered in by a cutter, to join the admiral at halifax. we had now been nearly a year from england without receiving any letters. the reader may, therefore, judge of my impatience when, after the anchor had been let go and the sails furled, the admiral's boat came on board with several bags of letters for the officers and ship's company. they were handed down into the gun-room, and i waited with impatience for the sorting and distribution. "faithful," said the purser, "here are two letters for you." i thanked him, and hastened into the clerk's office, that i might read them without interruption. the first was addressed in a formal hand quite unknown to me. i opened it with some degree of wonderment as to who could possibly write to so humble an individual! it was from a lawyer, and the contents were as follows:- sir--we hasten to advise you of the death of your good friend mr alexander turnbull. by his will, which has been opened and read, and of which you are the executor, he has made you his sole heir, bequeathing you, at the present, the sum of 30,000 pounds, with the remainder of his fortune at the demise of his wife. with the exception of 5000 pounds left to mrs turnbull for her own disposal, the legacies do not amount to more than 800 pounds. the jointure arising from the interest of the money secured to mrs turnbull during her life is 1080 pounds per annum, upon the three per cent, consols, so that at her demise you will come into 36,000 pounds consols, which at 76, will be equal to 27,360 pounds sterling. i beg to congratulate you upon your good fortune, and, with mr drummond, have made application to the admiralty for your discharge. this application, i am happy to say, has been immediately attended to, and by the same mail that conveys this letter is forwarded an order for your discharge and a passage home. should you think proper to treat our firm as your legal advisers, we shall be most happy to enrol you among our clients. i am, sir, yours very respectfully, john fletcher. i must leave the reader to judge of this unexpected and welcome communication. at first i was so stunned that i appeared as a statue, with the letter in my hand, and in this condition i remained until roused by the first lieutenant, who had come to the office to desire me to pass the word for "letters for england," and to desire the sail-maker to make a bag. "faithful--why what's the matter? are you ill, or--?" i could not reply, but i put the letter into his hand. he read the contents, expressed his astonishment by occasional exclamations. "i wish you joy, my lad, and may it be my turn next time. no wonder you looked like a stuck pig. had i received such news the captain might have hallooed till he was hoarse, and the ship might have tumbled overboard before i should have roused myself. well, i suppose we shall get no more work out of you--" "the captain wants you, mr knight," said one of the midshipmen, touching his hat. mr knight went into the cabin, and in a few minutes returned, holding the order for my discharge in his hand. "it's all right, faithful, here is your discharge, and an order for your passage home." he laid it on the table, and then went away, for a first lieutenant in harbour has no time to lose. the next person who came was tom, holding in his hand a letter from mary, with a postscript from his mother. "well, jacob," said he, "i have news to tell you. mary says that mr turnbull is dead, and has left her father 200 pounds, and that she has been told that he has left you something handsome." "he has indeed, tom," replied i; "read this letter." while tom was reading, i perceived the letter from mr drummond, which i had forgotten. i opened it. it communicated the same intelligence as that of the lawyer, in fewer words; recommended my immediate return, and enclosed a bill upon his house for 100 pounds, to enable me to appear in a manner corresponding to my present condition. "well," said tom, "this is, indeed, good news, jacob. you are a gentleman at last, as you deserve to be. it has made me so happy; what do you mean to do?" "i have my discharge here," replied i, "and am ordered a passage home." "better still. i am so happy, jacob; so happy. but what _is_ to become of me?" and tom passed the back of his hand across his eyes to brush away a tear. "you shall soon follow me, tom, if i can manage it either by money or any influence." "i will manage it, if you don't, jacob. i won't stay here without you, that i am determined." "do nothing rashly, tom. i am sure i can buy your discharge, and on my arrival in england i will not think of anything else until it is done." "you must be quick, then, jacob, for i'm sure i can't stay here long." "trust to me, tom; you'll still find me jacob faithful," said i, extending my hand. tom squeezed it earnestly, and with moistened eyes, turned away, and walked forward. the news had spread through the ship, and many of the officers, as well as the men, came to congratulate me. what would i have given to have been allowed only one half-hour to myself--one half-hour in which i might be permitted to compose my excited feelings--to have returned thanks for such unexpected happiness, and paid a tribute to the memory of so sincere a friend? but in a ship this is almost impossible, unless, as an officer, you can retreat to your own cabin; and those gushings from the heart, arising from grief or pleasure, the tears so sweet in solitude, must be prostituted before the crowd, or altogether repressed. at last the wished-for opportunity did come. mr wilson, who had been away on service, came to congratulate me as soon as he heard the news, and with an instinctive perception of what might be my feelings, asked me whether i would not like to write my letters in his cabin, which, for a few hours, was at my service. i thankfully accepted the offer; and, when summoned by the captain, had relieved my overcharged heart, and had composed my excited feelings. "jacob faithful, you are aware there is an order for your discharge," said he, kindly. "you will be discharged this afternoon into the _astrea_; she is ordered home, and will sail with despatches in a few days. you have conducted yourself well since you have been under my command; and, although you are now in a situation not to require a good certificate, still you will have the satisfaction of feeling that you have done your duty in the station of life to which you have, for a certain portion of it, been called--i wish you well." although captain maclean, in what he said, never lost sight of the relative situations in which we had been placed, there was a kindness of manner, especially in the last words, "i wish you well," which went to my heart. i replied that i had been very happy during the time i had been under his command, and thanked him for his good wishes. i then bowed and left the cabin. but the captain did not send me on board the _astrea_, although i was discharged into her. he told the first lieutenant that i had better go on shore, and equip myself in a proper manner; and as i afterwards found out, spoke of me in very favourable terms to the captain of the _astrea_, acknowledging that i had received the education of a gentleman, and had been illegally impressed; so that, when i made my appearance on board the _astrea_, the officers of the gun-room requested that i would mess with them during the passage home. i went on shore, obtained the money for my bill, hastened to a tailor, and with his exertions, and other fitting-out people, procured all that was requisite for the outward appearance of a gentleman. i then returned to the _immortalite_, and bade farewell to the officers and seamen with whom i had been most intimate. my parting with tom was painful. even the few days which i had been away, i perceived, had made an alteration in his appearance. "jacob," said he, "don't think i envy you; on the contrary, i am as grateful, even more grateful than if such good fortune had fallen to my own lot; but i cannot help fretting at the thought of being left here without you: and i shall fret until i am with you again." i renewed my promises to procure his discharge, and forcing upon him all the money i thought that i could spare, i went over the side as much affected as poor tom. our passage home was rapid. we had a continuance of north west winds, and we flew before them, and in less than three weeks we dropped our anchor at spithead. happy in the change of my situation, and happier still in anticipation, i shall only say that i never was in better spirits, or in company with more agreeable young men than were the officers of the _astrea_; and although we were so short a time together, we separated with mutual regret. chapter forty. i interrupt a matrimonial duet and capsize the boat--being upon dry land, no one is drowned--tom leaves a man-of-war because he don't like it--i find the profession of a gentleman preferable to that of a waterman. my first object on my return was to call upon old tom, and assure him of his son's welfare. my wishes certainly would have led me to mr drummond's but i felt that my duty required that i should delay that pleasure. i arrived at the hotel late in the evening, and early next morning i went down to the steps at westminster bridge, and was saluted with the usual cry of "boat, sir!" a crowd of recollections poured into my mind at the well-known sound; my life appeared to have passed in review in a few seconds, as i took my seat in the stern of a wherry, and directed the waterman to pull up the river. it was a beautiful morning, and even at that early hour almost too warm--the sun was so powerful; i watched every object that we passed with an interest i cannot describe; every tree, every building, every point of land--they were all old friends, who appeared, as the sun shone brightly on them, to rejoice in my good fortune. i remained in a reverie too delightful to be wished to be disturbed from it, although occasionally there were reminiscences which were painful; but they were but as light clouds, obscuring for a moment, as they flew past, the glorious sun of my happiness. at last the well-known tenement of old tom, his large board with "boats built to order," and the half of the boat stuck up on end, caught my sight, and i remembered the object of my embarkation. i directed the waterman to pull to the hard, and, paying him well, dismissed him; for i had perceived that old tom was at work stumping round a wherry, bottom up; and his wife was sitting on a bench in the boat-arbour, basking in the warm sun, and working away at her nets. i had landed so quietly, and they both were so occupied with their respective employments, that they had not perceived me, and i crept round by the house to surprise them. i had gained a station behind the old boat, where i overheard the conversation. "it's my opinion," said old tom, who left off hammering for a time, "that all the nails in birmingham won't make this boat water-tight. the timbers are as rotten as a pear, and the nails fall through them. i have put in one piece more than agreed for; and if i don't put in another here she'll never swim." "well, then, put another piece in," replied mrs beazeley. "yes; so i will; but i've a notion i shall be out of pocket by this job. seven-and-sixpence won't pay for labour and all. however, never mind," and tom carolled forth- "is not the sea made for the free- land for courts and chains alone? there we are slaves, but on the waves love and liberty's all our own." "now, if you do sing, sing truth, beazeley," said the old woman. "a'n't our boy pressed into the service? and how can you talk of liberty?" old tom answered by continuing his song- "no eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us; all earth forgot, and all heaven around us." "yes, yes," replied the old woman; "no eye to watch, indeed. he may be in sickness and in sorrow; he may be wounded, or dying of a fever; and there's no mother's eye to watch over him. as to all the earth being forgot, i won't believe that tom has forgotten his mother." old tom replied- "seasons may roll, but the true soul burns the same wherever it goes." "so it does, tom--so it does; and he's thinking this moment of his father and mother, i do verily believe, and he loves us more than ever." "so i believe," replied old tom--"that is, if he hasn't anything better to do. but there's a time for all things; and when a man is doing his duty as a seaman, he mustn't let his thoughts wander. never fear, old woman: he'll be back again. "there's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, to take care of the life of poor jack." "god grant it! god grant it!" replied the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron, and then resuming her netting. "he seems," continued she, "by his letters, to be over-fond of that girl, mary stapleton--and i sometimes think that she cares not a little for him; but she's never of one mind long. i didn't like to see her flaunting and flirting so with the soldiers, and at the same time tom says that she writes that she cares for nobody but him." "women are--women! that's sartin," replied old tom, musing for a time, and then showing that his thoughts were running on his son, by bursting out- "mary, when yonder boundless sea shall part us, and perchance for ever, think not my heart can stray from thee, or cease to mourn thine absence--never! and when in distant climes i roam, forlorn, unfriended, broken-hearted--" "don't say so, tom--don't say so," interrupted the old woman. tom continued- "oft shall i sigh for thee and home, and all those joys from which i parted." "aye, so he does, poor fellow, i'll be bound to say. what would i give to see his dear, smiling face!" said mrs beazeley. "and i'd give no little, missus, myself. but still, it's the duty for every man to serve his country; and so ought tom, as his father did before him. i shall be glad to see him back: but i'm not sorry that he's gone. our ships must be manned, old woman; and if they take men by force, it's only because they won't volunteer--that's all. when they're once on board they don't mind it. you women require pressing just as much as the men, and it's all much of a muchness." "how's that tom?" "why, when we make love, and ask you to marry, don't you always pout, and say, `no!' you like being kissed, but we must take it by force. so it is with manning a ship. the men all say, `no;' but when they are once there, they like the service very much--only, you see, like you, they want pressing. don't tom write and say that he's quite happy, and don't care where he is so long as he's with jacob?" "yes; that's true; but they say jacob is to be discharged and come home, now that he's come to a fortune; and what will tom say then?" "why, that _is_ the worst of it. i believe that jacob's heart is in the right place; but still, riches spoil a man. but we shall see. if jacob don't prove `true blue,' i'll never put faith in man again. but there be changes in this world, that's sartin. "we all have our taste of the ups and the downs, as fortune dispenses her smiles and her frowns; but may we not hope, if she's frowning to-day, that to-morrow she'll lend us the light of her ray. "i only wish jacob was here--that's all." "then you have your wish, my good old friend," cried i, running up to tom and seizing his hand. but old tom was so taken by surprise that he started back and lost his equilibrium, dragging me after him, and we rolled on the turf together. nor was this the only accident, for old mrs beazeley was so alarmed that she also sprang from the bench fixed in the half of the old boat stuck on end, and threw herself back against it. the boat, rotten when first put up, and with the disadvantage of exposure to the elements for many years, could no longer stand such pressure. it gave way to the sudden force applied by the old woman, and she and the boat went down together, she screaming and scuffling among the rotten planks, which now, after so many years close intimacy, were induced to part company. i was first on my legs, and ran to the assistance of mrs beazeley, who was half smothered with dust and flakes of dry pitch; and old tom coming to my assistance, we put the old woman on her legs again. "o deary me!" cried the old woman--"o deary me! i do believe my hip is out! lord, mr jacob, how you frightened me!" "yes," said old tom, shaking me warmly by the hand, "we were all taken aback, old boat and all. what a shindy you have made, bowling us all down like ninepins! well, my boy, i'm glad to see you, and notwithstanding your gear, you're jacob faithful still." "i hope so," replied i; and we then adjourned to the house, where i made them acquainted with all that had passed, and what i intended to do relative to obtaining tom's discharge. i then left them, promising to return soon, and, hailing a wherry going up the river, proceeded to my old friend the dominie, of whose welfare, as well as stapleton's and mary's, i had been already assured. but as i passed through putney bridge i thought i might as well call first upon old stapleton; and i desired the waterman to pull in. i hastened to stapleton's lodgings, and went upstairs, where i found mary in earnest conversation with a very good-looking young man, in a sergeant's uniform of the 93rd regiment. mary, who was even handsomer than when i had left her, starting up, at first did not appear to recognise me, then coloured up to the forehead, as she welcomed me with a constraint i had never witnessed before. the sergeant appeared inclined to keep his ground; but on my taking her hand and telling her that i brought a message from a person whom i trusted she had not forgotten, he gave her a nod and walked downstairs. perhaps there was a severity in my countenance as i said, "mary, i do not know whether, after what i have seen, i ought to give the message; and the pleasure i anticipated in meeting you again is destroyed by what i have now witnessed. how disgraceful is it thus to play with a man's feelings--to write to him, assuring him of your regard and constancy, and at the same time encouraging another." mary hung down her head. "if i have done wrong, mr faithful," said she, after a pause, "i have not wronged tom; what i have written i felt." "if that is the case, why do you wrong another person? why encourage another young man only to make him unhappy?" "i have promised him nothing; but why does not tom come back and look after me? i can't mope here by myself; i have no one to keep company with; my father is always away at the alehouse, and i must have somebody to talk to. besides, tom is away, and may be away a long while, and absence cures love in men, although it does not in women." "it appears then, mary, that you wish to have two strings to your bow, in case of accident." "should the first string break, a second would be very acceptable," replied mary. "but it is always this way," continued she, with increasing warmth; "i never can be in a situation which is not right; whenever i do anything which may appear improper, so certain do _you_ make your appearance when least expected and least wished for--as if you were born to be my constant accuser." "does not your own conscience accuse you, mary?" "mr faithful," repeated she, very warmly, "you are not my father confessor; but do as you please--write to tom if you please, and tell him all you have seen, and anything you may think--make him and make me miserable and unhappy--do it, i pray. it will be a friendly act; and as you are now a great man, you may persuade tom that i am a jilt and a good-for-nothing." here mary laid her hands on the table and buried her face in them. "i did not come here to be your censor, mary; you are certainly at liberty to act as you please, without my having any right to interfere; but as tom is my earliest and best friend, so far as his interests and happiness are concerned, i shall carefully watch over them. we have been so long together, and i am so well acquainted with all his feelings, that i really believe that if ever there was a young man sincerely and devotedly attached to a woman, he is so to you; and i will add, that if ever there was a young man who deserved love in return, it is tom. when i left, not a month back, he desired me to call upon you as soon as i could, and assure you of his unalterable attachment; and i am now about to procure his discharge, that he may be able to return. all his thoughts are upon this point, and he is now waiting with the utmost impatience the arrival of it, that he may again be in your company; you can best judge whether his return will or will not be a source of happiness." mary raised her head--her face was wet with tears. "then he will soon be back again, and i shall see him. indeed, his return will be no source of unhappiness, if i can make him happy-indeed, it shall not, mr faithful; but pray don't tell him of my foolish conduct, pray don't--why make him unhappy?--i entreat you not to do it. i will not do so again. promise me, jacob, will you?" continued mary, taking me by the arm, and looking beseechingly in my face. "mary, i will never be a mischief-maker; but recollect i exact the performance of your promise." "oh, and i will keep it, now that i know he will soon be home. i can, i think i can--i'm sure i can wait a month or two without flirting. but i do wish that i was not left so much alone. i wish tom was at home to take care of me, for there is no one else. i can't take care of myself." i saw by mary's countenance that she was in earnest, and i therefore made friends with her, and we conversed for two hours, chiefly about tom. when i left her she had recovered her usual spirits, and said at parting, looking archly at me, "now, you will see how wise and prudent i shall be." i shook my head, and left her that i might find out [my] old friend stapleton, who, as usual, was at the door of the public-house, smoking his pipe. at first he did not recognise me, for when i accosted him he put his open hand to his ear as usual, and desired me to speak a little louder, but i answered, "nonsense, stapleton, that won't do with me." he then took his pipe out of his mouth, and looked me full in the face. "jacob, as i'm alive! didn't know you in your long togs--thought you was a gentleman wanting a boat. well, i hardly need say how glad i am to see you after so long; that's no more than human natur'. and how's tom? have you seen mary?" these two questions enabled me to introduce the subject that i wished. i told him of the attachment and troth pledged between the two, and how wrong it was for him to leave her so much alone. the old man agreed with me, and said, that as to talking to the men, that was on mary's part nothing but "human natur'"; and that as for tom wishing to be at home and seeing her again, that also was nothing but "human natur'"; but that he would smoke his pipe at home in future, and keep the soldiers out of the house. satisfied with this assurance i left him, and taking another wherry went up to brentford to see the dominie. chapter forty one. all the little boys are let loose, and the dominie is caught--anxious to supply my teeth, he falls in with other teeth, and mrs. bately also shows her teeth--gin outside, gin in, and gin out again, and old woman out also--dominie in for it again--more like a whig ministry than a novel. i found the worthy old dominie in the school-room, seated at his elevated desk, the usher not present, and the boys making a din enough to have awaked a person from a trance. that he was in one of his deep reveries, and that the boys had taken advantage of it, was evident. "mr dobbs," said i, walking close up to the desk, but the dominie answered not. i repeated his name in a louder voice. "cosine of _x plus ab minus z minus a half_; such must be the result," said the dominie talking to himself. "yet it doth not prove correct. i may be in error. let me revise my work," and the dominie lifted up his desk to take out another piece of paper. when the desk lid was raised, i removed his work and held it behind me. "but how is this?" exclaimed the dominie, and he looked everywhere for his previous calculations. "nay," continued he, "it must have been the wind;" and then he cast his eyes about until they fixed upon me laughing at him. "eheu! what do my eyes perceive?--it is--yet it is not--yes, most truly it is, my son jacob. welcome, most welcome," cried the old man, descending from his desk, and clasping me in his arms. "long is it since i have seen thee, my son, _interea magnum sol circumvolvitur annum_. long, yes long, have i yearned for thy return, fearful lest, _nudus ignota arena_, thou mightest, like another palinurus, have been cast away. thou art returned, and all is well; as the father said in the scripture: i have found my son which i had lost; but no prodigal thou, though i use the quotation as apt. now all is well; thou hast escaped the danger of the battle, the fire, and the wreck, and now thou mayest hang up thy wet garment as a votive offering; as horace hath it, _uvida suspendisse potenti vestimenta maris deo_." during the apostrophe of the dominie, the boys perceiving that he was no longer wrapped up in his algebra, had partly settled to their desks, and in their apparent attention to their lessons reminded me of the humming of bees before a hive on a summer's day. "boys," cried the dominie, "_nunc est ludendum_; verily ye shall have a holiday; put up your books, and depart in peace." the books were hastily put up, in obedience to the command; the depart in peace was not so rigidly adhered to--they gave a loud shout, and in a few seconds the dominie and i stood alone in the school-room. "come, jacob, let us adjourn to my sanctum; there may we commune without interruption. thou shalt tell me thine adventures, and i will communicate to thee what hath been made known to me relative to those with whom thou wert acquainted." "first let me beg you to give me something to eat, for i am not a little hungry," interrupted i, as we gained the kitchen. "verily shalt thou have all that we possess, jacob; yet now, i think, that will not be much, seeing that i and our worthy matron did pick the bones of a shoulder of mutton, this having been our fourth day of repast upon it. she is out, yet i will venture to intrude into the privacy of her cupboard, for thy sake. peradventure she may be wroth, yet will i risk her displeasure." so saying, the old dominie opened the cupboard, and, one by one, handed to me the dishes with their contents. "here jacob are two hard dumplings from yesterday. canst thou relish cold, hard, dumplings?--but, stop, here is something more savoury--half of a cold cabbage, which was left this day. we will look again. here is meat--yes, it is meat; but now do i perceive it is a piece of lights reserved for the dinner of the cat to-morrow. i am fearful that we must not venture upon that, for the dame will be wroth." "pray put it back, sir; i would not interfere with puss on any account." "nay, then, jacob, i see naught else, unless there may be viands on the upper shelf. sir, here is bread, the staff of life, and also a fragment of cheese; and now, methinks, i discern something dark at the back of the shelf." the dominie extended his hand, and immediately withdrew it, jumping from his chair, with a loud cry. he had put his fingers into a rat gin, set by the old woman for those intruders, and he held up his arm and stamped as he shouted out with the pain. i hastened to him, and pressing down the spring, released his fingers from the teeth, which, however, had drawn blood, as well as bruised him; fortunately, like most of the articles of their menage, the trap was a very old one, and he was not much hurt. the dominie thrust his fingers into his capacious mouth, and held them there some time without speaking. he began to feel a little ease, when in came the matron. "why, what's all this!" said she, in a querulous tone. "jacob here, and all my cupboard on the table. jacob, how dare you go to my cupboard?" "it was the dominie, mrs bately, who looked there for something for me to eat, and he has been caught in a rat-trap." "serve him right; i have forbade him that cupboard. have i not, mr dobbs?" "yea, and verily," quoth the dominie, "and i do repent me that i took not thine advice, for look at my fingers;" and the dominie extended his lacerated digits. "dear me! well i'd no idea that a rat-trap pinched so hard," replied the old woman, whose wrath was appeased. "how it must hurt the poor things--i won't set it again, but leave them all to the cat; he'll kill them, if he only can get at them." the old lady went to a drawer, unlocked it, brought out some fragments of rags, and a bottle of friar's balsam, which she applied to the dominie's hand, and then bound it up, scolding him the whole time. "how stupid of you, mr dobbs; you know that i was only out for a few minutes. why didn't you wait--and why did you go to the cupboard? hav'n't i always told you not to look into it? and now you see the consequences." "verily my hand burneth," replied the dominie. "i will go for cold water, and it will ease you. what a deal of trouble you do give, mr dobbs; you're worse than a charity boy;" and the old lady departed to the pump. "vinegar is a better thing, sir," said i, "and there is a bottle in the cupboard, which i dare say is vinegar." i went to the cupboard, and brought out the bottle, took out the cork and smelt it. "this is not vinegar, sir, it is hollands or gin." "then would i like a glass, jacob, for i feel a sickening faintness upon me; yet be quick, peradventure the old woman may return." "drink out of the bottle, sir," said i, perceiving that the dominie looked very pale, "and i will give you notice of her approach." the dominie put the bottle to his mouth, and was taking a sufficient draught, when the old woman returned by another door which was behind us; she had gone that way for a wash-basin. before we could perceive her, she came behind the dominie, snatched the bottle from his mouth with a jerk that threw a portion of the spirits in his eyes, and blinded him. "that's why you went to my cupboard, is it, mr dobbs?" cried she, in a passion. "that's it, is it? i thought my bottle went very fast; seeing that i don't take more than a tea-spoonful every night, for the wind which vexes me so much. i'll set the rat-trap again, you may depend upon it; and now you may get somebody else to bind your fingers." "it was i who took it out, mrs bately; the dominie would have fainted with pain. it was very lucky that he has a housekeeper who is careful to have something of the kind in the house, or he might have been dead. you surely don't begrudge a little of your medicine to recover mr dobbs?" "peace, woman, peace," said the dominie, who had gained courage by his potation. "peace, i say; i knew not that thou hadst in thy cupboard either a gin for my hand, or gin for my mouth; since i have been taken in the one, it is but fair that i should take in the other. in future both thy gins will not be interfered with by me. bring me the basin, that i may appease my angry wounds, and then hasten to procure some viands to appease the hunger of my son jacob; lastly, appease thine own wrath. _pax_. peace, i say;" and the old woman, who perceived that the dominie had asserted his right of dominion, went to obey his orders, grumbling till she was out of hearing. the application of the cold pump-water soon relieved the pain of the good old dominie, and with his hand remaining in the basin, we commenced a long conversation. at first i narrated to him the events which had occurred during my service on board of the frigate. when i told him of my parting with tom, he observed, "verily do i remember that young tom, a jocund, pleasant, yet intrusive lad. yet do i wish him well, and am grieved that he should be so taken by that maiden mary. well may we say of her, as horace hath of pyrrha--`_quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus, grate, pyrrha, sub antro. cui flavam religas comam, simplex munditiis_.' i grieve at it, yea, grieve much. _heu, quoties fidem mutatosque deos flebit_! verily, jacob, i do prophesy that she will lead him into error, yea, perhaps into perdition." "i trust not, sir," replied i; but the dominie made no answer. for half-an-hour he was in deep and serious thought, during which mrs bately entered, and spreading a cloth, brought in from the other room some rashers of bacon and eggs, upon which i made a hasty and hearty meal. the old matron's temper was now smoothed, and she welcomed me kindly, and shortly after went out for a fresh basin of cold water for the dominie to bathe his hand. this roused him, and he recommenced the conversation. "jacob, i have not yet congratulated thee upon thy accession to wealth; not that i do not sincerely rejoice in it, but because the pleasure of thy presence has made me unmindful of it. still, was it fortunate for thee that thou hadst raised up such a friend as mr turnbull; otherwise what would have been the result of thy boasted independence? thou wouldst probably have remained many years on board of a man-of-war, and have been killed, or have returned mutilated, to die unknown." "you were right, sir," replied i; "my independence was nothing but pride; and i did bitterly repent, as you said i should do, even before i was pressed into the king's service--but mr drummond never repeated his offers." "he never did, jacob; but as i have since been informed by him, although he was taken by surprise at thy being forced away to serve thy country, still he was not sure that you would accept them; and he, moreover, wished you fully to feel thine own folly. long before you had made friends with him, he had attested the will of mr turnbull, and was acquainted with the contents. yet, did he watch over thee, and had he thought that thy way of life had led thee into that which was wrong, he would have interfered to save thee; but he considered with shakespeare that `sweet were the uses of adversity,' and that thou wouldst be more schooled by remaining some time under her unprepossessing frowns. he hath ever been thy friend." "i can believe it. i trust he is well, and his family." "they were well and prosperous, but a little while ago, jacob; yet i have seen but little of them since the death of mr turnbull. it will pain thee to hear that affliction at thy absence hastened his dissolution. i was at his death-bed, jacob; and i verily believe he was a good man, and will meet the reward of one; yet did he talk most strangely, and reminded me of that remnant of a man you call old tom. `it's no use, old gentleman,' said he, as he lay in his bed supported by pillows, for he had wasted away till he was but a skeleton, having broken a blood-vessel with his violent coughing--`it's no use pouring that doctor's stuff down my throat; my anchor's short stay a-peak, and in a few minutes i shall trip it, i trust for heaven, where i hope there are moorings laid down for me.' `i would fain comprehend thee,' replied i, `but thou speakest in parables.' `i mean to say that death has driven his harpoon in up to the shank, and that i struggle in vain. i have run out all my line. i shall turn up in a few minutes--so give my love and blessing to jacob--he saved my life once--but now i'm gone.' with these last words his spirit took its flight; and thus, jacob, did your benefactor breathe his last, invoking a blessing on your head." i remained silent for a few minutes, for i was much affected by the dominie's description; he at length resumed the conversation. "thou hast not yet seen the drummonds, jacob?" "i have not," i replied, "but i will call upon them tomorrow; but it is time that i should go, for i have to return to london." "thou needst not, jacob. thine own house is at hand." "my own house!" "yes; by the will of mr turnbull, his wife has been left a handsome jointure, but, for reasons which he did not explain, the house and furniture are not left to her, but, as residuary legatee, belong to thee." "indeed!--then where is mrs turnbull?" "at bath, where she hath taken up her residence. mr drummond, who hath acted in thy behalf, permitted her to take away such articles as she might wish, but they were but few, chiefly those little objects which filled up rather than adorned the drawing-room. the house is all ready for thy reception, and thou mayst take possession this evening." "but why did not mr turnbull leave it to his widow?" "i cannot exactly say, but i think he did not wish her to remain in this place. he, therefore, left her 5000 pounds at her own disposal, to enable her to purchase and furnish another." i then took my leave of the dominie, and it being rather late, i resolved to walk to the house and sleep there. chapter forty two. in which i take possession of my own house, and think that it looks very ill-furnished without a wife--tom's discharge is sent out, but by accident it never reaches him--i take my new station in society. on my arrival the front gates were opened by the gardener's wife, who made me a profound courtesy. the gardener soon afterwards made his appearance, hat in hand. everything was neat and in good order. i entered the house, and as soon as possible rid myself of their obsequious attentions. i wished to be alone. powerful feelings crowded on my mind. i hastened to mr turnbull's study, and sat down in the chair so lately occupied by him. the proud feeling of possession, softened into gratitude to heaven, and sorrow at his death, came over me, and i remained for a long while in a deep reverie. "and all this, and more, much more, are mine," i mentally exclaimed; "the sailor before the mast, the waterman on the river, the charity-boy, the orphan sits down in quiet possession of luxury and wealth. what have i done to deserve all this?" my heart told me nothing, or if anything, it was almost valueless, and i poured forth my soul in thanks to heaven. i felt more composed after i had performed this duty, and my thoughts then dwelt upon my benefactor. i surveyed the room--the drawings, the furs and skins, the harpoons and other instruments, all remaining in their respective places, as when i last had an interview with mr turnbull. i remembered his kindness, his singleness of heart, his honesty, his good sense, and his real worth; and i shed many tears for his loss. my thoughts then passed to sarah drummond, and i felt much uneasiness on that score. would she receive me, or would she still remember what i had been? i recollected her kindness and good-will towards me. i weighed these, and my present condition, against my origin and my former occupation; and could not ascertain how the scale might turn. i shall soon see, thought i. to-morrow, even, may decide the question. the gardener's wife knocked at the door, and announced that my bed was prepared. i went to sleep, dreaming of sarah, young tom, the dominie and mary stapleton. i was up early the next morning, and hastened to the hotel; when, having arranged my person to the best of my power (but at the same time never so little to my satisfaction), i proceeded to the house of mr drummond. i knocked; and this time i was not desired to wait in the hall, but was immediately ushered up into the drawing-room. sarah drummond was sitting alone at her drawing. my name was announced as i entered. she started from her chair, and blushed deeply as she moved towards me. we joined hands in silence. i was breathless with emotion. never had she appeared so beautiful. neither party appeared willing to break silence; at last i faltered out, "miss drummond,"--and then i stopped. "mr faithful," replied she; and then, after a break--"how very silly this is; i ought to have congratulated you upon your safe return, and upon your good fortune; and, indeed, mr faithful, no one can do so more sincerely." "miss drummond," replied i, confused, "when i was an orphan, a charity-boy, and a waterman, you called me jacob, if the alteration in my prospects induces you to address me in so formal a manner--if we are in future to be on such different terms--i can only say that i wish that i were again--jacob faithful, the waterman." "nay," replied she, "recollect that it was your own choice to be a waterman. you might have been different--very different. you might at this time have been a partner with my father, for he said so but last night, when we were talking about you. but you refused all; you threw away your education, your talents, your good qualities, from a foolish pride, which you considered independence. my father almost humbled himself to you--not that it is ever humiliating to acknowledge and attempt to repair a fault, but still he did more than could be expected from most people. your friends persuaded you, but you rejected their advice; and what was still more unpardonable, even i had no influence over you. as long as you punished yourself i did not upbraid you; but now that you have been so fortunate, i tell you plainly--" "what?" "that it is more than you deserve, that's all." "you have said but the truth, miss drummond. i was very proud and very foolish; but i had repented of my folly long before i was pressed; and i candidly acknowledge that i do not merit the good fortune i have met with. can i say more?" "no; i am satisfied with your repentance and acknowledgment. so, now you may sit down, and make yourself agreeable." "before i do that, allow me to ask, as you address me as mr faithful, how am i to address you? i should not wish to be considered impertinent." "my name is miss drummond, but those who feel intimate with me call me sarah." "i may reply that my name is faithful, but those who feel intimate with me call me jacob." "very true; but allow me to observe that you show very little tact. you should never force a lady into a corner. if i appear affronted when you call me sarah, then you will do wise to fall back upon miss drummond. but why do you fix your eyes upon me so earnestly?" "i cannot help it, and must beg your pardon; but you are so improved in appearance since i last saw you. i thought no one could be more perfect, but--" "well, that's not a bad beginning, jacob. i like to hear of my perfections. now follow up your _but_." "i hardly know what i was going to say, but i think it was that i do not feel as if i ought or can address you otherwise than as miss drummond." "oh, you've thought better of it, have you? well, i begin to think myself that you look so well in your present dress, and have become so very different a person, that i ought not to address you by any other name than mr faithful. so now we are agreed." "that's not what i mean to say." "well, then, let me know what you did mean to say." this puzzling question fortunately did not require an answer, for mr drummond came into the room and extended his hand. "my dear jacob," said he, in the most friendly manner, "i'm delighted to see you back again, and to have the pleasure of congratulating you on your good fortune. but you have business to transact which will not admit of any delay. you must prove the will, and arrange with the lawyers as soon as possible. will you come now? all the papers are below, and i have the whole morning to spare. we will be back to dinner, sarah, if jacob has no other engagement." "i have none," replied i; "and shall be most happy to avail myself of your kindness. miss drummond, i wish you a good morning." "_au revoir_, mr faithful," replied sarah, courtesying formally, with a mocking smile. the behaviour of mr drummond towards me was most kind and parental, and my eyes were often suffused with tears during the occupation of the morning. the most urgent business was got through, and an interview with mr turnbull's solicitor put the remainder in progress; still it was so late when we had accomplished it, that i had no time to dress. on my return, mrs drummond received me with her usual kindness. i narrated, during the evening, my adventures since we parted, and took that opportunity to acknowledge to mr drummond how bitterly i had repented my folly, and i may add ingratitude, towards him. "jacob," said he, as we were sitting at the tea-table with mrs drummond and sarah, "i knew at the time that you were toiling on the river for shillings that you were the inheritor of thousands; for i not only witnessed but read the will of mr turnbull; but i thought it best that you should have a lesson which you would never forget in after life. there is no such thing in this world as independence, unless in a savage state. in society we are all mutually dependent upon each other. independence of mind we may have, but no more. as a waterman, you were dependent upon your customers, as every poor man must be upon those who have more means; and in refusing my _offers_ you were obliged to apply for employment to others. the rich are as entirely dependent upon others as the poor; they depend upon them for their food, their clothes, their necessities, and their luxuries. such ever will be the case in society, and the more refined the society may be--the more civilised its parts--the greater is the mutual dependence. still it is an error originating in itself from high feelings, and therefore must be considered as an error on the right side; but recollect how much you might have thrown away had not you, in the first place, secured such a friend as mr turnbull; and secondly, if the death of that friend had not so soon put you in possession." i was but too ready to acknowledge the truth of these remarks. the evening passed away so rapidly that it was midnight before i rose to take my leave, and i returned to the hotel as happy in my mind, and as grateful as ever any mortal could possibly be. the next day i removed to the house left me by mr turnbull, and the first order i gave was for a wherry. such was the force of habit, i could not do without one; and half my time was spent upon the river, pulling every day down to mr drummond's, and returning in the evening, or late at night. thus passed away two months, during which i occasionally saw the dominie, the stapletons, and old tom beazeley. i had exerted myself to procure tom's discharge, and at last had the pleasure of telling the old people that it was to go out by the next packet. by the drummonds i was received as a member of the family--there was no hindrance to my being alone with sarah for hours; and although i had not ventured to declare my sentiments, they appeared to be well understood, as well by the parents as by sarah herself. two days after i had communicated this welcome intelligence to the old couple, as i was sitting at breakfast, attended by the gardener and his wife (for i had made no addition to my establishment), what was my surprise at the appearance of young _tom_, who entered the room as usual, laughing as he held out his hand. "tom!" exclaimed i, "why, how did you come here?" "by water, jacob, as you may suppose." "but how have you received your discharge? is the ship come home?" "i hope not; the fact is, i discharged myself, jacob." "what! did you desert?" "even so. i had three reasons for so doing. in the first place, i could not remain without you; in the second, my mother wrote to say mary was taken up with a sodger; and the third was, i was put into the report for punishment, and should have been flogged, as sure as the captain had a pair of epaulettes." "well, but sit down and tell me all about it. you know your discharge is obtained." "yes, thanks to you, jacob; all the better, for now they won't look after me. all's well that ends well. after you went away, i presume i was not in the very best of humours; and that rascal of a master's mate who had us pressed, thought proper to bully me beyond all bearing. one day he called me a lying scoundrel; upon which i forgot that i was on board of a man-of-war, and replied that he was a confounded cheat, and that he had better pay me his debt of two guineas for bringing him down the river. he reported me on the quarter-deck for calling him a cheat, and captain maclean, who, you know, won't stand any nonsense, heard the arguments on both sides; upon which he declared that the conduct of the master's mate was not that of an officer or a gentleman, and therefore _he_ should leave the ship; and that my language to my superior officer was subversive to the discipline of the service, and therefore he should give me a good flogging. now, jacob, you know that if the officers don't pay their debts, captain maclean always does, and with interest into the bargain; so finding that i was in for it, and no mistake, i swam ashore the night before black monday, and made my way to miramichi, without any adventure, except a tussle with a sergeant of marines, whom i left for dead about three miles out of the town. at miramichi i got on board of a timber ship, and here i am." "i am sorry that you deserted, nevertheless," replied i; "it may come to mischief." "never fear; the people on the river know that i have my discharge, and i'm safe enough." "have you seen mary!" "yes, and all's right in that quarter. i shall build another wherry, wear my badge and dress, and stick above bridge. when i'm all settled, i'll splice, and live along with the old couple." "but will mary consent to live there? it is so quiet and retired that she won't like it." "mary stapleton has given herself airs enough in all conscience, and has had her own way quite enough. mary beazeley will do as her husband wishes, or i will know the reason why." "we shall see, tom. bachelors' wives are always best managed, they say. but now you want money to buy your boat." "yes, if you'll lend it to me; i don't like to take it away from the old people; and i'll pay you when i can, jacob." "no; you must accept this, tom; and when you marry you must accept something more," replied i, handing the notes to him. "with all my heart, jacob. i never can repay you for what you have done for me, and so i may just as well increase the debt." "that's good logic, tom." "quite as good as independence; is it not, jacob?" "better, much better, as i know to my cost," replied i, laughing. tom finished his breakfast, and then took his leave. after breakfast, as usual, i went to the boat-house, and unchaining my wherry, pulled up the river, which i had not hitherto done; my attendance upon sarah having invariably turned the bow of my wherry in the opposite direction. i swept by the various residences on the banks of the river until i arrived opposite to that of mr wharncliffe, and perceived a lady and gentleman in the garden. i knew them at once, and, as they were standing close to the wall, i pulled in and saluted them. "do you recollect me?" said i to them, smiling. "yes," replied the lady, "i do recollect your face--surely--it is faithful, the waterman!" "no, i am not a waterman; i am only amusing myself in my own boat." "come up," replied mr wharncliffe; "we can't shake hands with you at that distance." i made fast my wherry and joined them. they received me most cordially. "i thought you were not a waterman, mr faithful, although you said that you were," said mrs wharncliffe. "why did you deceive us in that way?" "indeed, at that time i was, from my own choice and my own folly a waterman; now i am so no longer." we were soon on the most intimate terms, and i narrated part of my adventures. they expressed their obligations to me, and requested that i would accept their friendship. "would you like to have a row on the water? it is a beautiful day, and if mrs wharncliffe will trust herself--" "oh, i should like it above all things. will you go. william? i will run for a shawl." in a few minutes we were all three embarked, and i rowed them to _my villa_. they had been admiring the beauty of the various residences on the banks of the thames. "how do you like that one?" inquired i of mrs wharncliffe. "it is very handsome, and i think one of the very best." "that is mine," replied i. "will you allow me to show it to you?" "yours!" "yes, mine; but i have a very small establishment, for i am a bachelor." we landed, and after walking about the grounds went into the house. "do you recollect this room?" said i to mr wharncliffe. "yes, indeed i do; it was here that the box was opened, and my uncle's-but we must not say anything about that: he is dead!" "dead!" "yes; he never held his head up after his dishonesty was discovered. he pined and died within three months, sincerely repenting what he had attempted." i accepted their invitation to dinner, as i rowed them back to their own residence; and afterwards had the pleasure of enrolling them among my sincerest friends. through them i was introduced to lady auburn and many others; and i shall not forget the old housekeeper recognising me one day, when i was invited to lady auburn's villa. "bless me! what tricks you young gentlemen do play. only to think how you asked me for water, and how i pushed the door in your face, and wouldn't let you rest yourself. but if you young gentlemen will disguise yourselves, it's your own faults, and you must take the consequences." my acquaintances now increased rapidly, and i had the advantage of the best society. i hardly need observe that it was a great advantage; for, although i was not considered awkward, still i wanted that polish which can only be obtained by an admixture with good company. the reports concerning me were various; but it was generally believed that i was a young man who had received an excellent education, and might have been brought forward, but that i had taken a passion for the river, and had chosen to be a waterman in preference to any other employment; that i had since come into a large fortune, and had resumed my station in society. how far the false was blended with the true, those who have read my adventures will readily perceive. for my part, i cared little what they said, and i gave myself no trouble to refute the various assertions. i was not ashamed of my birth, because it had no effect upon the drummonds; still i knew the world too well to think it necessary to blazon it. on the whole, the balance was in my favour; there was a degree of romance in my history, with all its variations, which interested, and, joined to the knowledge of my actual wealth, made me to be well received, and gained me attention wherever i went. one thing was much to my advantage--my extensive reading, added to the good classical education which i had received. it is not often in society that an opportunity occurs when any one can prove his acquisitions; and thus did education turn the scale in my favour, and every one was much more inclined to believe the false rather than the true versions of my history. chapter forty three. the dominie proves stapleton's "human natur'" to be correct--the red-coat proves too much of a match for the blue--mary sells tom, and tom sells what is left of him, for a shilling--we never know the value of anything till we have lost it. i had often ruminated in what manner i could render the dominie more comfortable. i felt that to him i was as much indebted as to any living being, and one day i ventured to open the subject; but his reply was decided. "i see, jacob, my son, what thou wouldst wish: but it must not be. man is but a creature of habit; habit becomes to him not only necessity but luxury. for five-and-forty years have i toiled, instilling precepts and forcing knowledge into the brains of those who have never proved so apt as thou. truly, it hath been a painful task, yet can i not relinquish it. i might, at one time, that is, during the first ten years, have met the offer with gratitude; for i felt the humiliation and annoyance of wearying myself with the rudiments, when i would fain have commented upon the various peculiarities of style in the ancient greek and latin authors; but now, all that has passed away. the eternal round of concord, prosody, and syntax has charms for me from habit: the rule of three is preferable to the problems of euclid, and even the latin grammar has its delights. in short, i have a _hujus_ pleasure in _hic, haec, hoc; [cluck cluck;]_ and even the flourishing of the twigs of that tree of knowledge, the birch, hath become a pleasurable occupation to me, if not to those upon whom it is inflicted. i am like an old horse, who hath so long gone round and round in a mill, that he cannot walk straight forward; and, if it pleases the almighty, i will die in harness. still i thank thee, jacob; and thank god that thou hast again proved the goodness of thy heart, and given me one more reason to rejoice in thee and in thy love; but thine offer, if accepted, would not add to my happiness; for what feeling can be more consolatory to an old man near into his grave than the reflection that his life, if not distinguished, has at least been useful?" i had not for some time received a visit from tom; and, surprised at this, i went down to his father's to make inquiry about him. i found the old couple sitting in-doors; the weather was fine, but old tom was not at his work; even the old woman's netting was thrown aside. "where is tom?" inquired i, after wishing them good morning. "oh deary me!" cried the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes; "that wicked good-for-nothing girl!" "good heavens! what is the matter?" inquired i of old tom. "the matter, jacob," replied old tom, stretching out his two wooden legs, and placing his hands upon his knees, "is, that tom has 'listed for a sodger." "'listed for a soldier!" "yes; that's as sartain as it's true; and what's worse, i'm told the regiment is ordered to the west indies. so, what with fever o' mind and yellow fever, he's food for the land crabs, that's sartain. i think now," continued the old man, brushing a tear from his eye with his fore-finger, "that i see his bones bleaching under the palisades; for i know the place well." "don't say so, tom; don't say so!" "o jacob! beg pardon if i'm too free now; but can't you help us?" "i will if i can, depend upon it; but tell me how this happened." "why, the long and the short of it is this: that girl, mary stapleton, has been his ruin. when he first came home he was well received, and looked forward to being spliced and living with us; but it didn't last long. she couldn't leave off her old tricks; and so, that tom might not get the upper hand, she plays him off with the sergeant of a recruiting party, and flies off from one to the other, just like the ticker of the old clock there does from one side to the other. one day the sergeant was the fancy man, and the next day it was tom. at last tom gets out of patience, and wishes to come to a fair understanding. so he axes her whether she chooses to have the sergeant or to have him; she might take her choice, but he had no notion of being played with in that way, after all her letters and all her promises. upon this she huffs outright, and tells tom he may go about his business, for she didn't care if she never sees him no more. so tom's blood was up, and he called her a damned jilt, and, in my opinion, he was near to the truth; so then they had a regular breeze, and part company. well, this made tom very miserable, and the next day he would have begged her pardon, and come to her terms, for, you see, jacob, a man in love has no discretion; but she being still angry, tells him to go about his business, as she means to marry the sergeant in a week. tom turns away again quite mad; and it so happens that he goes into the public-house where the sergeant hangs out, hoping to be revenged on him, and meaning to have a regular set-to, and see who is the best man; but the sergeant wasn't there, and tom takes pot after pot to drive away care; and when the sergeant returned, tom was not a little in liquor. now, the sergeant was a knowing chap, and when he comes in, and perceives tom with his face flushed, he guesses what was to come, so, instead of saying a word, he goes to another table, and dashes his fist upon it, as if in a passion. tom goes up to him, and says, `sergeant, i've known that girl long before you, and if you are a man, you'll stand up for her.' `stand up for her; yes,' replied the sergeant, `and so i would have done yesterday, but the blasted jilt has turned me to the right about and sent me away. i won't fight now, for she won't have me--any more than she will you.' now when tom hears this, he becomes more pacified with the sergeant, and they set down like two people under the same misfortune, and take a pot together, instead of fighting; and then, you see, the sergeant plies tom with liquor, swearing that he will go back to the regiment, and leave mary altogether, and advises tom to do the same. at last, what with the sergeant's persuasions, and tom's desire to vex mary, he succeeds in 'listing him, and giving him the shilling before witnesses; that was all the rascal wanted. the next day tom was sent down to the depot, as they call it, under a guard; and the sergeant remains here to follow up mary without interruption. this only happened three days ago, and we only were told of it yesterday by old stapleton, who threatens to turn his daughter out of doors." "can't you help us, jacob?" said the old woman, crying. "i hope i can; and if money can procure his discharge it shall be obtained. but did you not say that he was ordered to the west indies?" "the regiment is in the indies, but they are recruiting for it, so many have been carried off by the yellow fever last sickly season. a transport, they say, will sail next week, and the recruits are to march for embarkation in three or four days." "and what is the regiment, and where is the depot?" "it is the 47th fusiliers, and the depot is at maidstone." "i will lose no time, my good friends," replied i; "to-morrow i will go to mr drummond, and consult with him." i returned the grateful squeeze of old tom's hand, and, followed by the blessings of the old woman, i hastened away. as i pulled up the river, for that day i was engaged to dine with the wharncliffes, i resolved to call upon mary stapleton, and ascertain by her deportment whether she had become that heartless jilt which she was represented, and if so, to persuade tom, if i succeeded in obtaining his discharge, to think no more about her; i felt so vexed and angry with her, that after i landed, i walked about a few minutes before i went to the house, that i might recover my temper. when i walked up the stairs i found mary sitting over a sheet of paper, on which she had been writing. she looked up as i came in, and i perceived that she had been crying. "mary," said i, "how well you have kept the promise you made to me when last we met! see what trouble and sorrow you have brought upon all parties except yourself." "except myself--no, mr faithful, don't except myself, i am almost mad-i believe that i am mad--for surely such folly as mine is madness;" and mary wept bitterly. "there is no excuse for your behaviour, mary--it is unpardonably wicked. tom sacrificed all for your sake--he even deserted, and desertion is death by the law. now what have you done?--taken advantage of his strong affection to drive him to intemperance, and induce him, in despair, to enlist for a soldier. he sails for the west indies to fill up the ranks of a regiment thinned by the yellow fever, and will perhaps never return again--you will then have been the occasion of his death. mary, i have come to tell you that i despise you." "i despise and hate myself," replied mary, mournfully; "i wish i were in my grave. oh, mr faithful, do for god's sake--do get him back. you can, i know you can--you have money and everything." "if i do, it will not be for your benefit, mary, for you shall trifle with him no more. i will not try for his discharge unless he faithfully promises never to speak to you again." "you don't say that--you don't mean that!" cried mary, sweeping the hair with her hand back from her forehead--and her hand still remaining on her head--"o god! o god! what a wretch i am! hear me, jacob, hear me," cried she, dropping on her knees, and seizing my hands; "only get him his discharge--only let me once see him again, and i swear by all that's sacred, that i will beg his pardon on my knees as i now do yours. i will do everything--anything--if he will but forgive me, for i cannot, i will not live without him." "if this is true, mary, what madness could have induced you to have acted as you have?" "yes," replied mary, rising from her knees, "madness, indeed--more than madness to treat so cruelly one for whom i only care to live. you say tom loves me; i know he does; but he does not love me as i do him. o, my god! my heart will break!" after a pause, mary resumed. "read what i have written to him--i have already written as much in another letter. you will see that if he cannot get away, i have offered to go out with him as his wife; that is, if he will have such a foolish, wicked girl as i am." i read the letter; it was as she said, praying forgiveness, offering to accompany him, and humiliating herself as much as it was possible. i was much affected. i returned the letter. "you can't despise me so much as i despise myself," continued mary; "i hate, i detest myself for my folly. i recollect now how you used to caution me when a girl. oh, mother, mother, it was a cruel legacy you left to your child, when you gave her your disposition. yet why should i blame her? i must blame myself." "well, mary, i will do all i can, and that as soon as possible. to-morrow i will go down to the depot." "god bless you, jacob; and may you never have the misfortune to be in love with such a one as myself." chapter forty four. i am made very happy--in other respects a very melancholy chapter, which, we are sorry to inform the reader, will be followed up by one still more so. i left mary, and hastened home to dress for dinner. i mentioned the subject of wishing to obtain tom's discharge to mr wharncliffe, who recommended my immediately applying to the horse guards; and, as he was acquainted with those in office, offered to accompany me. i gladly accepted his offer; and the next morning he called for me in his carriage, and we went there. mr wharncliffe sent up his card to one of the secretaries, and we were immediately ushered up, when i stated my wishes. the reply was:--"if you had time to procure a substitute it would be easily arranged; but the regiment is so weak, and the aversion to the west indies so prevalent after this last very sickly season, that i doubt if his royal highness would permit any man to purchase his discharge. however, we will see. the duke is one of the kindest-hearted of men, and i will lay the case before him. but let us see if he is still at the depot; i rather think not." the secretary rang the bell. "the detachment of the 47th fusiliers from the depot--has it marched? and when does it embark?" the clerk went out, and in a few minutes returned with some a papers in his hand. "it marched the day before yesterday, and was to embark this morning, and sail as soon as the wind was fair." my heart sank at this intelligence. "how is the wind, mr g---? go down and look at the tell-tale." the clerk returned. "east north east, sir, and has been steadily so these two days." "then," replied the secretary, "i am afraid you are too late to obtain your wish. the orders to the port-admiral are most peremptory to expedite the sailing of the transports, and a frigate has been now three weeks waiting to convoy them. depend upon it, they have sailed to-day." "what can be done?" replied i, mournfully. "you must apply for his discharge, and procure a substitute. he can then have an order sent out, and be permitted to return home. i am very sorry, as i perceive you are much interested; but i'm afraid it is too late now. however, you may call to-morrow. the weather is clear with this wind, and the port-admiral will telegraph to the admiralty the sailing of the vessels. should anything detain them, i will take care that his royal highness shall be acquainted with the circumstances this afternoon, if possible, and will give you his reply." we thanked the secretary for his politeness, and took our leave. vexed as i was with the communications i had already received, i was much more so when one of the porters ran to the carriage to show me, by the secretary's order, a telegraphic communication from the admiralty, containing the certain and unpleasant information, "convoy to west indies sailed this morning." "then it is all over for the present," said i, throwing myself back in the carriage; and i continued in a melancholy humour until mr wharncliffe, who had business in the city, put me down as near as the carriage went to the house of mr drummond. i found sarah, who was the depository of all my thoughts, pains, and pleasures, and i communicated to her this episode in the history of young tom. as most ladies are severe judges of their own sex, she was very strong in her expressions against the conduct of mary, which she would not allow to admit of any palliation. even her penitence had no weight with her. "and yet, how often is it the case, sarah, not perhaps to the extent carried on by this mistaken girl; but still, the disappointment is as great, although the consequences are not so calamitous. among the higher classes, how often do young men receive encouragement, and yield themselves up to a passion, to end only in disappointment! it is not necessary to plight troth; a young woman may not have virtually committed herself, and yet, by merely appearing pleased with the conversation and company of a young man, induce him to venture his affections in a treacherous sea, and eventually find them wrecked." "you are very nautically poetical, jacob," replied sarah. "such things do happen; but i think that women's affections are, to use your phrase, oftener wrecked than those of men. that, however, does not exculpate either party. a woman must be blind, indeed, if she cannot perceive, in a very short time, whether she is trifling with a man's feelings, and base, indeed, if she continues to practise upon them." "sarah," replied i, and i stopped. "well?" "i was," replied i, stammering a little--"i was going to ask you if you were blind." "as to what, jacob?" said sarah, colouring up. "as to my feelings towards you." "no; i believe you like me very well," replied she, smiling. "do you think that that is all?" "where do you dine to-day, jacob," replied sarah. "that must depend upon you and your answer. if i dine here to-day, i trust to dine here often. if i do not dine here to-day, probably i never may again. i wish to know, sarah, whether you have been blind to my feelings towards you; for, with the case of mary and tom before me, i feel that i must no longer trust to my own hopes, which may end in disappointment. will you have the kindness to put me out of my misery?" "if i have been blind to your feelings i have not been blind to your merit, jacob. perhaps i have not been blind to your feelings, and i am not of the same disposition as mary stapleton. i think you may venture to dine here to-day," continued she, colouring and smiling, as she turned away to the window. "i can hardly believe that i'm to be so happy, sarah," replied i, agitated. "i have been fortunate, very fortunate; but the hopes you have now raised are so much beyond my expectations--so much beyond my deserts--that i dare not indulge in them. have pity on me, and be more explicit." "what do you wish me to say?" replied sarah, looking down upon her work, as she turned round to me. "that you will not reject the orphan who was fostered by your father, and who reminds you of what he was, that you may not forget at this moment what i trust is the greatest bar to his presumption--his humble origin." "jacob, that was said like yourself--it was nobly said; and if you were not born noble, you have true nobility of mind. i will imitate your example. have i not often, during our long friendship, told you that i loved you?" "yes, as a child you did, sarah." "then, as a woman, i repeat it. and now are you satisfied?" i took sarah by the hand; she did not withdraw it, but allowed me to kiss it over and over again. "but your father and mother, sarah?" "would never have allowed our intimacy if they had not approved of it, jacob, depend upon it. however, you may make yourself easy on that score by letting them know what has passed; and then, i presume, you will be out of your misery." before the day was over i had spoken to mrs drummond, and requested her to open the business to her husband, as i really felt it more than i could dare to do. she smiled as her daughter hung upon her neck; and when i met mr drummond at dinner-time i was "out of my misery," for he shook me by the hand, and said, "you have made us all very happy, jacob; for that girl appears determined either to marry you or not to marry at all. come; dinner is ready." i will leave the reader to imagine how happy i was, what passed between sarah and me in our _tete-a-tete_ of that evening, how unwilling i was to quit the house, and how i ordered a post-chaise to carry me home, because i was afraid to trust myself on that water on which the major part of my life had been safely passed, lest any accident should happen to me and rob me of my anticipated bliss. from that day i was as one of the family, and finding the distance too great, took up my abode at apartments contiguous to the house of mr drummond. but the course of other people's love did not run so smooth, and i must now return to mary stapleton and tom beazeley. i had breakfasted, and was just about to take my wherry and go down to acquaint the old couple with the bad success of my application. i had been reflecting with gratitude upon my own happiness in prospect, indulging in fond anticipations, and then, reverting to the state in which i had left mary stapleton and tom's father and mother, contrasting their misery with my joy, arising from the same source, when, who should rush into the dining-room but young tom, dressed in nothing but a shirt and a pair of white trousers, covered with dust, and wan with fatigue and excitement. "good heavens! tom! are you back? then you must have deserted." "very true," replied tom, sinking on a chair, "i swam on shore last night, and have made from portsmouth to here since eight o'clock. i hardly need say that i am done up. let me have something to drink, jacob, pray." i went to the cellaret and brought him some wine, of which he drank off a tumbler eagerly. during this i was revolving in my mind the consequences which might arise from this hasty and imprudent step. "tom," said i, "do you know the consequences of desertion?" "yes," replied he, gloomily, "but i could not help it. mary told me in her letter that she would do all i wished, would accompany me abroad; she made all the amends she could, poor girl! and, by heavens, i could not leave her; and when i found myself fairly under weigh, and there was no chance, i was almost mad; the wind baffled us at the needles, and we anchored for the night; i slipped down the cable and swam on shore, and there's the whole story." "but, tom, you will certainly be recognised and taken up for a deserter." "i must think of that," replied tom; "i know the risk i run; but if you obtain my discharge, they may let me off." i thought this was the best plan to proceed upon, and requesting tom to keep quiet, i went to consult with mr wharncliffe. he agreed with me that it was tom's only chance, and i pulled to his father's, to let them know what had occurred, and then went on to the drummonds. when i returned home late in the evening the gardener told me that tom had gone out and had not returned. my heart misgave me that he had gone to see mary, and that some misfortune had occurred, and i went to bed with most anxious feelings. my forebodings were proved to be correct, for the next morning i was informed that old stapleton wished to see me. he was ushered in, and as soon as he entered, he exclaimed, "all's up, master jacob--tom's nabbed--mary fit after fit--_human natur'_." "why, what _is_ the matter, stapleton?" "why, it's just this--tom desarts to come to mary. cause why?--he loves her--human natur'. that soldier chap comes in and sees tom, clutches hold, and tries to take possession of him. tom fights, knocks out sergeant's starboard eye, and tries to escape--human natur'. soldiers come in, pick up sergeant, seize tom, and carry him off. mary cries, and screams, and faints--human natur'--poor girl can't keep her head up--two women with burnt feathers all night. sad job, mister jacob. of all the senses love's the worst, that's sartain--quite upset me, can't smoke my pipe this morning--mary's tears quite put my pipe out,"--and old stapleton looked as if he was ready to cry himself. "this is a sad business, stapleton," replied i. "tom will be tried for desertion, and god knows how it will end. i will try all i can; but they have been very strict lately." "hope you will, mister jacob. mary will die, that's sartain. i'm more afraid that tom will. if one does, t'other will. i know the girl--just like her mother, never could carry her helm amidships, hard a port, or hard a starboard. she's mad now to follow him--will go to maidstone. i take her as soon as i go back to her. just come up to tell you all about it." "this is a gloomy affair, stapleton." "yes, for sartain--wish there never was such a thing as _human natur'_." after a little conversation, and a supply of money, which i knew would be acceptable, stapleton went away, leaving, me in no very happy state of mind. my regard for tom was excessive, and his situation one of peculiar danger. again i repaired to mr wharncliffe for advice, and he readily interested himself most warmly. "this is, indeed, an awkward business," said he, "and will require more interest than i am afraid that i command. if not condemned to death, he will be sentenced to such a flogging as will break him down in spirit as well as in body, and sink him into an early grave. death were preferable of the two. lose no time, mr faithful, in going down to maidstone, and seeing the colonel commanding the depot. i will go to the horse guards, and see what is to be done." i wrote a hurried note to sarah to account for my absence, and sent for post-horses. early in the afternoon i arrived at maidstone, and finding out the residence of the officer commanding the depot, sent up my card. in few words i stated to him the reason of my calling upon him. "it will rest altogether with the horse guards, mr faithful, and i am afraid i can give you but little hope. his royal highness has expressed his determination to punish the next deserter with the utmost severity of the law. his leniency on that point has been very injurious to the service, and he _must do it_. besides, there is an aggravation of the offence in his attack upon the sergeant, who has irrecoverably lost his eye." "the sergeant first made him drunk, and then persuaded him to enlist." i then stated the rivalship that subsisted between them, and continued, "is it not disgraceful to enlist men in that way--can that be called voluntary service?" "all very true," replied the officer, "but still expediency winks at even more. i do not attempt to defend the system, but we must have soldiers. the seamen are impressed by force, the soldiers are entrapped by other means, even more discreditable: the only excuse is expediency, or, if you like it better, necessity. all i can promise you, sir, is, to allow the prisoner every comfort which his situation will permit, and every advantage at his court-martial, which mercy, tempered by justice, will warrant." "i thank you, sir; will you allow me and his betrothed to see him?" "most certainly; the order shall be given forthwith." i thanked the officer for his kindness, and took my leave. chapter forty five. read it. i hastened to the black hole where tom was confined, and the order for my admission having arrived before me, i was permitted by the sergeant of the guard to pass the sentry. i found tom sitting on a bench notching a stick with his knife, whistling a slow tune. "this is kind, jacob, but not more than i expected of you--i made sure that i should see you to-night or to-morrow morning. how's poor mary? i care only for her now--i am satisfied--she loves me, and--i knocked out the sergeant's eye--spoilt his wooing, at all events." "but, tom, are you aware of the danger in which you are placed?" "yes, jacob, perfectly; i shall be tried by a court-martial and shot. i've made up my mind to it--at all events, it's better than being hung like a dog, or being flogged to death like a nigger. i shall die like a gentleman, if i have never been one before, that's some comfort. nay, i shall go out of the world with as much noise as if a battle had been fought, or a great man had died." "how do you mean?" "why there'll be more than one _bullet-in_." "this is no time for jesting, tom." "not for you, jacob, as a sincere friend, i grant; not for poor mary, as a devoted girl; not for my poor father and mother--no, no," continued tom. "i feel for them, but for myself i neither fear nor care. i have not done wrong--i was pressed against the law and act of parliament, and i deserted. i was enlisted when i was drunk and mad, and i deserted. there is no disgrace to me; the disgrace is to the government which suffers such acts. if i am to be a victim, well and good--we can only die once." "very true, tom; but you are young to die, and we must hope for the best." "i have given up all hope, jacob. i know the law will be put in force. i shall die and go to another and a better world, as the parson says, where, at all events, there will be no muskets to clean, no drill, and none of your confounded pipe-clay, which has almost driven me mad. i should like to die in a blue jacket--in a red coat i will not, so i presume i shall go out of the world in my shirt, and that's more than i had when i came in." "mary and her father are coming down to you, tom." "i'm sorry for that, jacob; it would be cruel not to see her--but she blames herself so much that i cannot bear to read her letters. but, jacob, i will see her, to try if i can comfort her--but she must not stay; she must go back again till after the court-martial, and the sentence, and then--if she wishes to take her farewell, i suppose i must not refuse." a few tears dropped from his eyes as he said this. "jacob, will you wait and take her back to town?--she must not stay here--and i will not see my father and mother until the last. let us make one job of it, and then all will be over." as tom said this the door of the cell again opened, and stapleton supported in his daughter. mary tottered to where tom stood, and fell into his arms in a fit of convulsions. it was necessary to remove her, and she was carried out. "let her not come in again, i beseech you, jacob; take her back, and i will bless you for your kindness. wish me farewell now, and see that she does not come again." tom wrung me by the hand, and turned away to conceal his distress. i nodded my head in assent, for i could not speak for emotion, and followed stapleton and the soldiers who had taken mary out. as soon as she was recovered sufficiently to require no further medical aid, i lifted her into the post-chaise, and ordered the boys to drive back to brentford. mary continued in a state of stupor during the journey; and when i arrived at my own house, i gave her into the charge of the gardener's wife, and despatched her husband for medical assistance. the application of mr wharncliffe was of little avail, and he returned to me with disappointment in his countenance. the whole of the next week was the most distressing that i ever passed; arising from my anxiety for tom, my daily exertions to reason mary into some degree of submission to the will of providence--her accusations of herself and her own folly--her incoherent ravings, calling herself tom's murderer, which alarmed me for her reason; the distress of old tom and his wife, who, unable to remain in their solitude, came all to me for intelligence, for comfort, and for what, alas! i dare not give them--hope. all this, added to my separation from sarah during my attendance to what i considered my duty, reduced me to a debility, arising from mental exertion, which changed me to almost a skeleton. at last the court-martial was held, and tom was condemned to death. the sentence was approved of, and we were told that all appeals would be unavailing. we received the news on the saturday evening, and tom was to suffer on the tuesday morning. i could no longer refuse the appeals of mary; indeed, i received a letter from tom, requesting that all of us, the dominie included, would come down and bid him farewell. i hired a carriage for old tom, his wife, stapleton, and mary, and putting the dominie and myself in my own chariot, we set off early on the sunday morning for maidstone. we arrived about eleven o'clock, and put up at an inn in close proximity to the barracks. it was arranged that the dominie and i should see tom first, then his father and mother, and lastly, mary stapleton. "verily," said the dominie, "my heart is heavy, exceeding heavy; my soul yearneth after the poor lad, who is thus to lose his life for a woman--a woman from whose toils i did myself escape. yet is she exceeding fair and comely, and now that it is unavailing, appeareth to be penitent." i made no reply; we had arrived at the gate of the barracks. i requested to be admitted to the prisoner, and the doors were unbarred. tom was dressed with great care and cleanliness in white trousers and shirt and waistcoat, but his coat lay on the table; he would not put it on. he extended his hand towards me with a faint smile. "it's all over now, jacob; and there is no hope that i am aware of, and i have made up my mind to die; but i wish these last farewells were over, for they unman me. i hope you are well, sir," continued tom to the dominie. "nay, my poor boy, i am as well as age and infirmity will permit, and why should i complain when i see youth, health, and strength about to be sacrificed; and many made miserable, when many might be made so happy?" and the dominie blew his nose, the trumpet sound of which re-echoed through the cell, so as to induce the sentry to look through the bars. "they are all here, tom," said i. "would you like to see them now?" "yes; the sooner it is over the better." "will you see your father and mother first?" "yes," replied tom, in a faltering tone. i went out, and returned with the old woman on my arm, followed by old tom, who stumped after me with the assistance of his stick. poor old mrs beazeley fell on her son's neck, sobbing convulsively. "my boy--my boy--my dear, dear boy!" said she at last, and she looked up steadfastly in his face. "my god! he'll be dead to-morrow!" her head again sank on his shoulder, and her sobs were choking her. tom kissed his mother's forehead as the tears coursed down his cheeks, and motioned me to take her away. i placed her down on the floor, where she remained silent, moving her head up and down with a slow motion, her face buried in her shawl. it was but now and then that you heard a convulsive drawing of her breath. old tom had remained a silent but agitated spectator of the scene. every muscle in his weather-beaten countenance twitched convulsively, and the tears at last forced their way through the deep furrows on his cheeks. tom, as soon as his mother was removed, took his father by the hand, and they sat down together. "you are not angry with me, father, for deserting?" "no, my boy, no; i was angry with you for 'listing, but not for deserting. what business had you with the pipeclay? but i do think i have reason to be angry elsewhere, when i reflect that after having lost my two legs in defending her, my country is now to take from me my boy in his prime. it's but a poor reward for long and hard service--poor encouragement to do your duty; but what do they care? they have had my sarvices, and they have left me a hulk. well, they may take the rest of me if they please, now that they--well, it's no use crying; what's done can't be helped," continued old tom, as the tears ran down in torrents; "they may shoot you, tom; but this i know well, you'll die game, and shame them by proving to them they have deprived themselves of the sarvices of a good man when good men are needed. i would not have so much cared," continued old tom, after a pause--"(look to the old woman, jacob, she's tumbling over to port)--if you had fallen on board a king's ship in a good frigate action; some must be killed when there's hard fighting; but to be drilled through by your own countrymen, to die by their hands, and, worst of all, to die in a red coat, instead of a true blue--" "father, i will not die in a red coat--i won't put it on." "that's some comfort, tom, anyhow, and comfort's wanted." "and i'll die like a man, father." "that you will, tom, and that's some comfort." "we shall meet again, father." "hope so, tom, in heaven--that's some comfort." "and now, father, bless me, and take care of my poor mother." "bless you, tom, bless you!" cried the old man, in a suffocating voice, extending both his hands towards tom, as they rose up; but the equilibrium was no longer to be maintained, and he reeled back in the arms of me and tom. we lowered him gently down by the side of his wife; the old couple turned to each other, and embracing, remained sobbing in each other's arms. "jacob," said tom, squeezing me by the hand, with a quivering lip, "by your regard for me, let now the last scene be got over--let me see mary, and let this tortured heart once more be permitted a respite." i sent out the dominie. tom leant against the wall, with his arms folded, in appearance summoning up all his energy for the painful meeting. mary was led in by her father. i expected she would have swooned away, as before; but, on the contrary, although she was pale as death, and gasping for breath, from intensity of feeling, she walked up to tom where he was standing, and sat down on the form close to him. she looked anxiously round upon the group, and then said, "i know that all i now say is useless, tom; but still i must say it--it is i who, by my folly, have occasioned all this distress and misery--it is i who have caused you to suffer a--dreadful death--yes, tom, i am your murderer." "not so, mary, the folly was my own," replied tom, taking her hand. "you cannot disguise or palliate to me, dearest tom," replied mary; "my eyes have been opened, too late it is true, but they have been opened; and although it is kind of you to say so, i feel the horrid conviction of my own guilt. see what misery i have brought about. there is a father who has sacrificed his youth and his limbs to his country, sobbing in the arms of a mother whose life is bound up with that of her only son. to them," continued mary, falling down upon her knees, "to them i must kneel for pardon, and i ask it as they hope to be forgiven. answer me--oh! answer me! can you forgive a wretch like me?" a pause ensued. i went up to old tom, and kneeling by his side, begged him to answer. "forgive her, poor thing--yes; who could refuse it, as she kneels there? come," continued he, speaking to his wife, "you must forgive her. look up, dame, at her, and think that our poor boy may be asking the same of heaven to-morrow at noon." the old woman looked up, and her dimmed eyes caught a sight of mary's imploring and beautiful attitude; it was not to be withstood. "as i hope for mercy to my poor boy, whom you have killed, so do i forgive you, unhappy young woman." "may god reward you, when you are summoned before him," replied mary. "it was the hardest task of all. of you, jacob, i have to ask forgiveness for depriving you of your early and truest friend--yes, and for much more. of you, sir," addressing the dominie, "for my conduct towards you, which was cruel and indefensible--will you forgive me?" "yes, mary, from my heart, i do forgive you," replied i. "bless thee, maiden, bless thee!" sobbed the dominie. "father, i must ask of you the same--i have been a wilful child--forgive me!" "yes, mary; you could not help it," replied old stapleton, blubbering; "it was all human natur'." "and now," said mary, turning round on her knees to tom, with a look expressive of anguish and love, "to you, tom, must be my last appeal. i know _you_ will forgive me--i know you have--and this knowledge of your fervent love makes the thought more bitter that i have caused your death. but hear me, tom, and all of you hear me. i never loved but you; i have liked others much; i liked jacob; but you only ever did make me feel i had a heart; and alas, you only have i sacrificed. when led away by my folly to give you pain, i suffered more than you--for you have had my only, you shall have my eternal and unceasing love. to your memory i am hereafter wedded, to join you will be my only wish--and if there could be a boon granted me from heaven, it would be to die with you, tom--yes, in those dear arms." mary held out her arms to tom, who falling down on his knees, embraced her, and thus they remained with their faces buried in each other's shoulders. the whole scene was now at its climax; it was too oppressive, and i felt faint, when i was aroused by the voice of the dominie, who, lifting up both his arms, and extending them forth, solemnly prayed, "o lord, look down upon these thy servants in affliction; grant to those who are to continue in their pilgrimage strength to bear thy chastening--grant to him who is to be summoned to thee that happiness which the world cannot give; and o god most mighty, god most powerful, lay not upon us burdens greater than we can bear.--my children let us pray." the dominie knelt down and repeated the lord's prayer; all followed his example, and then there was a pause. "stapleton," said i, pointing to mary. i beckoned to the dominie. we assisted up old tom, and then his wife, and led them away; the poor old woman was in a state of stupefaction, and until she was out in the air was not aware that she had quitted her son. stapleton had attempted to detach mary from tom, but in vain; they were locked together as if in death. at last tom, roused by me, suffered his hold to be loosened, and mary was taken out in a happy state of insensibility, and carried to the inn by her father and the dominie. "are they all gone?" whispered tom to me, as his head reclined on my shoulder. "all, tom." "then the bitterness of death is past; god have mercy on them, and assuage their anguish; they want his help more than i do." a passionate flood of tears, which lasted some minutes, relieved the poor fellow; he raised himself, and drying his eyes, became more composed. "jacob, i hardly need tell my dying request, to watch over my poor father and mother, to comfort poor mary--god bless you, jacob! you have indeed been a faithful friend, and may god reward you. and now, jacob, leave me; i must commune with my god, and pray for forgiveness. the space between me and eternity is but short." tom threw himself into my arms, where he remained for some minutes; he then broke gently away, and pointed to the door. i once more took his hand and we parted. chapter forty six. in which, as usual in the last chapter of a work, everything is wound up much to the reader's satisfaction, and not a little to the author's, who lays down his pen, exclaiming, "thank god!" i went back to the inn, and ordering the horses to be put to, i explained to all but mary the propriety of their now returning home. mary was lifted in, and it was a relief to my mind to see them all depart. as for myself, i resolved to remain until the last; but i was in a state of feverish agitation, which made me restless. as i paced up and down the room, the newspaper caught my eye. i laid hold of it mechanically, and looked at it. a paragraph rivetted my attention. "his majesty's ship _immortalite_ chatham, to be paid off." then our ship has come home. but what was that now? yet something whispered to me that i ought to go and see captain maclean, and try if anything could be done. i knew his commanding interest, and although it was now too late, still i had an impulse to go and see him, which i could not resist. "after all," said i to myself, "i'm of no use here, and i may as well go." this feeling, added to my restlessness, induced me to order horses, and i went to chatham, found out that captain maclean was still on board, and took boat off to the frigate. i was recognised by the officers, who were glad to see me, and i sent a message to the captain, who was below, requesting to see him. i was asked into the cabin, and stated to him what had occurred, requesting his assistance, if possible. "faithful," replied he, "it appears that tom beazeley has deserted twice; still there is much extenuation; at all events, the punishment of death is too severe, and i don't _like_ it--i can save him, and i will. by the rule of the services, a deserter from one service can be claimed from the other, and must be tried by his officers. his sentence is, therefore, not legal. i shall send a party of marines, and claim him as a deserter from the navy, and they must and shall give him up--make yourself easy, faithful, his life is as safe as yours." i could have fallen on my knees and thanked him, though i could hardly believe that such good news was true. "there is no time to lose, sir," replied i, respectfully; "he is to be shot to-morrow at nine o'clock." "he will be on board here to-morrow at nine o'clock, or i am not captain maclean. but, as you say, there is no time to lose. it is now nearly dark, and the party must be off immediately. i must write a letter on service to the commanding officer of the depot. call my clerk." i ran out and called the clerk. in a few minutes the letter was written, and a party of marines, with the second lieutenant, despatched with me on shore. i ordered post-chaises for the whole party, and before eleven we were at maidstone. the lieutenant and i sat up all night, and, at daylight, we summoned the marines and went to the barracks, where we found the awful note of preparation going forward, and the commanding officer up and attending to the arrangements. i introduced the lieutenant, who presented the letter on service. "good heavens, how fortunate! you can establish his identity, i presume." "every man here can swear to him." "'tis sufficient, mr faithful. i wish you and your friend joy of this reprieve. the rules of the service must be obeyed, and you will sign a receipt for the prisoner." this was done by the lieutenant, and the provost marshal was ordered to deliver up the prisoner. i hastened with the marines into the cell; the door was unlocked. tom, who was reading his bible, started up, and perceiving the red jackets, thought that he was to be led out to execution. "my lads," exclaimed he, "i am ready; the sooner this is over the better." "no, tom," said i, advancing; "i trust for better fortune. you are claimed as a deserter from the _immortalite_." tom stared, lifted the hair from his forehead, and threw himself into my arms; but we had no time for a display of feelings. we hurried tom away from the barracks; again i put the whole party into chaises, and we soon arrived at chatham, where we embarked on board of the frigate. tom was given into the charge of the master-at-arms as a deserter, and a letter was written by captain maclean, demanding a court-martial on him. "what will be the result?" inquired i of the first lieutenant. "the captain says, little or nothing, as he was pressed as an apprentice, which is contrary to act of parliament." i went down to cheer tom with this intelligence, and taking my leave, set off for london with a light heart. still i thought it better not to communicate this good news until assurance was made doubly sure. i hastened to mr drummond's, and detailed to them all that had passed. the next day mr wharncliffe went with me to the admiralty, where i had the happiness to find that all was legal, and that tom could only be tried for his desertion from a man-of-war; and that if he could prove that he was an apprentice, he would, in all probability, be acquitted. the court-martial was summoned three days after the letter had been received by the admiralty. i hastened down to chatham to be present. it was very short; the desertion was proved, and tom was called upon for his defence. he produced his papers, and proved that he was pressed before his time had expired. the court was cleared for a few minutes, and then re-opened. tom was acquitted on the ground of illegal detention, contrary to act of parliament, and he was _free_. i returned my thanks to captain maclean and his officers for their kindness, and left the ship with tom in the cutter, ordered for me by the first lieutenant. my heart swelled with gratitude at the happy result. tom was silent, but his feelings i could well analyse. i gave to the men of the boat five guineas to drink tom's health, and, hastening to the inn, ordered the carriage, and with tom, who was a precious deposit, for upon his welfare depended the happiness of so many, i hurried to london as fast as i could, stopped at the drummond's to communicate the happy intelligence, and then proceeded to my own house, where we slept. the next morning i dressed tom in some of my clothes, and we embarked in the wherry. "now, tom," said i, "you must keep in the background at first, while i prepare them. where shall we go first?" "oh, to my mother," replied tom. we passed through putney bridge, and tom's bosom heaved as he looked towards the residence of mary. his heart was there, poor fellow! and he longed to fly to the poor girl and dry her tears; but his first duty was to his parents. we soon arrived abreast of the residence of the old couple, and i desired tom to pull in, but not turn his head round, lest they should see him before i had prepared them; for too much joy will kill as well as grief. old tom was not at his work, and all was quiet. i landed and went to the house, opened the door, and found them both sitting by the kitchen fire in silence, apparently occupied in watching the smoke as it ascended up the spacious chimney. "good morning to you both," said i; "how do you find yourself, mrs beazeley?" "ah, deary me!" replied the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes. "sit down, jacob, sit down," said old tom; "we _can_ talk of him now." "yes, now that he's in heaven, poor fellow!" interposed the old woman. "tell me, jacob," said old tom, with a quivering lip, "did you see the last of him? tell me all about it. how did he look? how did he behave? was he soon out of his pain? and--jacob--where is he buried!" "yes, yes;" sobbed mrs beazeley; "tell me where is the body of my poor child." "can you bear to talk about him?" said i. "yes, yes; we can't talk too much; it does us good," replied she. "we have done nothing but talk about him since we left him." "and shall, till we sink down into our own graves," said old tom, "which won't be long. i've nothing to wish for now, and i'll never sing again, that's sartain. we shan't last long, either of us. as for me," continued the old man with a melancholy smile, looking down at his stumps. "i may well say that i've _two_ feet in the grave already. but come, jacob, tell us all about him." "i will," replied i; "and my dear mrs beazeley, you must prepare yourself for different tidings than what you expect. tom is not yet shot." "not dead!" shrieked the old woman. "not yet, jacob;" cried old tom, seizing me by the arm, and squeezing it with the force of a vice, as he looked me earnestly in the face. "he lives; and i am in hopes he will be pardoned." mrs beazeley sprang from her chair and seized me by the other arm. "i see--i see by your face. yes, jacob, he is pardoned; and we shall have our tom again." "you are right, mrs beazeley; he is pardoned, and will soon be here." the old couple sank down on their knees beside me. i left them, and beckoned from the door to tom, who flew up, and in a moment was in their arms. i assisted him to put his mother into her chair, and then went out to recover myself from the agitating scene. i remained about an hour outside, and then returned. the old couple seized me by the hands, and invoked blessings on my head. "you must now part with tom a little while," said i; "there are others to make happy besides yourselves." "very true," replied old tom; "go, my lad, and comfort her. come, missus, we mustn't forget others." "oh, no. go, tom; go and tell her that i don't care how soon she is my daughter." tom embraced his mother, and followed me to the boat; we pulled up against the tide, and were soon at putney. "tom, you had better stay in the boat. i will either come or send for you." it was very unwillingly that tom consented, but i overruled his entreaties, and he remained. i walked to mary's house and entered. she was up in the little parlour, dressed in deep mourning; when i entered she was looking out upon the river; she turned her head, and perceiving me, rose to meet me. "you do not come to upbraid me, jacob, i am sure," said she, in a melancholy voice; "you are too kind-hearted for that." "no, no, mary; i come to comfort you, if possible." "that is not possible. look at me, jacob. is there not a worm--a canker--that gnaws within?" the hollow cheek and wild flaring eye, once so beautiful, but too plainly told the truth. "mary," said i, "sit down; you know what the bible says--`it is good for us to be afflicted.'" "yes, yes," sobbed mary, "i deserve all i suffer; and i bow in humility. but am i not too much punished, jacob? not that i would repine; but is it not too much for me to bear, when i think that i am the destroyer of one who loved me so?" "you have not been the destroyer, mary." "yes, yes; my heart tells me that i have." "but--i tell you that you have not. say, mary, dreadful as the punishment has been, would you not kiss the rod with thankfulness, if it cured you of your unfortunate disposition, and prepared you to make a good wife?" "that it has cured me, jacob, i can safely assert; but it has also killed me as well as him. but i wish not to live; and i trust, in a few short months, to repose by his side." "i hope you will have your wish, mary, very soon, but not in death." "merciful heavens! what do you mean, jacob?" "i said you were not the destroyer of poor tom--you have not been; he has not _yet_ suffered; there was an informality, which has induced them to revise the sentence." "jacob," replied mary, "it is cruelty to raise my hopes only to crush them again. if not yet dead, he is still to die. i wish you had not told me so," continued she, bursting into tears; "what a state of agony and suspense must he have been in all this time, and i--i have caused his sufferings! i trusted he had long been released from this cruel, heartless world." the flood of tears which followed assured me that i could safely impart the glad intelligence. "mary, mary, listen to me." "leave me, leave me," sobbed mary, waving her hand. "no, mary, not until i tell you that tom is not only alive, but-pardoned." "pardoned!" shrieked mary. "yes, pardoned, mary--free, mary--and in a few minutes will be in your arms." mary dropped on her knees, raised her hands and eyes to heaven, and then fell into a state of insensibility. tom, who had followed me, and remained near the house, had heard the shriek, and could no longer retain himself; he flew into the room as mary fell, and i put her into his arms. at the first signs of returning sensibility, i left them together, and went to find old stapleton, to whom i was more brief in my communication. stapleton continued to smoke his pipe during my narrative. "glad of it, glad of it," said he, when i finished. "i were just thinking how all these senses brought us into trouble, more than all, that sense of love; got me into trouble, and made me kill a man--got my poor wife into trouble, and drowned her--and now almost shot tom, and killed mary. had too much of human natur' lately--nothing but moist eyes and empty pipes. met that sergeant yesterday, had a turn up; tom settled one eye, and, old as i am, i've settled the other for a time. he's in bed for a fortnight--couldn't help it--human natur'." i took leave of stapleton, and calling in upon tom and mary, shaking hands with the one, and kissing the other, i despatched a letter to the dominie, acquainting him with what had passed, and then hastened to the drummonds and imparted the happy results of my morning's work to sarah and her mother. "and now, sarah, having so successfully arranged the affairs of other people, i should like to plead in my own behalf. i think that after having been deprived almost wholly of your dear company for a month, i deserve to be rewarded." "you do, indeed, jacob," said mrs drummond, "and i am sure that sarah thinks so too, if she will but acknowledge it." "i do acknowledge it, mamma; but what is this reward to be?" "that you will allow your father and mother to arrange an early day for our nuptials, and also allow tom and mary to be united at the same altar." "mamma, have i not always been a dutiful daughter?" "yes, my love, you have." "then i shall do as i am bidden by my parents, jacob; it will be probably the last command i receive from them, and i shall obey it; will that please you, dear jacob?" that evening the day was fixed, and now i must not weary the reader with a description of my feelings, or of my happiness in the preparations for the ceremony. sarah and i, mary and tom, were united on the same day, and there was nothing to cloud our happiness. tom took up his abode with his father and mother; and mary, radiant with happiness, even more beautiful than ever, has settled down into an excellent, doting wife. for sarah, i hardly need say the same; she was my friend from childhood, she is now all that a man could hope and wish for. we have been married several years, and are blessed with a numerous family. i am now almost at a conclusion. i have only to acquaint the reader with a few particulars relative to my early friends. stapleton is still alive, and is wedded to his pipe, which, with him, although the taste for tobacco has been considered as an acquired one, may truly be asserted to be human nature. he has two wherries with apprentices, and from them gains a good livelihood, without working himself. he says that the boys are not as honest as i was, and cheat him not a little; but he consoles himself by asserting that it is nothing but human natur'. old tom is also strong and hearty, and says that he don't intend to follow his legs for some time yet. his dame, he says, is peaking, but mary requires no assistance. old tom has left off mending boats, his sign is taken down, for he is now comfortable. when tom married, i asked him what he wished to do; he requested me to lend him money to purchase a lighter; i made him a present of a new one, just launched by mr drummond's firm. but old stapleton made over to him the 200 pounds, left to him by mr turnbull, and his mother brought out an equal sum from her hoards. this enabled tom to purchase another lighter, and now he has six or seven, i forget which; at all events he is well off, and adding to his wealth every year. they talk of removing to a better house, but the old couple wish to remain. old tom, especially, has built an arbour where the old boat stood, and sits there carolling his songs, and watching the crafts as they go up and down the river. mr and mrs wharncliffe still continue my neighbours and dearest friends. mrs turnbull died a few months back, and i am now in possession of the whole property. my father and mother-in-law are well and happy. mr drummond will retire from business as soon as he can wind up his multifarious concerns. i have but one more to speak of--the old dominie. it is now two years since i closed the eyes of this worthy man. as he increased in years so did he in his abstractions of mind, and the governors of the charity thought it necessary to superannuate him with a pension. it was a heavy blow to the old man, who asserted his capabilities to continue to instruct; but people thought otherwise, and he accepted my offer to take up his future residence with us, upon the understanding that it was necessary that our children, the eldest of whom, at that time, was but four years old, should be instructed in latin and greek. he removed to us with all his books, etcetera, not forgetting the formidable birch; but as the children would not take to the latin of their own accord, and mrs faithful would not allow the rod to be made use of, the dominie's occupation was gone. still, such was the force of habit, that he never went without the latin grammar in his pocket, and i have often watched him sitting down in the poultry-yard, fancying, i presume, that he was in his school. there would he decline, construe, and conjugate aloud, his only witnesses being the poultry, who would now and then raise a gobble, gobble, gobble, while the ducks with their _quack, quack, quack_, were still more impertinent in their replies. a sketch of him, in this position, has been taken by sarah, and now hangs over the mantel-piece of my study, between two of mr turnbull's drawings, one of an iceberg, on the 17th of august '78, and the other showing the dangerous position of the _camel_ whaler, jammed between the floe of ice, in latitude ---, and longitude ---. reader, i have now finished my narrative. there are two morals, i trust, to be drawn from the events of my life, one of which is, that in society we naturally depend upon each other for support, and that he who would assert his independence throws himself out of the current which bears to advancement; the other is, that with the advantages of good education, and good principle, although it cannot be expected that everyone will be so fortunate as i have been, still there is every reasonable hope, and every right to expect, that we shall do well in this world. thrown up, as the dominie expressed himself, as a tangled weed from the river, you have seen the orphan and charity-boy rise to wealth and consideration; you have seen how he who was friendless secured to himself the warmest friends; he who required everything from others became in a situation to protect and assist in return; he who could not call one individual his relation, united to the object of his attachment, and blessed with a numerous family; and to amass all these advantages and this sum of happiness, the only capital with which he embarked was a good education and good principles. reader, farewell! transcriber's note ################## this e-text is based on the 1891 edition of the book. minor punctuation errors have been tacitly corrected. inconsistencies in hyphenation and spelling, as well as the use of obsolete terms, such as 'humble bee', 'havock', etc., have been retained. the following passages have been corrected or need to be commented: # p. viii (list of illustrations): 'garrick's weir'--> 'garrick's villa' # p. 35: 'pigstyes'--> 'pigsties' # p. 49: 'bathhurst'--> 'bathurst' # p. 107: 'probaby'--> 'probably' # p. 291: 'lumber'--> 'number' # p. 317: 'an all the seas'--> 'on all the seas' 'manor of pleasuance'--> 'manor of pleasaunce' # p. 343: 'hnows'--> 'knows' # p. 365: 'jesus hospital at bray': page number added (146) italic text in the original version has been placed between underscores (_text_); passages in small caps have been symbolised by forward slashes (/small caps/). [oe] symbolises the corresponding ligature; the caret symbol (^) indicates subsequent superscript characters. /rivers of great britain: the thames, from source to sea./ [illustration: /c. l. seymour. pinxt/ /c. o. murray. sculpt/ /cliefden woods/.] rivers of great britain. the thames, from source to sea. descriptive, historical, pictorial. [illustration] cassell & company, limited: _london, paris & melbourne_. 1891. [all rights reserved.] [illustration] contents. chapter i. above oxford.--_by w. senior._ page the source of the thames--early names of the river--seven springs--thames head--the churn and its course--thames and severn canal--cricklade--castle eaton--inglesham--fairford and the coln--lechlade--the first lock--some thames flowers--old buscot--hart's weir--bird life--radcot bridge--eddying pools and golden shallows--canal-like reaches--tadpole bridge--bampton--duxford ferry--canute's country--the windrush--the oldest bridge--old father thames--disused weir-pools--bablock hythe, stanton harcourt, and cumnor--skinner's weir and pinkhill lock--eynsham weir, bridge, and cross--the evenlode--witham hill--thames angling--godstow--king's weir--port meadow--folly bridge 1 chapter ii. oxford to abingdon.--_by d. maccoll._ oxford, from the upper river; the new town--the courses of the river, from medley weir to folly bridge--the houses of the regulars and friars--the university and parish churches--the halls and colleges of the seculars, from the thirteenth century to the reformation--jacobean oxford--classic oxford--convenient oxford--the architectural revival--the undergraduate revival--the river below folly bridge, and the invention of rowing--the navigation shape of the river--floods--the barges--iffley--littlemore--kennington--radley--sandford--nuneham 33 chapter iii. abingdon to streatley.--_by j. penderel-brodhurst._ abingdon--the abbey--st. nicholas' church--the market cross--the ancient stone cross--st. helen's church--christ's hospital--culham--first view of wittenham clump--clifton hampden--the "barley mow"--a river-side solitude--day's lock--union of the thames and the isis--dorchester--the abbey church--sinodun hill--shillingford bridge--bensington--the church--crowmarsh giffard--wallingford--mongewell--newton murren--moulsford--the "beetle and wedge"--cleeve lock--streatley 62 chapter iv. streatley to henley.--_by w. senior._ streatley, the artists' mecca--goring versus streatley--goring from the toll-gate--streatley mill--weirs and backwaters--antiquity of streatley and goring--goring church--common wood--basildon ferry and hart's wood--a thames osier farm--whitchurch lock--pangbourne--hardwicke house and mapledurham--caversham bridge--reading and its abbey--a divergence to the kennet, with calls at marlborough, hungerford, and newbury--the charms of sonning--"the loddon slow, with verdant alders crowned"--st. patrick's stream--shiplake weir--wargrave and bolney court--park place--marsh lock--remarks on thames angling--the approach to henley 85 chapter v. henley to maidenhead.--_by the rev. professor bonney, f.r.s._ the best bit of the river--henley--the church--the "red lion"--shenstone's lines--henley regatta--the first university boat-race--fawley court--remenham--hambledon lock--medmenham abbey and the franciscans--dissolution of the order--hurley--lady place and its history--a strange presentiment--bisham abbey and its ghost--bisham church--great marlow--the church and its curiosities--"puppy pie"--quarry woods--the thames swans and the vintners' company--cookham and cliefden--hedsor--cliefden woods--the house--raymead--the approach to maidenhead 113 chapter vi. maidenhead to windsor.--_by h. schütz wilson._ maidenhead--bray--jesus hospital--the harbour of refuge--frederick walker--a boat-race--monkey island--the river--surley hall--boveney lock--eton--windsor--st. george's chapel--the castle--mr. r. r. holmes--james i.--surrey--the merry wives of windsor 143 chapter vii. windsor to hampton court.--_by godfrey wordsworth turner._ leaving windsor--eton, its history and its worthies--the college buildings--windsor park--the long walk--the albert bridge--datchet and falstaff--old windsor--"perdita's" grave--the tapestry works--the "bells of ouseley"--riverside inns--the loves of harry and anne boleyn--magna charter island--runnymede--the poet of cooper's hill--fish at bell weir--a neglected dainty--egham and staines--john emery--penton hook--laleham--dr. arnold--chertsey--the lock and bridge--albert smith and his brother--chertsey abbey--black cherry fair--cowley the poet--a scene from "oliver twist"--st. ann's hill--weybridge--oaklands and the grotto--shepperton lock and ferry--halliford--walton--the scold's bridle--sunbury--hampton--moulsey hurst and its sporting associations--hampton court bridge 161 chapter viii. hampton court to richmond.--_by j. penderel-brodhurst._ hampton court--thames ditton: the "swan"--the church--surbiton--kingston: the coronation stone--teddington--twickenham--eel pie island--petersham--richmond park--approach to richmond 201 chapter ix. richmond to battersea.--_by the rev. professor bonney, f.r.s._ the river at richmond--a spot for a holiday--the old palace of sheen--the trumpeters' house--old sad memories--richmond green--the church--kean's grave--water supply--the bridge--the nunnery of sion and convent of sheen--sir william temple--kew observatory, isleworth--sion house and its history--kew palace and the georges--kew gardens--kew green--brentford--mortlake--barnes--chiswick--the boat-race--hammersmith--putney--barn elms--putney and fulham--the bishops of london--hurlingham--the approach to a great city 229 chapter x. battersea to london bridge.--_by edmund ollier._ the scene changes--a city river--battersea--chelsea--the old church--sir t. more and sir hans sloane--cheyne walk--don saltero's coffee-house and thomas carlyle--the botanical gardens--chelsea hospital--the pensioners--battersea park--the suspension bridge--vauxhall--lambeth--the church and palace--westminster palace and the abbey--its foundation and history--westminster hall--westminster bridge--the victoria embankment--york gate--waterloo bridge and somerset house--the temple--blackfriars bridge--st. paul's--southwark bridge--the old theatres--cannon street bridge--london bridge and its traffic 258 chapter xi. london bridge to gravesend.--_by aaron watson._ hogarth's water frolic--billingsgate--salesmen's cries--the custom house--queen elizabeth and the customs--the tower, and tower hill--the pool--the docks--ratcliff highway--the thames tunnel--in rotherhithe--the isle of dogs--the dock labourer--deptford and greenwich--woolwich reach and dockyard--the _warspite_ 288 chapter xii. gravesend to the nore.--_by j. runciman._ morning on the lower thames--gravesend--pilots and watermen--a severe code--tilbury and its memories--the marshes--wild-fowl shooting--eel boats--canvey island--hadleigh castle--leigh, and the shrimpers--southend and the pier--sailing--sheerness--the mouth of the medway--the dockyard--the town and its divisions--the nore--a vision of wonder--shoeburyness--outward bound 337 /table of distances/ 368 list of illustrations. _frontispiece_.--/cliefden woods/. /on title-page, head of thames/ (_from bas-relief on temple pier_). pages /map of the thames/ _to face page_ 1 _above oxford_:- the seven springs--thames head--the sources of the thames (_map_)--the first bridge over the thames--cricklade--inglesham round house--lechlade: the first lock--radcot bridge--the ferry, bablock hythe--cumnor churchyard--stanton harcourt church--eynsham weir--cross at eynsham--oxford from godstow--the thames from lechlade to oxford (_map_) 1-32 _oxford to abingdon_:- the barges--oxford, from headington hill--new college, from the gardens--st. mary's, from the high street--magdalen tower, from the cherwell--stone pulpit, magdalen--"tom" gateway--the dome of the radcliffe, from brasenose--the 'varsity barge--a "bump" at the barges--iffley mill--iffley church--littlemore church and kennington island--oxford to abingdon (_map_)--a picnic to nuneham--the bridge and cottage, nuneham--distant view of abingdon 33-61 _abingdon to streatley_:- abingdon, from the river--abingdon bridge--culham church--clifton hampden church--dorchester, from little wittenham--sinodun hill and day's lock--shillingford bridge--wallingford church and bridge--moulsford ferry--abingdon to streatley (_map_)--streatley mill 62-84 _streatley to henley_:- the thames at streatley--streatley to henley (_map_)--goring, from the tollgate--whitchurch church and mill--mapledurham, the church and the mill--flooded meadows, from caversham bridge--the thames at reading, from the old clappers--sonning-on-thames--sonning weir--shiplake--a camping-out party--backwater at wargrave--a pool of water-lilies 85-112 _henley to maidenhead_:- henley regatta--henley, from the towing-path--regatta island--fawley court--aston ferry--medmenham abbey--below medmenham--bisham abbey--bisham church--great marlow, from quarry woods--henley to maidenhead (_map_)--a picnic at quarry woods--a group of swans--cookham--a crowd in cookham lock--the landing-stage, ray mead--taplow woods 113-142 maidenhead to windsor:- bray church--maidenhead to windsor (_map_)--surley--boveney lock--windsor castle, from boveney lock--st. george's chapel, windsor 143-160 _windsor to hampton court_:- procession of the boats, eton--eton, from the playing-fields--the albert bridge--old windsor lock--the "bells of ouseley"--magna charta island--runnymede--windsor to hampton court (_map_)--london stone--staines bridge--laleham ferry--laleham church--chertsey bridge--shepperton lock--shepperton--halliford--sunbury weir--sunbury church--between hampton and sunbury--garrick's villa, hampton 161-200 _hampton court to richmond_:- the approach to hampton court--entrance porch--the first quadrangle--fountain court--in the reach below hampton court--the "swan," thames ditton--thames ditton church--hampton court to richmond (_map_)--kingston, from the river--the market-place, kingston--the coronation stone--the royal barge--the "anglers," teddington--strawberry hill--pope's villa at twickenham--twickenham ferry--richmond: the meadows and the park--richmond: the terrace from the river 201-228 _richmond to battersea_:- richmond bridge--between richmond and kew--sion house--the river at kew--the pagoda in kew gardens--kew gardens--cambridge cottage--high water at mortlake--hogarth's tomb--the university boat-race--richmond to battersea (_map_)--old hammersmith bridge--old putney bridge and fulham church 229-257 _battersea to london bridge_:- battersea bridge--cheyne walk--vauxhall bridge, from nine elms pier--lambeth palace and church--the victoria tower--the abbey, from lambeth bridge--york gate--the embankment--the river at blackfriars--st. paul's, from the thames--southwark bridge--cannon street station--battersea to london bridge (_map_) 258-287 _london to gravesend_:- in the pool--st. magnus' church and the monument--london bridge to woolwich (_map_)--billingsgate: early morning--the tower, from the river--limehouse church--the river below wapping--entrance to the east india docks--the west india docks--millwall docks--millwall--greenwich hospital--view from greenwich park--the albert docks--woolwich reach--woolwich arsenal--woolwich--plumstead--dagenham marshes--barking abbey--barking reach--at purfleet--erith pier--tilbury fort--gravesend--at gravesend--woolwich to gravesend (_map_) 288-336 _gravesend to the nore_:- at canvey island--the fringe of the marshes--hadleigh castle--leigh--southend and the pier--sheerness dockyard, looking up the medway--sheerness dockyard, from the river--mouth of the thames: low water--artillery practice at shoeburyness--gravesend to the nore (_map_)--outward bound: passing the nore light 337-362 we are indebted to messrs. taunt, of oxford, for permission to use their photographs for the views on pages 15, 22, 56, 60, 65, 69, 79, 91, 149, 169, 174, 195, 198, 200, 209, 220, and 334; to messrs. hill and saunders for that on page 56; to messrs. g. w. wilson and co., of aberdeen, for that on page 54; to messrs. w. h. beer and co. for those on pages 71, 80, and 85; to messrs. marsh bros., of henley, for those on pages 63, 77, 113, and 132; to messrs. poulton and son, of lee, for that on page 335; to mr. f. h. secourable, of southend, for that on page 351; to mr. s. cole, of gravesend, for those on pages 354 and 355; and to mr. f. g. o. stuart, of southampton, for those on pages 83 and 153. [illustration: the thames from source to sea.] /rivers of great britain./ [illustration: the seven springs.] the thames. chapter i. above oxford. the source of the thames--early names of the river--seven springs--thames head--the churn and its course--thames and severn canal--cricklade--castle eaton--inglesham--fairford and the coln--lechlade--the first lock--some thames flowers--old buscot--hart's weir--bird life--radcot bridge--eddying pools and golden shallows--canal-like reaches--tadpole bridge--bampton--duxford ferry--canute's country--the windrush--the oldest bridge--old father thames--disused weir-pools--bablock hythe, stanton harcourt, and cumnor--skinner's weir and pinkhill lock--eynsham weir, bridge, and cross--the evenlode--witham hill--thames angling--godstow--king's weir--port meadow--folly bridge. the birds, flowers, and bees around are, doubtless, in their several ways, rejoicing with me in the balmy may morning radiant with warm sunshine. down the unsullied emerald of the little slope yonder, carpeted with nodding cowslips, daisies, and buttercups, and faintly azured in sheltered spaces with wild hyacinths, i have descended into a rustic glade, not, at its widest, more than fifty yards across, and running, roughly reckoning, north and south. the slope is easy, springing as it does from a verdant bottom to the foot of a low wall; this, pushing aside the glossy sycamore branches, i have leaped from the canal path, at a gap where the village children, on their recent half-holiday, wastefully cast aside the surplus of their cowslip harvest to wither and die. but from my present standpoint the low wall is nearly hidden in undergrowth, and by a plentiful intermixture of hawthorn, holly, and ash flourishing on the bank top. the sweet-smelling grass is spangled with daisies and buttercups, though not so profusely as in the field adjacent, which is destined for a crop of hay; and the grove resounds with bird-music set in the rapturous key of the bridal season. and there, a few paces athwart the sward, under the shadow of trembling foliage, is the spot which for centuries was said to be the birthplace of the river thames. we are at thames head, in trewsbury mead, in the parish of cotes, in the county of gloucestershire, three miles south-west of cirencester. the mossy trunk, lying prostrate under the wall on the side of the glade opposite the sylvan slope by which entrance has been effected, invites the opportunity of a more minute observation. seated thereupon, far from the noisy world, we may make a fair and leisurely start upon that long and interesting voyage from source to sea, upon which, in this and succeeding chapters, the reader is invited to embark with confidence and hope. here, probably, is the identical spot which peacock, author of the "genius of the thames," had in his mind when he wrote- "let fancy lead from trewsbury mead, with hazel fringed, and copsewood deep; where, scarcely seen, through brilliant green, thy infant waters softly creep." the friendly branches of a wild rose hustle my elbow, or, rather, would do so, but that a sturdier bramble bough interposes. on the other side of me there is a charming tangle of hazel and blackberry bushes. there is also a more than commonly bushy hawthorn overspreading the wall at a portion where thick ivy covers it. a spreading wild rose is established in the very middle of the glade, which is graced with quite an unusual quantity of large and old hawthorn trees. a strong west wind soughs and sighs in the trees; blackbirds and thrushes, by their liquid notes, blithe and merry, seem to protest against the melancholy undertone, as does a grand humble bee, in magnificent orange-velvet smallclothes, who contributes a sympathetic bass solo as he drones by. but the object to be chiefly noticed at this moment is the aged ash-tree yonder. it is of medium size and no particular shape, though the ivy covering its bole and lower limbs gives it an air of picturesque importance. ragged hawthorns and brambles surround it. the importance of the tree lies in the circumstance that it marks the spot which the old writers, and many modern authorities following in their footsteps, have pronounced to be the source of the thames. the supposition is that in former times a perennial spring of water issued forth here, forming thames head. the well, however, out of which the water might once have gushed, and miscellaneously overspread the pasturage on its way to form a brook, has in these days lost potency. for a long time past it has ceased to yield water, and, as a matter of prosaic fact, from one end of the glade to the other there is no sign of water in any shape or form. the inhabitants of the countryside say that in the winter-time the waters, provoked by long rains, still well forth in copious flood; but, even granting this, we may not conclude that a spring so uncertain as this in trewsbury mead is the source of the thames. the obvious reflection is that before the erection of the ugly pump-house which disfigures the locality, and before the neighbouring springs began to be drained for the service of the canal, the supply of water was permanent and strong, albeit there is ground for supposing that thames head was never thoroughly to be relied upon. i have thus pictured for the reader the source which appears to be favoured by topographers and antiquaries; but there are other springs besides. half a mile lower down there is, near the roman way, a basin--another thames head--which is sometimes filled by a spring, and which is pictured on the next page in the precise condition in which it appeared to our artist during the rains of early spring. yet another rill issues from a hill-side; and a fourth, lower still, is perhaps the most clearly defined and strongest of the group, and best entitled to the honour claimed on behalf of the dried-up well in the green glade just described. the thames head district seems, indeed, to abound in springs, and in wet weather the level ground is probably freely intersected by brooklets, forming the stream which is the undoubted head of isis, and which has been called the thames from time immemorial. on the very threshold of our task we are confronted, indeed, with two sometime-disputed points which it will be necessary to clear away, or come to terms with, if we would proceed upon our voyage of some two hundred miles from source to nore with a clear conscience. they relate, first, to the name of the river; and second, to the precise spot in the cotswold country where it starts upon its wanderings. neither of these controversial subjects shall, however, detain us long from an intimate acquaintance with the "mighty king of all the british rivers, superior to most in beauty, and to all in importance," setting forth on its career in humble smallness, gathering tranquil volume as it flows in succession through the fertile counties of gloucestershire, wiltshire, berkshire, oxfordshire, buckinghamshire, surrey, middlesex, kent, and essex, and finally delivering its full tribute to the northern ocean. what rare historical memories it evokes, what varieties of landscape it touches and creates, let the following lines describe:- "the blood-stain'd scourge no tyrants wield, no groaning slaves enrich the field, but health and labour's willing train crowns all thy banks with waving grain; with beauty decks thy sylvan shades, with livelier green invests thy glades; and grace, and bloom, and plenty pours on thy sweet meads and willowy shores. the field where herds unnumber'd rove, the laurell'd path, the beechen grove, the oak, in lonely grandeur free, lord of the forest and the sea; the spreading plain, the cultured hill, the tranquil cot, the restless mill, the lonely hamlet, calm and still; the village spire, the busy town, the shelving bank, the rising down, the fisher's punt, the peasant's home, the woodland seat, the regal dome, in quick succession rise to charm the mind, with virtuous feelings warm; till where thy widening current glides, to mingle with the turbid tides, thy spacious breast displays unfurl'd the ensigns of th' assembled world." [illustration: "thames head."] it is now generally accepted that, from times as remote as those which preceded the conquest, the highest portion of the river was called the thames. the saxon chronicles so refer to it, and there is no reason to suppose that the river crossed by the armies of ethelwold and canute on their expeditions into the land of mercia was ever known by other name. how, and when, the river from cricklade to oxford acquired the local name of isis is not clear; but the idea was probably fairly started, though not invented, by camden, who had pretty visions of the "marriage of the tame and isis." "this," wrote he, "is that isis which afterwards joining with tame, by adding the names together, is called tamisis, chief of the british rivers, of which we may truly say, as ancient writers did of euphrates in the east, that it both plants and waters britain." it is sufficient for us now to recognise the fact that above oxford the river is impartially spoken of, now as the thames, and now as the isis; and it is rather as a matter of convenience than of dogmatic purpose that i shall elect henceforth to use the older and more reasonable name--the tameses of the romans, the temese of the saxons, and the thames of modern days. equally fruitful of controversy has been the source of the thames. it has long been a question whether this grassy retreat, in which we are supposed to be lingering, to wit, thames head, in the parish of cotes, near cirencester, in the county of gloucestershire, or seven springs, near cheltenham, should be regarded as the actual starting-point of the river. gloucestershire and wiltshire, and different portions of each, have occasionally contended for the honour. many pages might be filled with rehearsals of learned argument, and quotations from ancient authorities, to support conflicting contentions; but i shall presently invite the reader to follow the course suggested in regard to the name, and make an arbitrary law unto himself. it is not to be denied that the balance of acceptation by topographers of olden times pointed to thames head as the generally received source. leland, sometimes called the father of english antiquaries, settles it thus:--"isis riseth at 3 myles from cirencestre, not far from a village cawlled kemble, within half a mile of the fosse-way, wher the very hed of isis ys. in a great somer drought there appereth very little or no water, yet is the stream servid with many of springes resorting to one botom." [illustration: the sources of the thames.] ill, therefore, will fare the visitor to thames head, who seeks it, as i have done, full of poetical fancies and pretty conceits about the source of rivers in general, and the birthplace of the famous english stream in particular. however charming he may find the place to be, and charming it certainly is, he will be doomed to disappointment if he thinks he has reached the source of our royal stream. i was bound for the identical spot, as i congratulated myself, where "from his oozy bed old father thames advanced his rev'rend head, his tresses dropped with dews, and o'er the stream his shining horns diffused a golden gleam." as we have seen, the explorer will, at first, experience failure in his endeavour to find, with any satisfactory clearness, either old father thames or his oozy bed. arrived at the ancient akeman street, or fosse-way, "3 myles" from cirencester, a choice of no fewer than four springs is presented. the village of cotes, the roman mound known as trewsbury castle, trewsbury mead, and the unromantic chimney of the thames and severn canal engine-house are plain enough, here and there--landmarks, all of them, for the industrious searcher; but there is no sign of flowing water, or, indeed, of water in repose. you will look in vain for semblance of a bed which might be that of a river. it was only after considerable trouble that i obtained any information, and was guided to this well, named by tradition as the original and primary source of the thames, and reached by proceeding for a quarter of a mile from the high road (where it crosses the railway) along the walk bordering the canal. the reader, however, is hereby invited to regard, not thames head, but seven springs, near cheltenham, as the natural and common-sense source of the river thames. some three miles south of the town, in the parish of cubberley, or coberley, to quote the words of professor ramsay, "the thames rises not far from the crest of the oolitic escarpment of the cotswold hills that overlook the severn." after pausing on the shoulder of charlton hill, and admiring--as who can fail to do?--the magnificent panorama of hill and valley receding into the mist of distance north and north-east, you proceed from cheltenham along the cirencester road to the crossways. a short divergence to the right, and a dip in the road brings you to a piece of wayside turf, with, beyond, a corner shaped like an irregular triangle. one side of this might be, perhaps, seven yards in length, another four yards, and the third something between the two. the triangular depression is reached by one of those little green hillocks so often to be found on english waysides. the bottom is covered with water, which, in spite of the place being no-man's-land, is clear as crystal, and in its deepest part there was not, at the time of my visit, more than six inches of water. the bed of this open shallow reservoir is not paved with marble, or even concrete, but is liberally provided with such unconsidered trifles as the weather or playful children would cast there. when the wind sets that way a good deal of scum will gather in the farther corner, formed by two walls. the turf near the water's edge is worn away, and the green hillock has been trodden into a mere clay bank by the feet of cattle and men, for it is, as i have said, a patch of common land abutting upon the road. overhead, stretched from the telegraph posts, you may count nine unmistakable wires parallel with the wall which forms the base of our triangle. on the side farthest from the road the bank is high. a venerable hawthorn has become wedded apparently to an equally venerable ash, whose topmost boughs coquette at close quarters with the telegraph wires. another ash-tree, at the outer point of the triangle, leans over the water. between the trees a little sloe bush keeps sturdy foothold. you may mark, moreover, a few straggling briars, bits of silver-weed, a root or two of the meadow cranesbill, a clump of poverty-stricken meadow-sweet, some fool's parsley, wild strawberry plants, and a good deal of bold and always flourishing dandelion. this is the environment of the true source of the great river thames. we are at seven springs. hence multitudinous initials are rudely carved upon the old trees and on the stone walls; hence strangers, during summer, drive hither and pay homage. clear away the scum from the water at the foot of the wall and a small iron grating explains how the waters, always bubbling clear and cool from the seven springs, pass away. on the other side of the wall the inflow forms a pond in private grounds. thence it descends by a homely fall into a smaller pond, and by yet another insignificant fall into what for some distance is sometimes little better than a stagnant ditch. a lower fall, however, of more determined character than the others, sets in motion a clear rill, which, though tiny in volume and unpretentious in present aims, sets off upon its gravelly course as if it knew that by-and-by it would form an estuary upon which the navies of the world might ride in safety. just now a child might leap across. it is a mere thread of water, yet the streamlet begins at once to proceed in a business-like way under the solid hedgerows separating the fields, and soon becomes a decided brook. this is a tangible beginning, at all events. the seven springs are on evidence in a convenient enclosure; they may be recognised as, silently sparkling, they gush from the bank which gives roothold to the hawthorn and ash; and the infant river is always in sight from the moment it assumes the form of a tiny streamlet. it is difficult to conceive how it has come about that thames head on the one part and seven springs on the other have been considered rival claimants for the honour of being the cradle of the thames. it is true that both streams (for thames head eventually, by sundry means, becomes a stream) rise from the eastern slopes of the cotswolds; but they are many miles apart, and thames head is nearly fifteen miles nearer the sea than seven springs. the rivulet issuing from seven springs, and which presently becomes the river churn is, in the present day at least, the distinct stream which continues its unbroken course to the nore, and it is the source which is farthest from the mouth of the thames. leland, nevertheless, writing at the time of henry viii., fixes, as we have seen, upon thames head as the source. stow, with less detail, adopts the same locality; camden does likewise; atkins declares that the river riseth in the parish of cotes; rudder that it has been reputed "to rise in the parish of cotes, out of a well." modern tourists regularly visit both places, and in great numbers, during the summer season, and in the case of thames head are probably taken now to the uppermost glade, which i have described, and now to the spring nearer the engine-house of the thames and severn canal, represented by the illustration. the neglect of the alleged sources by the local authorities of both cirencester and cheltenham is to be explained, probably, on the old principle, that what is everybody's is nobody's business. since, however, people go in full faith to both seven springs and thames head, some record, however simple, might surely be upraised at both for the enlightenment of the wayfaring man. dealing with this question at more length perhaps than the subject requires, i may be allowed to repeat that in these days there ought to be no manner of doubt that the natural and legitimate source of the thames is that shallow, neglected, triangular pool formed by the seven springs. the cotswold hills are, in any case, above dispute as the cradle-ground of the river, and may be happy with either claimant. "but cotswold, be this spoke to th' onely praise of thee, that thou, of all the rest, the chosen soyle should bee, faire isis to bring forth, the mother of great tames, with whose delicious brooks, by whose immortal streames her greatnesse is begun." following the fortunes of the seven springs, you naturally enter with some degree of zeal into an expedition down the river churn, and this you are able to do without losing sight of the excellent road between cheltenham and cirencester. the pretty little dancing trout stream runs hard by the highway, mostly through a succession of beautiful estates, and generally thickly overhung with alders and other bushes. drayton hit off the character of the stream most accurately in calling it the "nimble-footed churn;" and its picturesqueness, and musical flow between the wooded hills and through the fat meadows, as we near cirencester, appeal to us, even on the score of sentiment. surely it is more pleasant to identify this as the thames than that commonplace current proceeding from the thames head series of springs. there is no necessity, however, to trace in detail the course of the beck-like churn, by wooded uplands teeming with game, and through rustic villages and sequestered grounds. it runs through rendcombe to north cerney, down by baunton, and through the once famous and still interesting town of cirencester. the fosse-way mentioned in connection with thames head was one of three great roman roads which met here. mentioned by roman historians as corinium and cornovium, the strongly fortified city of cirencester, the metropolis of a roman province was, there is reason for believing, a considerable british town before it became a roman centre. in the time of henry viii. the roman wall surrounding the city might yet be traced, and, as the histories of gloucestershire show, many roman remains have from time to time been discovered here. the churn sustains its brook-like character alongside the cricklade road by addington, south cerney, and hailstone hill, and then within a mile of the town of cricklade it unites with the other branch issuing from thames head, to which it is necessary briefly to return, in order to administer to it the justice already bestowed upon what we have agreed to regard as the rightful heir, namely, the seven springs stream, or river churn. the thames and severn canal is so intimately associated with thames head, and so dominates that particular part of the country, that a few words respecting it may be spared. indeed, it has dealings, directly or indirectly, with the churn as well as with the thames head stream. not far from trewsbury mead it gives a position to thames head bridge, and the canal lies within a few yards of the traditional spring. the first tributary is formed by a spring issuing from beneath the aqueduct, and not far from the canal stands the single-arch watercourse, here illustrated as practically the first bridge over the thames. the course of the canal, however, almost immediately bears eastward, until it strikes the churn, near which it keeps during the remainder of its independent career. the thames and severn canal is an interesting fact which the present generation is in danger of forgetting. for many years the junction of "fair sabrina" with "lordly thames" was a burning question in the commercial worlds of london and bristol. the merchants were much fascinated with the speculations in which they indulged. the canal scheme was launched in a bill in the reign of charles ii., and mr. hydrographer moxon was engaged to survey the ground and prove to what extent the project was practicable. pope, in the grandiloquent language of the time, in a famous letter written at oakley, lord bathurst's country house at cirencester, said, "i could pass whole days in describing the future and as yet visionary beauties that are to rise in these scenes: the palace that is to be built, the pavilions that are to glitter, the colonnades that are to adorn them; nay, more, the meeting of the thames and severn, which, when the noble owner has finer dreams than ordinary, are to be led into each other's embraces, through secret caverns of not above twelve to fifteen miles, till they rise and celebrate their marriage in the midst of an immense amphitheatre, which is to be the admiration of posterity a hundred years hence." [illustration: the first bridge over the thames.] the canal was completed sixty-eight years after this dream was indulged in, and in december, 1790, the first canal boat, laden with coals, passed through. the canal is a continuation of the stroudwater system from the severn to wallbridge, near stroud, and runs in a devious course from that point to lechlade. it is thirty miles long, forty-two feet broad at the top, and thirty feet at the bottom. between stroud and sapperton the water is raised 241 feet in less than eight miles, by means of locks. returning now to the lower spring of the thames head group, the course of this branch of the river may be traced from the expanded water giving growth to the ancient watercress bed, and receiving its first modest tributary rill from the spring proceeding from under the canal aqueduct. hence the brook meanders through meadows, and, near the railway, passes under the roadway. the village of kemble lies half a mile back, and the stream passes under and alongside the road from kemble to ewen, beneath a considerable culvert, or trio of culverts. the first mill on the thames was, in former times, at ewen; but a cosy farmhouse now occupies the site, and the water which in former days set the drowsy wheel in motion is turned aside for sheep-washing purposes. the first mill now is somerford upper mill, with its pretty setting of elm-trees, and charming rural surroundings. somerford keynes, on the elevated ground to the left, was bestowed as a marriage gift upon ralph de kaineto by henry i., and an ancient charter granted to the abbot aldelm of malmesbury contains the following incidental reference to the river as the thames:--"cujus vocabulum temis juxta vadum qui appellatur somerford." throughout the varied and interesting voyage upon which we are embarked the spires and towers of churches will be ever present, graceful and welcome features of many a landscape, now set upon a hill like a city which cannot be hid, now half concealed by mantling ivies, and shunning observation amongst the rugged elms which shelter their roofs and windows. the square tower of venerable all saints, somerford keynes, is one of the earliest to claim attention as a typical parish church of rural england, very dignified in its age, and in its maternal relation to the cottages around the churchyard. the stream not far below this point serves another rustic mill, and a noticeable object later on is a homely foot-bridge supported by upright slabs of stone. at ashton keynes there are sundry small bridges spanning the current, soon to be sensibly increased in depth and width by swill brook, whose proportions have for the last mile of its course been not inferior to those of the thames head stream. the young river thames was once, as is supposed, navigable to water hay bridge for boats of moderate size; but this must have been before the aqueduct of the north wilts canal crossed it, or west mill was built. the ancient town of cricklade reconciles any differences, and effectually ends all disputes as to individual claimants, by affording the two branches an opportunity of uniting their forces a short distance below the bridge. here the churn, from its north-western source, merges into the stream which has been always apparently called by the name of thames. in this district it formed the boundary of the forest of braden in the time of canute. james thorne, in his accurately written "rambles by rivers," does no injustice to the town of cricklade when he speaks of it as dull to look at, dull to live in, and no less dull to talk about. there is, indeed, little about which to talk in connection with it, though we may, in passing, smile on recalling drayton's words in his "polyolbion"- "greeklade whose great name yet vaunts that learned tongue where to great britain first the sacred muses sung, who first were seated here at isis' bounteous head, as telling that her fame should through the world be spread." it has been alleged by certain authorities that a college here, founded by a school of ancient philosophers, became famous for its greek learning, and hence the name of the town. it has also been insisted that a few miles down the river a rival college, maintained with similar success in the latin interests, gave a name to the community which lived under its learned shadow; or, as fuller said, "the muses swam down the stream of the river isis to be twenty miles nearer to the rising sun." in this manner fanciful writers have sought to explain the origin of the words cricklade and lechlade. [illustration: cricklade.] cricklade is important to lovers of the thames as being the first definite station on its upper waters. from the southern watershed come, besides the swill brook, the dance and the rey. the last-named, a contribution from the range of hills around swindon, has been thought worthy by a few enthusiasts of the distinction of contesting with thames head and seven springs the responsibilities of parentage. the thames passes under a plank bridge at cricklade, and becomes very shallow before receiving the tributaries above indicated. thames tourists rarely push their explorations so high as cricklade, which, other than two well-preserved specimens of fourteenth-century crosses (as is conjectured), and the prominent share in the landscape taken by st. mary's church and churchyard, as seen from eisey foot-bridge, offers few attractions to the visitor. the scenery of the river hereto, and in truth for many a mile to come, is of a pleasing order, yet on a small and unpretentious scale. farmhouses, with their surroundings of rick-yard and orchard; hamlets and villages in sleepy remove from the noisy world; a country house set in blooming gardens at odd intervals; pasture land and grain-fields, separated by old-fashioned hedges that are gay with flowers in spring and summer, with deeply-hued berries in the mellow autumn;--on every hand and at every turn these form the landscape. the river itself, so far, claims no particular notice, calls for no warmth of admiration. it makes no noise, performs no astonishing feats, inspires no terrors, but steals tranquilly through the meadows, and silently flows by the plentiful rushes which, unmolested, protect its banks in these remote reaches. castle eaton bridge, over four miles below cricklade town, is perhaps the centre of the best of the rural scenery of this district, but it demands no special pause. the church tower, which shows boldly above the meadow, two miles farther on, belongs to kempsford. king harold was once a property-owner here. william the conqueror subsequently gave the manor to one of his norman soldiers, and, as was not uncommon in early days, it ultimately fell into possession of mother church, by whom, at the time of dissolution, it was disgorged and granted to the thynne family. the edifice upon the river-side was probably built in the fourteenth century. there was also a castle at kempsford, of which a fragment of window and a bit of wall remain, and a portion of the tower known as the gunners' room. the occupants of the gunners' room, when the building was habitable, had the advantage of looking out upon the river. a horseshoe nailed to the church-door long sustained the legend that when powerful henry, duke of lancaster, the builder of the church, was quitting the place for ever, his horse cast a shoe, which the inhabitants nailed up in proud remembrance of the honour. the traces of an old weir, as we proceed downwards with such speed as the thickets of reeds and weeds will allow, if we are attempting the passage in a boat, remind us that in days when even inconsiderable streams were valuable as highways for barge and boat traffic the channel of the thames was not so neglected as it will in these days be found. in other respects also its character has doubtless changed, as indicated by the stepping-stones across the foundation of the weir-sill, upon which the passenger, during summer level, may step dryshod from bank to bank. below hannington bridge (with highworth church in the distance), the rushy pool, almost choked up with aquatic growths, still bears the name of ham weir. a sharp northerly bend in the river opposite the village of upper inglesham marks the separating-point of berks and wilts. born in gloucestershire, the thames has latterly diverged for a brief excursion into wilts, but now returns again, and from kempsford until, a few miles onward, oxfordshire is entered, it is the boundary between gloucestershire and the southern counties of wilts and berks. the river cole joins the thames on the eastern bank. the little stream, in a charming berkshire valley lying south, has given a name to lord radnor's mansion, coleshill, famous as a perfect specimen of the style of inigo jones, and it arrives, accordingly, with some degree of repute on its own account. [illustration: inglesham round house.] for many years the highest weir upon the thames was at inglesham, known for the picturesque church, with its bell-turret overlooking the river, and the remarkable piece of carved stone in the porch wall, but of more interest to us as the meeting-place of the coln, the thames and severn canal, and the thames. the canal we have already glanced at. the coln is a trout stream of some value, but it receives its fame principally from association with the town of fairford; and fairford is famous because of the painted church windows supposed to have been designed by albert dürer. the round house at inglesham is the final lock-house of the thames and severn canal, and it indicates the stage at which the thames becomes a river of importance. it is broader and deeper than heretofore, and was once navigable for barges of from thirty to seventy tons burden, drawing four feet of water; but a channel of such proportions has not existed for many years, and the river threatens to lose all pretensions to a waterway before long, unless its guardians dredge to more purpose than they have done in recent years. once upon a time, when the ports of bristol and london were not connected by railway, there was constant traffic through inglesham lock, and the round house was a conspicuous beacon for the bargees of the period; but the lock-keeper's berth has, it is needless to explain, in modern days become a sinecure. the angler at this meeting of the waters is the gainer, and his practised eye will mark the juncture as a probable haunt of the voracious pike. the highworth road is carried by a substantial one-arch bridge (to the left of the compass of the illustration on the next page) over the river at lechlade, and in the fields, half a mile below, we arrive at the first lock on the thames. there are a lock-house and garden to rest in, thames conservancy notices to be read, and ancient lock-keeping folk to talk with. it is a very old lock. in the natural order of things it cannot last much longer, and at no distant date, no doubt, it will give place to one of the more useful, but infinitely more prosaic, affairs of iron, with modern improvements in the machinery, which the conservancy supplies when it is necessary to replace the original structures. the partly-decayed boards, the hand-rail rising from their outer edge, the lock gates patched many a time, and thinned in regard to their outer casing by many a winter flood, have done their work, and stand in weather-worn picturesqueness, all awry, doing their remaining duty as best they may. looking westward, the spire of lechlade church, and, indeed, its tower and the greater part of the body of the building, shaded with ivy, make a very harmonious object of middle distance. the village, neat, substantial, and mature, rallies round it, with woods extending on either hand, and at its left flank stands the well-built, arched structure, which may be said to be the first bridge worthy of the name upon the river. it will be, perhaps, half a mile from the lock to the bridge, as the crow flies, but the thames winds among the flat meadows in serpentine twists. still farther on the line of the horizon, as, seated on the lever-beam used for opening the lock, we look westward, is a little picket of six poplars, marking the whereabouts of the solitary round house, which substantially marks the limit of the navigable part of the thames. the scene, thus comprising woods, village, church, bridge, and the long line of low trees terminated by poplars, is peculiarly english, and of a character that we shall see reproduced in endless variety--every prospect pleasing--until the last lock is reached at teddington. but this is the first lock, 144 miles from london bridge, and 125 from teddington weir. between the two there are many subjects of interest; but there is only one first lock, and upon this we may bestow closer attention than common. in the meadow is a big hawthorn on which the hips are already forming, and on a hot summer day the dairy kine will find shelter, lazily flicking the flies from their hides. haycocks are plentiful on all sides. yonder the men are hoisting a load of sweet-smelling hay upon the rick. farther in the distance a late crop is falling in regular swathes; and when the gurgle of the water escaping from the dilapidated lock-gates moderates for a moment we can hear the mower whetting his scythe. the meadow upon which the first thames conservancy notice board has been erected, opposite the neat lock cottage, has not, it seems, been laid down for hay this year, and so offers a variety for the satisfaction of the artistic eye--to wit, masses of newly-shorn sheep lying on the grass, and dappled kine steadily feeding, what time the swallows and swifts are hawking around, and small birds warble in the reeds. [illustration: lechlade--the first lock.] the thames hereabouts, notwithstanding the prevailing officialism, is very modest. at the period of my last visit i found that there had been no floods for eighteen months; and the river, as our boatman put it, had long wanted washing out. in its widest part in the neighbourhood of the first lock it is not more than twenty yards from bank to bank, and on each side there are thick margins of bull-rush, sedge, and flag. the water is fairly deep, but cumbered with masses of weeds, out of which spring the tall rank stems of water-parsnip, while here and there small, compact, yellow water-lilies gleam like moidores on a silver plate. the river runs parallel with the lock channel under st. john's bridge, a comparatively new and good-looking structure of one arch. it is about a mile from the town of lechlade, and near it is the old-fashioned "trout" inn, still maintaining all the homely characteristics of the english countryside inn. a great sycamore overshadows it; there is an old-fashioned garden at the rear, and its little orchard, with a noble walnut-tree in the centre, offers a pathway to the pool. there is something in the semblance of a weir at st. john's bridge, though it is of the most rudimentary kind, having fallen naturally into decay, and even into desuetude. still, the small sluices are occasionally lifted, and serviceable streams are formed to keep the pool in motion, and prevent the patriarchal trout from giving notice to quit. at the end of st. john's bridge tradition placed the priory of black canons, but of this there is no more substantial record than that of ink and paper. a few yards beyond the garden, on the left bank, the river lech creeps into the thames. the regulation towpath exists from this point downwards, but for miles to come it is, like the boundaries of counties, a generally invisible line. the path is never trampled by horses, since barge traffic is unknown. for the towage of pleasure boats it is occasionally used, though these upper regions are rarely indeed penetrated by tourists. this is a pity; for there are a quietude and utter rurality about the river from lechlade till within the precincts of oxford that will be looked for in vain upon the busier haunts. farther down there are glimpses--samples, so to speak--of what we have here in the bulk. we shall here find none of those notable thames scenes that have been written about and painted from the olden times to the present day. progressing from lechlade downwards you feel altogether removed from the haunts of men. a patient angler sitting in his home-made boat under the overhanging boughs of a tree you will occasionally pass, and the presence of labourers toiling in the meadows informs you that this is not wholly a sleepy hollow. but river traffic, in the common meaning of the term, there is none. for a whole day you will probably not meet a boat; and there is no necessity to sigh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of space, seeing that you have so excellent a substitute at hand. the solitude is, in truth, delightful. as you drop down between the banks you see drawn up in review order regiments of familiar friends--the dark glossy leaves of the water dock, bursting into seed in july; huge clumps of blue forget-me-nots that can only be plucked from a boat; ox-eyed daisies, well above high-water mark, gleaming as fixed stars in the floral firmament; the yellow-flowering great watercress, the purple loose-strife beginning to blossom, yellow iris, the white flowers of the common watercress, the pink persicaria, meadow-sweet, the comfreys, and sometimes a clump of arrowheads. from one to another flits the superb dragon-fly:- "one almost fancies that such happy things, with coloured hoods and richly-burnished wings, are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid; keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still, lest glaring day should do their secrets ill." a mile and a half of winding and uniformly narrow river brings us to rare old buscot. the days of its weather-stained lock and weir are numbered too, but so long as they remain they will be, in conjunction, an object such as the artist loves, and a reminder to us all of other days when the world was not so jaded as now, when things were not so new, and when the ways of men were more primitive. there is a very fine tumbling bay on the farther side of the weir, and a sharp sweep of swiftly-running water coursing over a gravelly shallow, upon which the trout come out to feed at eventide, and the silvery dace and bleak poise in happy security during the long summer days. one is tempted naturally to land at the little village. the square, solid, countryfied-looking church tower, surrounded by old trees, and approached through a flower-garden, suggests, as your boat pauses at the lock, that it will be better to spend a quarter of an hour afoot than in the tedious process of passing through. buscot is not a large or a pretentious place, but it is pleasant to look at, and deserves mention in passing, as giving name to the first weir of goodly size. a particularly pretty bit of the river, winding, tree-lined, and narrow, is followed by a long unromantic stretch. quaint, time-honoured hart's weir is so little a weir that the ordinary boat shoots the open half on the strength of a miniature rapid representing, at a summer level of the river, a fall of three or four inches only. the water there opens out into a wide bay that is purling rather than tumbling; and this is succeeded, in the ordinary course of nature, by a silted-up shallow, densely covered in their season with the white, yellow-eyed blossoms of the water crowfoot. kelmscott on the north, and eaton hastings on the south, are the nearest villages. the banks of the thames are now clearly defined by those trees which love to spread their branches to a river. the thames does not, like the loddon, encourage a monopoly of alder, but favours rather the familiar willow, the lombardy poplar, and the plentiful hawthorn. clumps of old elms, most picturesque of english trees when standing on village green, or as a rearguard to church or manor-house, vary the prospect. white and red wild roses are plentiful in the higher reaches of the river, and every turn of the narrow stream offers new combinations of wood and field:- "no tree in all the grove but has its charms, though each its hue peculiar; paler some, and of a wannish grey; the willow such, and poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, and ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, lord of the woods, the long surviving oak." after hart's weir the thames settles down to an interval of insignificance. there is an indescribably soothing influence exercised by a river in the soft mood which characterises the thames throughout. how pleasant it is to be simply moving with the current, which does so much and is heard so little. loud, even, by comparison with the murmur of the waters, is the sighing of the breezes amongst the shock heads of the willows, and the silver shiver of the poplars. under the spell of this influence the prosaic features of a reach like that between hart's weir and radcot serve as a foil for the more lovely objects. besides, occasional descents from the higher platforms of admiration, to which special points of interest are apt to summon you, give time for reflection and observation. thus you will not be long in discovering that in these veritably upper reaches of the thames what of animal life is still left may be seen without let or hindrance. the birds here are in no danger from the cockney fowler's gun. amongst the water-fowl the most frequent appearance is that of the common moor-hen, which breeds as freely as ever, and still maintains its character as amongst the tamest of our wild birds. the coot is less often seen, but the heron will be often disturbed from its busy occupation on the shallows. even in much-frequented reaches of the thames the heron may still be descried at a distance, shy, watchful, and wary. on both of the days occupied by my voyage from lechlade to oxford i saw herons. they may have travelled twenty miles from the heronry for their nightly or early-morning forage, but you rarely can approach them within gunshot. the bird is most artful and shy at all times; but i have always fancied that the herons of the thames valley are the most wideawake of all. they hear the thump, thump of the rowlocks half a mile off, rise from their depredations, and wing their way slowly into the centre of a field; or perchance you may see one doing sentry on the upper boughs of a tall tree. between hart's weir and radcot bridge i descry three "herns" in one meadow that had been so disturbed by our gliding boat. as they stand motionless and lank in the fields, on a fence, or in the tree-tops, only a practised eye can identify them. in summer-time, though rarely, you put up a couple of wild ducks from the main river. the boating man, as may be supposed, meets with less bird life than the pedestrian, who, stealthily walking on the grass, will often obtain a passing flash of a kingfisher, or witness the alarmed flight of rarer birds. my july voyage brings me into constant companionship with troops of the wanton lapwing, in glorious plumage and full of noisy life; rooks, as a matter of course, busy, self-satisfied, and radiant in their blue-black vesture; swallows, swifts, sand martins, and reed warblers. the common sandpiper is about upon the shallows where the streams run swiftly, and the elegant water wagtails abound. at intervals throughout the day, near shrubby undergrowths and open meadows, the music of skylark, thrush, or blackbird charms the ear, though the eye seeks in vain the whereabouts of the performer. four-footed creatures are few. the merry vole is an exception, and in some of the woods the cautious searcher may find squirrels in active play. the otter, seldom seen by the human eye in broad daylight, is plentiful enough in the earlier stages of the thames, and of them, as of other wild creatures, it may be generally said that they are not so harried and wantonly destroyed as in the middle and lower parts of the river. radcot bridge, of which we catch sight three miles from hart's weir, is understood to be one of the oldest bridges on the thames, and its appearance is quite in character with this theory; moreover, it is an interesting piece of stonework, apart from its age, its three gothic arches being curiously ribbed underneath. there is a very steep ascent to the crown, and over the centre arch is still preserved the socket in which, on the crest of bridges, the sacred cross was wont to be uplifted. there are, in point of fact, two bridges at radcot, but the "real original" is the antique three-arched affair to the right, as we drop down. the river is here divided, a short cut to facilitate navigation and deepen the channel forming a new departure. the old stream wanders round, when the weeds will allow it, under the ribbed arches, leaving the channel of the new cut, like a newly-come tradesman who has a contempt for the old-fogeyish methods of the ancient inhabitants, to transact its business merrily, with promptness and despatch. for a couple of miles or so the thames has now all the essential characteristics of a trout stream, with eddying pools and golden shallows, over which the water ripples at a moderate depth and at sparkling pace. in the hands of patient fish culturists and preservers this portion of the river might be made, no doubt, a trout stream; but salmo fario is as yet the least abundant of thames fishes. what are called the coarse fish, or summer spawners, are on the contrary abundant, and most plentiful of all, under the willowy banks of the meadows, are the chub, which, for want of better game, afford passable sport to the fly-fisher, who, from the towpath, ought to be able to command any portion of the thames at this stage of its course. in the wide deep pools marking the sites of old weirs, of which little trace but the piers remain, there should be, and as a matter of fact is, excellent angling for perch and pike. [illustration: radcot bridge.] because the thames has been so much praised, and so much the subject of picture and poem, it does not follow that it is all pleasing to the eye. after leaving radcot bridge, and with the exception of these pools, once foaming and noisy with the action of the descending water, some indifferently furnished reaches have to be passed--reaches that are almost canal-like in the straightness of their course and in the uninteresting character of the low-lying land on either side. the country immediately bordering on the river is sparsely populated, and the world must revolve somewhat slowly for those who live there. some indication of this may be gathered from the fact that at rushy lock, where there is a fine weir and pool, we had the pleasure of being our own lock keeper, opening the heavy gates, letting in the water, and releasing ourselves. the labour accomplished, a small urchin of six years of age was sharp enough to put in an appearance in time to take the toll; it was evident, however, that traffic was so unexpected that he alone had been left in charge, indeed, during one whole day's progress we met but two boats. tadpole bridge, a substantial structure of one span, between four and five miles below radcot, carries the road from bampton, where phillips, the author of an almost forgotten work, "the splendid shilling," was born. the singular spire of bampton church is seen from radcot bridge, the view from which also includes faringdon hill, and some effective wooded heights around. the few tourists who make a pilgrimage from the source to the mouth of the thames, or those who visit these stations for a sojourn of greater or lesser duration, turn aside from the river and visit both faringdon and bampton. at faringdon any traces of the houses which withstood the hard knocks of the cromwellian period are gone; nothing but the site remains, and that only as a vague tradition, of the castle built by the supporters of queen matilda, and pulled down by the supporters of king stephen. sir edward unton, who was queen elizabeth's ambassador at the french court, is buried in the church. bampton, on the oxfordshire side, is half town and half village, and it has an indirect connection with the thames, although it is some distance from its banks, because the steeple, to which i have already referred, is a striking mark upon the landscape. not without reason has the character of singularity been applied to it. from a square tower rises an octagon steeple, with belfry windows; pinnacles at each corner form basements of statues, and these are supported by slabs resting at right angles against the steeple. skelton says that the church contains examples of almost every period of architecture, from the conquest to the reign of george iii. it has a fine norman porch, an inner arch that is much admired, brasses, and a series of sculptures, probably work of the fifteenth century. there is not much material for description in the next few miles. the river seems occasionally to lessen rather than increase in size, and right and left you look in vain for anything worthy of inquiry or admiration, save the comfortable old farmhouses and homesteads, environed by the usual clump of characteristic elms; and, at farther distance from the river, here and there a country mansion, secure in the privacy of its trim park, suggesting always the happy language of the poetess:- "the stately homes of england, how beautiful they stand, amid their tall ancestral trees o'er all the pleasant land." it is not till you have passed below tadpole bridge that the first beds of white lilies challenge attention. the lilies hitherto have been of the small yellow description; but now, in sheltered bays, thick beds of the gorgeous white variety shine gloriously from between the large glossy leaves. they are, fortunately, out of the line of every-day thames traffic, and are so spared to develop to maturity in waters to which the steam-launch has not yet penetrated. about two miles below tadpole one's attention cannot fail to be arrested by the high, skeleton-like, weather-worn bridge called tenfoot weir. this is another site of a weir long fallen into disuse. the wooden bridge consists of a central arch, or compartment, of staging set twenty feet high, with steep flights of steps on either side, the central division marking the outline of the old weir. a thatched cottage and thickly clustering willows in the bend which is here formed by the course of the river present an extremely picturesque variety to the monotonous character of the previous mile of the thames. another object of interest will be found a little lower down, at duxford ferry. alongside a clump of willows lies a "sheer hulk," representing one of the long, narrow canal boats used when barges regularly plied where there is no water to float them now. close to the blackened, slimy timbers of the wreck a promising family of calves cluster, as if pondering in bovine fancy over the former glories of the defunct craft and the industry it typified. a comfortable group of farm-buildings, thatched and tiled, nestles at the head of the ferry, which is not furnished with the usual horse-boat, for the simple reason that it may be crossed without any such assistance. a child might walk across on the hard gravelly shallow at ordinary times without being more than knee deep. it is, however, more than twenty yards wide, and the stream concentrates immediately afterwards to a width of not more than twenty feet; but it remains shallow. there are two or three fords in the course of the next few miles, all of the same character. a rather notable one is that at shifford. the legend runs that in the locality alfred the great held one of his earliest parliaments, and there and then gathered "many thanes, many bishops, and many learned men, proud earls, and awful knights." this was to a great extent canute's country. a mile or two on the berkshire side of the river, near bucklands, is kept the pusey horn, given to the family by that king. the inscription upon it is, "i, king knoude, give william pewse this horne to holde by thy londe." there are some doubts, however, as to whether these letters are not of later date than the time of canute. at longworth, another village, there are the remains of an ancient encampment, cherbury camp, and here, it is said, a palace of canute's once stood. the river windrush, a more considerable tributary than any previously received by the thames, flows into the parent river from the north at newbridge. the point of debouchment might, by reason of the weeds and rushes in the water and overhanging bushes of the banks, be easily overlooked by a casual observer, and the windrush, in this peculiarity, closely resembles other feeders of the thames, in looking its meanest where it offers its volume to the parent river. the windrush is one of the cotswold brood, and at bourton-on-the-water it becomes a valuable trout stream. great barrington, whose freestone quarry furnished the stone for christopher wren's restoration of westminster abbey, is opposite the village of windrush; the river afterwards enters oxfordshire, and by the peculiar quality of its waters gives to the town of witney a special pre-eminence in the whiteness of the blankets produced by its fulling mills. the river is thirty-five miles long from source to inlet to the thames. [illustration: the ferry, bablock hythe.] the oldest, and in truth the oldest looking, stone bridge on the thames is called newbridge, and this we approach below the place where alfred held his parliament. the bridge is an excellent sample of old english masonry. it has been newbridge for at least 600 years now, yet its groined arches and projecting piers seem as strong to-day as ever they have been. a public-house accommodates the traveller on either side of the bridge, one of them replacing a mill that perished for lack of customers. strange to say, the river seems immediately to change its character when we have passed through these ancient arches. not only is the presence of a couple of working barges, with gaily-painted posts of primary colours and vivid figure-subjects painted upon the panelling of the deck cabin aft, evidence that another era in the commercial character of the river is beginning, but the thames, almost without warning, becomes wider and deeper, and altogether more like the thames as we know it at the popular stations above the city boundaries, though of course it is still the thames in miniature. the barges come in these days no farther than this station, and their business is mostly one not unconnected with coal. these boats, moored near the old bridge, seem to remind us that although heretofore we might have cherished the fancy that the thames was almost an idyllic trout stream, lending grace to a rural district, it must henceforth be considered as being a recognised water highway with a mission that becomes more and more important as the distance to london bridge is lessened. it is quite a remarkable change, and in a few moments your estimate of the river changes also. it is a thing now of laws and regulations. the very foliage on the banks seems to be of a more permanent character. hitherto the thames has been struggling with an indefinite career before it, winding through the meadows, streaming over the shallows, not quite certain whether it was to have a respectable position or not. but after newbridge it has set up a substantial establishment, wherefore--isis though it still may be and is called by the good oxford people--it is to all intents and purposes old father thames. we have seen the seven springs rill in its infancy and the thames in its boyhood and lusty youth; here, however, it enters upon its early manhood. [illustration: cumnor churchyard.] opposite harrowden hill, and to the west of newbridge, standlake common may be explored by whosoever would benefit by its attractions, which, truth to tell, are very scanty. snipe undoubtedly enjoy its boggy virtues during the winter; but the common is a marshy tract at best, and those who pass on to the village for the sake of its church of early english architecture, and the farmhouse said to be built by john o'gaunt and joan his wife, do not care to linger there. we shall pass two weir-pools, long disused, between newbridge and bablock hythe, namely, langley, or ridge's weir, and ark, or noah's ark weir. these and previous weirs referred to are of the very simplest kind, and, except in the two instances mentioned, perform their service independently of a lock. the object of this simple form of weir is to dam the river to the required height for such purposes as mill heads or navigation. the business is accomplished by the working of flood gates or paddles in grooves, and between rymers, to the sill at the bottom. in winter there may be a swift stream through the weirs, but, the weir paddles being withdrawn, there is very little fall. shooting the weir stream--one of the adventurous feats of the upper navigation--is an amusement unknown below oxford, and at times it is not without its risks. [illustration: stanton harcourt church.] although bablock hythe by road is not much more than five miles from oxford, the circuitous voyage by thames is twelve miles. bablock hythe is a well-known station on the upper thames, albeit it does not boast the rank of hamlet or village, and has for the accommodation of man and beast only one of the small old-fashioned inns of the humblest sort, where the rooms are low, the beams big and solid, the floors flagged, and the apartments fitted up with all manner of three-corner cupboards and antique settles. the great ferry-boat, however, gives it a decided position of importance, and it is known to thames tourists principally as the starting-point for visiting either cumnor or stanton harcourt. most people probably go to cumnor from oxford, the distance being only about three miles; but many are glad to make it an excuse for halting on the somewhat monotonous ascent of the river. the reader needs scarcely to be reminded that cumnor place has been made immortal by the pages of sir walter scott, and that the sorrows of amy robsart have been wept over by the english-speaking race in all parts of the world. there is an inn at cumnor still called after that hostelry over which giles gosling firmly ruled, and in the church there is a monument sacred to the virtues of tony fire-the-fagot and his family, who are thus handed down to posterity in a far different character from that suggested by sir walter as pertaining to the tool of the villain varney. cumnor is on the berkshire side, and on the oxford side is stanton harcourt, visited for the sake of the remains of its ancient mansion, and its fine church. visitors, probably, would not make the journey exclusively in the interests of either one or the other, nor of the two large upright stones called the devil's quoits, which one historian conjectures were erected to commemorate the battle fought in 614 between the saxons and the britons. [illustration: eynsham weir.] the real attraction of stanton harcourt is historical, and historical in several degrees. it was one of the vast estates which fell as loot to the half-brother of william the conqueror, and was evidently a considerable possession. for more than 600 years the manor continued in the harcourt family. little is left of the grand mansion in which the lords of stanton harcourt dwelt. the harcourt family gave it up as a place of residence towards the close of the seventeenth century, and it fell forthwith to decay. with the exception of the porter's lodge, the arms on each side of the gate, showing that it was erected by sir simon harcourt, who died in 1547, and some upper rooms in the small remaining part of the house adjoining the kitchen, are all that remain. but there is a more recent historical interest attaching to stanton harcourt; in a habitable suite of rooms in the deserted mansion pope passed the greater part of two summers, and to this day the principal apartment bears the name of pope's study. the little man required quiet and retirement during his translation of the fifth book of homer, and upon one of the panes of glass he wrote, in the year 1718, "alexander pope finished here the fifth volume of homer." the harcourts, however, removed this pane to nuneham courtney, where it is preserved--a piece of red stained glass, six inches by two. the old stanton harcourt kitchen, converted to modern uses, was always a curiosity, and dr. plott, the oxford historian, says of it, "it is so strangely unusual that, by way of riddle, one may truly call it either a kitchen within a chimney or a kitchen without one, for below it is nothing but a large square, and octangular above, ascending like a tower, the fires being made against the walls, and the smoke climbing up them without any tunnels or disturbance to the cooks, which, being stopped by a large conical roof at the top, goes out at loopholes on every side, according as how the wind sets, the loopholes at the side next the wind being shut by folding doors, and the adverse side open." the visitor at stanton harcourt should certainly not neglect an inspection of the beautiful church, said to be the finest in the country. it is cruciform in shape, and has a massive tower. the nave is norman, of about the twelfth century, and according to "a custom established there time immemorial" the men entered through a large, and the women through a small, doorway. a wooden roof to the nave is understood to have been added in the fourteenth century, while the chancel, transepts, and tower arches are of the thirteenth. the oaken rood screen is reputed to be the oldest wooden partition of the kind in the country. the harcourt aisle or chapel, erected about the same time as the mansion, is an example of the enriched perpendicular style of henry vii., and it is still the burial-place of the ancient harcourt family. in the chapel, as in the body of the church, are several interesting monuments, and one of them is famous. in gough's sepulchral monuments, where it is engraved, the following description is given:-[illustration: cross at eynsham.] "this monument of sir robert harcourt of that place, knight of the garter, ancestor of the earl of harcourt; and margaret his wife, daughter of sir john byron, of clayton, lancashire, knight, ancestor of lord byron. he was sheriff of lancashire and warwickshire, 1445, elected knight of the garter 1463, commissioned with richard neville, earl of warwick, and others, to treat of a peace between edward iv. and louis xi. of france, 1467, and was slain on the part of the house of york, by the staffords, of the lancastrian party, november 14th, 1472. his figure represents him in his hair, gorget of mail, plated armour, strapped at the elbows and wrists, large hilted sword at left side, dagger at right, his belt charged with oak leaves, hands bare, a kind of ruffle turned back at his wrists, shoes of scaled armour, order of garter on left leg, and over all the mantle of the garter, with a rich cape and cordon; his head reclines on a helmet, with his crest, a swan; at his feet a lion. his lady, habited in a veil head-dress falling back, has a mantle and surcoat and cordon, and a kind of short apron, long sleeves fastened in a singular manner at the waist, and the order of the garter round her left arm; her feet are partly wrapped up in her mantle." the thames takes a northerly course from bablock hythe, and winds and doubles in such contortions that in one part a strip of not more than twelve yards of meadow separates two reaches of considerable length. a high, wide wooden bridge, bearing the name of skinner's weir, now crosses our course, and soon we come to pinkhill lock, so called from a farm of that name in the neighbourhood. the weir is a new one, a great contrast in its severe and formal cut to the weather-worn structures to which we have been accustomed. the lock-house is quite a dainty cottage, and the garden one of the prettiest to be found along the thames. the lock garden is generally a winsome little preserve, with its kitchen garden, flower-beds, sometimes a beehive, its stack of fagots, and a general air of rusticity; but the lock-keeper, or probably his wife, at pinkhill weir has devoted special care and attention to a flower-bed running the whole length of the lock, which i found to be bordered by a blaze of summer flowers, prominent amongst which were white and blue cornflowers. from the lock bridge a commanding view is obtained of the hilly country to the right, and the woods and copses around its base, and straggling to the top. the telegraph wires along eynsham road detract considerably from the rural flavour of the surroundings, and eynsham bridge itself does not look so old as it really is. it is a very conspicuous, and, indeed, handsome structure, with eight arches and a liberal amount of balustrading in the central divisions of the parapets. eynsham, ensham, eynesham, or emsham, has a history which goes beyond the conquest, and it is by right, therefore, that the bridge is named after the village, though its real name, as decided by the ordnance map, is swinford bridge. early in the eleventh century an abbey was founded here by the then earl of cornwall, and ethelred, the reigning king, signed the privilege of liberty with the sign of the holy cross. at the dissolution the abbey and its site passed into the ownership of the stanley family, but no ruins have been preserved. ensham, or eynsham cross, stands in the market-place of the village, opposite the church. the bridge, as we now see it, was built about sixty years ago. the village is pleasantly situated on rising ground. a little below the bridge the picturesque materials of the weir are stored when not in use, and the rymers are piled in a stack close to the spot where they sometimes even now do effective service. your boat passes through, however, generally without let or hindrance. a little farther on the evenlode enters the thames. like its predecessors, it seems a poor insignificant stream as it delivers its waters through a reedy mouth to the thames; but it has itself received the river glyme, which passes through woodstock and blenheim park, and feeds the large lake, now choked with weeds. the evenlode is the last of the cotswold offerings thus embodied in verse by drayton:- "clear colne and lively leech have down from cotswold's plain, at lechlade linking hands, come likewise to support the mother of great thames. when, seeing the resort, from cotswold windrush scrowers; and with herself doth cast the train to overtake; and therefore hies her fast through the oxfordian fields; when (as the last of all those floods that into thames out of our cotswold fall, and farthest unto the north) bright elnlode forth doth beare." woodstock is not more than four miles from eynsham, but it is generally reached from oxford. the river winds now round the foot of witham hill, and we are on close terms with the outskirts of the immense wood through which one could walk for eight miles before losing its shade. the portion that comes to within a few yards of the thames consists of oak-trees, with an occasional ash, and as we halt to sit a while under the umbrageous canopy we receive as a salute the cooing of doves, agreeable contrast to the reception, a few miles higher up, conveyed in the harsh squawk of a couple of herons. longfellow might have sat amongst these identical brackens when he wrote:- "but when sultry suns are high, underneath the oak i lie, as it shades the water's edge, and i mark my line, away in the wheeling eddy play, tangling with the river sedge." the thames describes a sharp horseshoe curve round the base of the hill. from the bank a fine view across the flat is obtained of cassington church spire, and of the last mill on the river evenlode, making for the thames midway between the bridge and hagley pool. the paucity of pleasure-boats on the river between lechlade and bablock hythe may be attributed to the great weediness of the river, rendering it sometimes almost impassable; also to the prevalence of shallows, and the absence of anything particular to see, and the all-important consideration that there are few hotels to stop at. there is not a riverside house of call between the little cottage inn at bablock hythe and godstow. an occasional steam-launch finds its way from oxford up the canal and into the thames, by way of the wolvercott paper mill; but this unpleasant type of vessel is very rarely seen so far up, since the forests of aquatic undergrowth are the reverse of favourable for the working of the screw. [illustration: oxford, from godstow.] what the steam-launcher, however, loses is gained by the angler. this mild sportsman i found to be very much in evidence below bablock hythe. here at any rate he was able to pursue his pastime in peace; and the frequency with which he appeared on the bank from eynsham downwards gives me an opportunity of interjecting a few timely remarks upon the thames as a resort of fishermen. the professional fisherman, as we know him at richmond, maidenhead, or marlow, with his punt, windsor chair, and ground-bait, is unknown in the upper reaches of the river; but the fish are there. although anglers have multiplied a hundredfold within the last half-century, the angling in the river thames at the present moment is better than it has been at any time during the present generation. it is not to be hoped, with any reasonable confidence, that the efforts now being made by the thames angling preservation society to convert the thames once more into a salmon river will be successful; and any one who makes personal acquaintance with the source of the thames, and marks the character of the contributory streams, will be prudent in entertaining a doubt as to whether there are now breeding-grounds suitable, even if fish could be induced once more to run up through the filth of the pool from the sea. the alleged scarcity of thames trout is very often put down to the excessive disturbance caused by steam-launches, and the traffic by pleasure-boats upon all the reaches of the thames, from teddington lock to oxford. it is somewhat strange, therefore, that the higher you ascend the thames the fewer become the thames trout. there are a few large fish in most of the deep wide pieces that were once weir-pools, or that still may be so, between lechlade and oxford; but the water is too sluggish to encourage them much, and trout, with the exception of truants from lech, coin, or windrush, are, therefore, few and far between. pike, on the other hand, are more numerous, if not of so large an average size as those caught lower down. the thames, from the start, abounds in chub, bleak, barbel, gudgeon, roach, dace, and perch; bream, carp, and tench are partial in their haunts. but the river above oxford is not so accessible as the great body of modern anglers would require, and hence it comes to pass that these remote waters are little visited except by the local disciples of isaac walton. the weeds are, after a fashion, annually cut by the thames conservancy where their growth would be a serious hindrance, but otherwise they are not kept down, save by the uncertain operations of winter frosts and floods. the right of fishing is generally, above oxford, claimed by the riparian proprietors, or their tenants. [illustration: the thames from lechlade to oxford.] soon after putting bablock hythe in our wake, the flat country, varied by only occasional uplands, which had been the rule since leaving lechlade, is exchanged for a bolder type of scenery, as, for example, the fine wooded eminence rising before us. this is witham, of which we shall see a good deal, now from one point, and now from another, as we near the city of learning. it requires no guide or guide-book to inform us that from the summit a widespread view is obtained of the valley of the thames. hitherto we have looked in vain for the typical eyot. with the exception of one small islet below hart's number two, or langley weir, there has been nothing in the shape of an island until we arrive at hagley pool, where the first solitary island appears. the picture from here is exceptionally interesting. a rustic bridge spans a backwater trending towards witham mill, and in the direction of oxford. the thickset woods stand out in prominent relief, and another farmhouse of the higher class, surrounded by ricks, appears to the left. hagley pool, which is merely a lake-like widening of the water at the bend, is covered with the yellow water-lilies. three miles from eynsham we are at godstow bridge. the spire of cassington church, a conspicuous landmark on the left hand throughout, is a pleasanter object by far than the tall chimneys on the right, which are not redeemed by the rows of poplars that would fain hide them. it is unfortunate, but true, that the first glimpses we get of the spires of oxford are in conjunction with the tall red-brick chimney and not elegant university paper-mills. while following the bend at the broad part of the river the public buildings of beautiful oxford open one by one into view, but again disappear temporarily at the next bend, at the head of which stands king's weir. this serves as much the purposes of a lock as a weir, its gates opening when necessary to admit the passage of larger craft than those which can be conveyed over the rollers supplied for pleasure-boats. the river from the pool for some distance is almost choked with weeds, very narrow, and of hardly sufficient depth at low water to admit the passage of an ordinary pleasure-boat. godstow at once suggests the story, often told and always interesting, of fair rosamond. the lady gives a flavour also to woodstock, some eight miles distant. the wrongs and the rights of mistress rosamond will never in this world be accurately known, but that she was poisoned by jealous queen eleanor at woodstock, and that she was the mistress of queen eleanor's husband, henry ii., are facts which no one dare deny. according to lord lyttleton, henry ii. met the frail daughter of walter, lord clifford at godstow, in 1149, on his return from carlisle, the lady being at the time, in accordance with the custom of the age, placed amongst the nuns to be educated. the nunnery is still known by the ivy-clad walls which remain on its site. it was a nunnery of the benedictines, consecrated in the presence of king stephen and his queen in the year 1138. the nunnery was dispossessed, and has crumbled to ruins, but the brave river passes by even as in the olden times before henry viii., the spoiler, gave the house to his physician, dr. george owen. there was another nunnery at the foot of witham hill, but that was an older establishment, which existed as early as 690, on the spot where the earls of abingdon have their seat, partly built, it is understood, by the stones of godstow, even as the modern buildings at stanton harcourt are supposed to have been erected from the stones with which the original mansion was constructed. the ruins of godstow nunnery, such as they are, catch one's eye first from the river. it may be that the pathetic romance touching the silken thread and the bowl of poison is not, as many hold, founded upon fact; but we cannot be equally sceptical with regard to rosamond's connection with godstow. she retired to the nunnery to pass the remainder of her days, after the marriage of the king, in seclusion. she died, and was buried in the choir, opposite the high altar, and henry raised a grand monument to her memory. the nuns forgot the frailty of the lady, remembering rather the manner in which she had enriched the establishment, and the tokens of favour they had received from the king on her account; and we read that her remains were treated with much honour by the sisters, who hung a pall of silk over her tomb, and set it about with lighted tapers. this chronic honour was put an end to by hugh, bishop of lincoln, who, going to the nunnery and requesting to know why one particular tomb should be so much honoured, was informed that it was the tomb of rosamond, sometime leman to henry ii. in order that the nuns might not be led astray by having her example constantly set before them, and that other women might beware, poor rosamond's bones were cast out of the church; but they were brought back again by the nuns, and wrapped in perfumed leather. the farther arch of the old bridge at godstow has been removed to admit of various improvements being carried out in one branch of the stream, which here divides, and in order to widen the structure; but the two arches of the ascent from the right-hand side remain as they were, and the well-known "trout" inn at godstow retains all its characteristics of creepers, flowers, tiled roof, and pleasant waterside seats. a full view of oxford, set back beyond the farthest confines of port meadow is obtained, while the smell of the roses in the pretty garden of the time-honoured "trout" inn still lingers about us. the village of wolvercott lies to the left, and at the other end of the mill-stream, the entrance to which was noticed just above the king's weir. close by the ivy-covered gable of the nunnery a new weir is being erected, and it may be added that in the excavations incidental to the work four old stone coffins were discovered in the summer of 1885. passing by the village of binsey, where in 730 there was a chapel constructed with dark room for the most stubborn sort of sisters, and where the saints caused st. margaret's well to be opened, in order that people coming there to ease their burdened souls might be rid of their diseases, one feels that the first stage of a voyage down the thames is pleasantly terminated by the noble array of pinnacles, towers, and spires across port meadow, presented as a free common to the city by william the conqueror, and so to this day preserved. the towers and spires have an imposing effect, with shotover hill behind. the most prominent objects are st. philip's and st. james's church, the roman catholic church, the observatory, the radcliff, the sheldonian, st. mary's, all saints', tom tower and the cathedral, and, nestling down among the trees, the square grey tower of oxford castle. to the right is the "perch" inn at binsey, and as you pass this binsey common opens out in the same direction, and there are once more the wooded slopes of the witham hills, which we have had in view for the last eight miles. the river thames round port meadow is more disgracefully weedy and neglected than any other portion of its course. beyond binsey is medley manor house, at one time an oratory attached to godstow, a place where any of the devotees, in case they were detained from the city or on their journey to abingdon, could rest for the night, without going on to the nunnery. the flocks of geese in hundreds, just now giving the signal of rain, on the edge of port meadow, opposite binsey common, may still lead us to think that we are in the rural parts described on previous pages; but down yonder, on the other side of the cut leading to medley weir, are a fleet of ugly house-boats. there is also a semicircular iron bridge across the cut, and we are brought face to face with the fact that the next mile and a half of river will be essentially townified and crowded. the division of the river at medley leaves the business of practical navigation to the straight cut, and the original thames, once flowing by the site of bewley abbey, will probably be soon choked out of existence. in succession now follow in a prosy catalogue medley weir, the four streams, the railway, the canal, seven bridges road, and osney loch and mill. a hoary gateway and fragment of wall, with its perpendicular window absorbed in the mill fabric, are all that remain of osney abbey, the powerful and magnificent, whose abbots were peers of parliament. one hastens under the railway bridge, and looks aside from the gasworks, knowing that beyond folly bridge a new phase of thames life will begin for the intelligent voyager. /w. senior/. [illustration: the barges.] chapter ii. oxford to abingdon. oxford, from the upper river; the new town--the courses of the river, from medley weir to folly bridge--the houses of the regulars and friars--the university and parish churches--the halls and colleges of the seculars, from the thirteenth century to the reformation--jacobean oxford--classic oxford--convenient oxford--the architectural revival--the undergraduate revival--the river below folly bridge, and the invention of rowing--the navigation shape of the river--floods--the barges--iffley--littlemore--kennington--radley--sandford--nuneham. the traveller down stream, who looks for oxford across the flats of port meadow, is aware of a large town, dusky red in colour, skirted by a canal and a railway, and dominated by the slim brick bell-tower of a church, one of the pangs of the architectural renaissance. there, beyond the dingy quarter called jericho, one may stray through many streets of villas in the middle victorian taste, by flower-beds gay with the geranium and calceolaria. little is wanting that would be found in st. john's wood or west kensington. for this is, in late after-growth, that town of oxford that meant to be like london, and was like london, before the university came to interfere. it had its norman castle, its gild merchant, its charter, as good as those of london. it was a place where parliaments met. it had a palace of the kings, and a rich jewry, and a great mind to trade. but the university sprang up and choked these things. london never had a real university, but only colleges for students of common law, and so flourished. in oxford the town went under, and the university was everything. the "nations" came, and after long war reduced the natives to servitude. but the wheel has turned. the down-trodden race is quickly hiding the university with its new towns of houses and churches, and the very university has lost the monastic rule that allowed its members to camp as an alien garrison in the place. now they are surely being wrought into the fabric of the town. for the university there exist two rivers; one, the river, below folly bridge, the other, the upper river, above medley weir. between the two there is not one stream, but many. the river goes out of itself and returns into itself again. and in this division it suffers various fortunes. it goes far afield and grows forget-me-nots. it turns mill-wheels, and is a servant of breweries. it is locked and sluiced for the passage of barges. it is constrained and laid away in low and discouraged quarters, where it keeps company with people out of repair, with philanthropic enterprises, with aimless smells, with exhausted dust, with retired hansom cabs. it is beguiled into obscure cuts for bathing. it is imprisoned under streets. and when it comes to itself again it is not allowed to have its name, but is called by the vain sound of isis. the two main branches of the stream enclose a space rather over a mile in length, and roughly of the shape of a slim ewer, with a handle broken off near the top, that is at medley weir. there is a minor junction of the streams by a cut across the narrowed neck of the ewer opposite worcester garden. the upper of the two islands thus formed is given up to meadows and the two railway lines. the lower island, osney, holds the two railway stations, and the continuation southwards of the great western. south of the stations, and at right angles to the railway, the seven bridges road runs out towards botley. south of this again st. thomas's church lies east, and st. mary's cemetery and osney mill west of the railway havoc. the rest is meadow and garden land, scored with the streets of old and new settlements, and cracked by lesser dykes and courses of the stream. the eastern branch, after defining the upper rim of the ewer, turns sharp southwards, and, keeping company with the canal, skirts red oxford and worcester gardens. it is here that its interest begins. a little way above the first, or hythe bridge, a fresh division takes place, and a narrow irregular strip of low island is formed, running under three bridges to the castle mill, and below that occupied by breweries for some hundred yards. now it is only on the upper stretch of this island down to the castle mill that any attempt is made by the town to come to public and pleasant terms with its river. the attempt is a shy one. the treatment is on a humbler scale than that of the river witham at lincoln. the fishers row of low houses--some new, some old, and one or two remarkable--straggles along a narrow quay, arched over by the bridges. in the doubled stream, where it fronts the houses, fleets of old punts lie moored to their poles among the choking weeds; not the varnished toys of the cherwell, but the craft native to these shallow standing waters, as the gondola to the lagoons of venice. at the back of the houses, their gardens abutting upon it in all variety of confusion and decay, moves a furtive and even feebler stream. there is a wealth of matter here for the artist to rescue from its odours; grey walls that have seen better days and other uses, bricks rough-cast and timber, willow leaves and fluttering clothes, the most old and various dirt. all this is only to be won by glimpses from the bridges, or from the hospitality of back pigsties and the like; and it is only just to add that the tenants of this picturesque quarter--people, pigs, and ducks--show to the curious visitor an unvarying courtesy. the best bit was till lately to be seen from pacey's bridge, the second in order down stream. just there a house is bracketed out over the water, with windows disposed in graceful bays. but the jealousy that keeps the stream secret has shut away that last easy view, on the one side with a shop astride the water, on the other with a mere wilful screen. hythe bridge is a poor new thing; pacey's bridge is defaced with a new top. the next bridge brings us to the castle and the castle mill, the very heart of the old town; the castle older than the university, the mill of older foundation than the castle. then follow breweries, not without charm, but reticent about the river. just below the swan brewery the streams come together again at a point marked by a summer-house; but it is only for a fresh separation. from a garden in chapel place may be seen the point of division; but one branch is now built over. its name is the trill mill stream, and it runs behind paradise square, and round by way of rose place, across st. aldate's. then it comes to light again behind the houses, and skirts christ church meadows, to join the river near folly bridge. the other branch takes a stealthy course round the low quarter between paradise square and the gasworks. they are least ashamed of it in abbey place. from that point onward it shows at the end of poor little streets, with meadows and willows beyond. from one of these--blackfriars road--a bridge crosses to the bathing-cut, which rounds the base of our ewer, and leads into the navigation stream. at the tail of an island formed by the cut the navigation stream itself comes in, and the united water bends round the gasworks, and so to folly bridge, past some broken little gardens and backs of houses in thames street. folly bridge is as poor as the other thames bridges in oxford. it replaces the old norman _grand pont_ with its forty arches, and friar bacon's study over the further end. a top storey added to the "study" was the "folly." there is another now almost in the same spot, built by a money-lender. of the navigation stream in its course from medley weir there is less to say. at the neck of the ewer, at the point called four streams, it goes so far as to form a regular cross. one of the arms is the cut already mentioned running towards worcester. the opposite arm is known as the old navigation stream, and runs out in a great loop under the binsey road and the seven bridges road at new botley, and back to the present navigation stream at the base of the ewer. a smaller concentric loop leaves the stream at the first bridge beyond the station, throws off a branch to join the outer loop at the binsey road bridge, and returns at osney mill. here, just by the mill, there is a lock on the navigation stream. the island formed by the mill-stream and the lock runs down a hundred yards or so, and on the face of the island, made by the loop above, there is a meaner repetition of the fishers row. it may clear the maze a little to think of the two mills and islands, and quays balancing on opposite sides of the ewer. [illustration: oxford, from headington hill.] but this is not all. we have still to account for a stream that left the thames at hagley pool, above godstow. from that point it describes a yet wider loop, passing first by witham, then under the seven bridges road at botley, and on by the two hinkseys. at clasper's boathouse under the long bridges it is reinforced by a fresh offset from the main stream, and does not return again till just above rose island by kennington. the old men on the river have been heard to say that this branch from clasper's to kennington used to be the main stream for barges, and it is quite possible, for the long bridges and new towpath only date from the end of last century. the hinksey stream is not navigable throughout, because of two mills on its lower reaches. the low cumnor heights behind make a limit to the wandering and division of the water; but the whole flat between this boundary on the west and that of the oxford canal on the east is an amphibious country, now lake, now labyrinth. it will have been observed how little the obscure region of the river we have traversed has to do with the university of our time. one is invited to think how the river of oxford has come to be treated so; why the colleges shun it and give it over to railways and slums. and again, if one regards the college quarter with any attention, one is forced to ask by what steps the plan of building and habit of life we know as a college came to be as it is out of the old benedictine conventual schools. what were the links of building between st. frideswide's and merton, and what has become of them? the answer to the first question, and partly to the second, is that a more magnificent and more richly significant oxford than the present once occupied the isle of osney and the river quarter now so degraded;[1] but all that proper fortune of the river, all that beauty and history, has been incredibly blotted out, leaving only its first and last links in st. frideswide's and worcester, together with a few names and inconsiderable fragments. the buildings of oxford are a story whose mutilated preface is followed by a great gap where the opening chapters should be. a line here and there marks the interval, and when the tale is taken up again it is abruptly and in a changed temper. quickly it runs to a fluent mannerism that makes a great bulk of the text. then it proceeds in a classical version till the time when our own century began to spell and imitate the archaic forms. the town before the university is better represented than the following period by its castle and parish churches. the ancient st. frideswide's remains as christ church. but greater churches than st. frideswide's, one of them, that of the franciscans, twice as long, have been taken clean away, and not a stone remains to stand for the dominican and franciscan houses that moulded the early university. we must give a little space to this, and to another missing chapter, and then briefly read the rest of the story. when the two great mendicant orders arrived early in the thirteenth century, there was already, besides the old foundation of st. frideswide, at that time a house of austin canons, the great monastic foundation of osney, dating from early norman times. in its church, over the tomb of the foundress edith, english wife of the second lord of the castle, was painted a tree full of chattering pies, whose voice assailed her in her walks. her confessor knew them for souls in purgatory, and the canons were installed to pray for them. by the time the friars came to oxford the chattering souls were perhaps as much thought of as are the souls of those killed in the french wars of the fifteenth century by the fellows of all souls college now. at the dissolution the great abbey church had a chance of safety. for a short time it was the cathedral church of the new diocese of oxford. but that fortune passed to st. frideswide's, and no one translated osney abbey into a college. all that is left of it now is an archway and part of a barn among the buildings of the mill. the two great orders of friars settled finally near one another on opposite sides of the trill mill stream. the dominicans were first in the field, and for a time encamped near the schools and the jewry, with designs on both. they built a hospital for converted jews, which afterwards was used as the town hall, and it is on record that at one time they had two jews in the _domus conversorum_, but one of them, an acolyte, afterwards suffered a relapse. soon, however, the friars migrated to the damp riverside, as a place more favourable to rheumatism and ague, just as in london they went from holborn to blackfriars. it was the happiest fact that the mendicant orders coming to towns in their young and ascetic days settled in outcast and uninviting quarters, and covered them, as they grew in riches, with pleasant gardens and splendid buildings. but the black friars of oxford, like those of london, are only remembered now by names of streets, and of that bend of the river by the gasworks still known as preachers' pool. the grey friars are even more completely gone. the paradise given them by a pious lady has given its name to a square, but the groves and buildings of the minorites have not even left a name to the streets that have replaced them. there must be many of the friars still below ground in their coffins; in the courtyards behind the dismal streets there are glimpses of provoking walls, but with no speaking stones; and in the wall that divides the garden of trinity from parks street lie many old stones incognito, brought from the quarry of the friars preachers and the friars minor. the white friars, or carmelites, had no better fate. edward ii., flying from bannockburn with his carmelite confessor, vowed a house to our lady of the white friars if he should cross the border in safety. to redeem the vow he gave over his palace of beaumont to the carmelites. beaumont street runs through the site. some of the stones are in laud's new quad at st. john's. of another great house a small witness remains. above hythe bridge, the way by fishers row is continued from the tip of the eyot across a little bridge, and thence runs for a space alongside an ancient wall. this was a boundary wall of rewley abbey, the great house of the order of citeaux. almost covered by the wood stores of a wheelwright is a doorway with carved spandrils, and a label ending in sculptured heads. the wheelwrights, whose sheds lean against the old wall, show a wooden peak, the last vestige of a "summer-house" lately pulled down. only the other day they came upon a well in the garden behind. the london and north-western station occupies the site of the chief buildings. before it was put up the remains were considerable. rewley and osney abbeys between them accounted for most of the osney island. but the most speaking memorial of this lost university is that side of worcester that still remains of old gloucester hall. benedictine novices, from the many houses of the order scattered over england, were numerous among the early students of oxford. the benedictines were rich, and there were few university endowments. gloucester hall was the house founded in 1283 for those of the novices who came from gloucester abbey. then other benedictine abbeys had houses built alongside the first for their own students, till twenty-five abbeys were represented. others in the same way sent their men to buckingham college, cambridge. over the doorways of the halls still standing at worcester may be seen the escutcheons of their several abbeys; the griffin of malmesbury, the cross of norwich. the house of the fourth great mendicant order, the austin friars, has disappeared as completely as the other three. on its site, in the reign of james i., wadham college was built, but the phrase "doing austins" long survived as a memory of the university exercises that took place in the austin schools. the friars of the order of the redemption of captives have left as little sign. their property is part of the garden of new college. but some of the houses of the regular orders, besides gloucester hall, remain in a translation. the college of the novices from the convent of durham is the old part of trinity. st. mary's college of the regular canons has left a gateway opposite new inn hall, and the latest-founded of the religious houses, that of st. bernard for the cistercians, still shows in the street with some changes as the front of st. john's. [illustration: new college, from the gardens.] we have to think, then, of the oxford of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries as chiefly made up of the schools of the regular and mendicant orders, afterwards suppressed. the colleges of the third class, the secular clergy, were only beginning; the prevailing influence was that of the dominican and franciscan teachers, particularly the latter, with their roger bacon and duns scotus and occam, to set off against the aquinas and albertus of the parisian dominicans. at the time of the dissolution the numbers and spirit of the various religious houses had run very low. however, they made a push to extend their buildings, hoping so to ensure their wealth against the royal commission, just as the colleges did in our own time. but henry viii. seems, in most cases, to have made for the lead from the roofs of the buildings as his own share of the spoil, and the later additions with their flat lead roofing would just meet his taste. the walls he sold or gave to others, who used them chiefly as quarries. a letter quoted by mr. fletcher, written to thomas cromwell by one of his agents, gives a good notion of the look of things at the time, and of the spirit of the reformers:-"the black fryers bathe in ther backsyde lykwise dyvers ilonds well woddyd and conteyneth in lengith a great ground. there quere wasse lately new byldede and covered with ledde. it ys lykewisse a bigge howse, and all coveryd with slatt, saving the queere. they have prety store of plate and juellys, and specially there ys a gudd chales of golde sett with stonys, and ys better than a c marks: and there ys also a gudd crosse with other things conteynyd in the bill. ther ornaments be olde and of small valor. they have a very fayer cundytt and ronnyth fresshelye. ther be butt x. fryers, being prests besid the anker, which is a well-disposyd man, and have 1. marks yerly of the king's cofers." now we turn to the reaction against all this; to the quarter of the university that remains, the quarter of the old town parishes in which the halls and colleges of the secular clergy grew. and first we feel the gothic pattern of the streets. we have left the water behind, but the streams had to do in determining the flow of the "stream-like" streets. they kept the forms they were pressed into by the castle and city walls; st. giles's bursting out wide from the point where the old north gate cramped it by st. michael's; broad street broad because just outside the circuit; the rest winding and twisting with the happiest effects for the jostling buildings. [illustration: st. mary's, from the high street.] then when we look closer at this large mass of gothic work, of great establishments squeezed into the old shapes, and elbowing scanty strips and corners of the displaced houses, the notable point about most of the work is, not how old, but how new it is. the gothic is late, even belated. little of it is earlier than the perpendicular period; much of it is more recent still, and of a kind to which purists grudge even the name of gothic. it is true that in oxford buildings, when made of local stone not cunningly laid, become shabby and theatrically aged in the shortest time. they look not venerable, but battered and burned, the stone hanging in rags, and leaving where it falls raw yellow patches. mouldings and carvings drop away; pinnacles, battlements, and gables, and all outstanding features, thaw like blackened snow; walls are suddenly found wasted and thin, the rooms and towers depending on the merest crust of stone. the heads about the sheldonian theatre shed their beards of a rainy night. but all this is a very sham antiquity. some of the later buildings suffer from it most, and some of the oldest look, and are, newest because of sedulous restoration. one has to search diligently for hints of the older work, and to entrap it as it looks out of its new body in some favourable light. it is the churches, the parish churches and the towers of st. frideswide's and st. mary's, that seem most to promise age in a distant prospect, and to strike a recurrent note of antiquity as one goes about the town. the old town church of st. martin at carfax, with its picturesque altered gables and clock and "penniless bench," is much wanted; but it was pulled down inconsiderately and rebuilt in haste. but st. peter's, st. michael's, st. mary magdalen's, and st. giles's, are rich in beauty and interest. the lovely spire of st. mary's, panelled with pomegranates for queen eleanor, stands almost alone of the old university church. there is, indeed, on the north of the chancel, and set at a divergent angle, a yet older building--the two-storeyed ancient house of congregation. its two storeys simulate on the outer side the appearance of one to conform with the new church, but the groined roof remains of the lower room, now half-buried and given to lumber. this and the old church were the real centre of the university. in the five chapels the regents of the five faculties assembled for the act at which disputations were held and degrees given. not only the schools and theatre and convocation house, but the university library, too, hived off from these buildings. the first books were kept in chests in the "soler," or upper room, and there, too, those other chests were stored that were the earliest form of university endowment. in them the money left by benefactors was kept, and lent out to poor students, who in return pawned books and daggers and other articles of value. the colleges began as a counterpoise to the schools of the regular and mendicant orders, more particularly the latter. the friars, learned and powerful, naturally drew to them great numbers of the poor unattached scholars. statutes ineffectually made eighteen years the lowest age of consent. the university had a hard fight to keep even its degrees in its own hands. this third great body of scholars, unattached to monks or friars, consisted of the ordinary or secular clergy, men qualifying not merely for the work of parish priests, but for what are now the lay professions of lawyer and doctor. they had a bad time of it while the friars were still popular. they had few endowments, and were forced to labour for a living, or to beg their way. it was common for poor scholars to serve as scouts. they lived either in private lodgings or in the numerous private halls, inns, or hostels that covered the sites of the present colleges. those are the second obliterated chapter among university buildings. they were simply lodging-houses, rented from the owner by a master of arts, who was styled principal. by an early statute, that marks the encroachment of the university on the town, the owner of the hall was bound to let it to the first applicant who deposited the needful caution with the vice-chancellor. the principal was paid by the inmates for board and tuition. the first colleges were such halls, furnished with an endowment for poor scholars, and with a set of statutes to regulate its administration. at first the scholars went to service at the nearest parish church; but gradually, as funds allowed, chapel and hall and library were built, and the familiar front with its gate-tower screened the old and new buildings. the full-grown college, as it had taken shape before the times of the reformation and rich lay undergraduates, was a society incorporated for the benefit of poor scholars of the secular order. its buildings replaced the single hall or group of halls that had been converted from private to corporate use, or else the old tenements were recast in the new mould. that new mould followed with modifications the plan of the monastic houses. some of these halls still remain. but the form of university life they represented, and to a great extent the buildings themselves, have gone as completely as the oxford of the religious. the colleges swallowed most of them. new college accounts for ten, merton for eight. from old prints one can gain a notion of the splendid jumble of gables and chimneys of all degrees of dignity that enriched the streets; and one is tempted to regret that some of the colleges gave up the picturesque grouping and domestic style of the clustered halls for the more monotonous and pretentious manner of their latter shape. as henry suppressed the religious houses, so laud suppressed the private halls, leaving five only as academic halls. of these, one--magdalen hall--has left its beautiful bell-tower to magdalen college, and its second site to hertford. of the rest, three are now absorbed in colleges. the great date in college history is 1264, when walter de merton gave statutes to the college he had founded. university hall, afterwards university college, had already been founded from a legacy administered by the university. but in merton the idea of a great college was first clearly struck out, and its statutes were an exemplar for all succeeding societies both at oxford and cambridge. merton, however was not built in one heat. the old quad and parts of the chapel are early work, but the tower and other parts are later. the chapel is so large, because it is not only chapel to the college, but church to the parish of st. john, a great part of which the college absorbs. the library is one of the most beautiful as well as one of the most ancient rooms in oxford. balliol and exeter, oriel and queen's, are also early colleges, but they do not stand for so much historically. they group with merton, and have all changed their first bodily shape. the next great moment in the college history, the beginning of a new group, comes about a hundred years after merton. this was the foundation of the college of st. mary winton--called new from a sense of the importance of the event--by william wykeham, bishop of winchester. several things are important about this great creation. to begin with, the foundation was of a new magnificence. it provided for seventy scholars, a term at that time synonymous with fellows. there was a stronger accent about it of opposition to the regular clergy. its lands were bought from impoverished monastic bodies. it was made self-sufficient by its nursery and counterpart in architecture, the college of st. mary at winchester. it was saved from the jurisdiction of the university by the power granted it of giving degrees, and from the jurisdiction of the bishop of lincoln, in whose diocese oxford then lay, by the appointment of the bishop of winchester as its visitor. but above all, not only was the plan of its institution a great educational achievement, but the building itself was by the same author, the work of a man of genius, coherent and complete. the quadrangle has been altered out of all knowledge by the addition of the third storey with battlements, and the re-shaping of the windows, but even so it shares with the added wings of the garden front a wonderful dignity and purity. the original towers are so dominant everywhere that one reads their spirit into the encumbered translation. [illustration: magdalen tower, from the cherwell.] the stroke told. henry vi. echoed the idea in eton and king's college, cambridge. in oxford, the chapel and cloisters of chichele's all souls' were imitated from new college. but a richer reverberation followed. waynflete's magdalen is another new more magnificent, and later by a hundred years. it is not more beautiful. feature by feature is reproduced, with just that luxury of virtue and grace that one would expect from mary the magdalen walking in the footsteps of mary the virgin. the chapels are planned alike, and in either college set back to back with the hall. magdalen has a cloister quad, a more spacious one; a higher and richer tower, wider and more lordly grounds. but one can turn from the baffling and haunting charm of magdalen tower to be satisfied with the simple fighting tower of new college; and it is dangerous to go from the blackened walls and gaunt arches, the austerely divided daylight of the cloistered walk at new college, to the coarser forms and less single purpose of the other. the older cloister is still the walk of a recluse, overlooked only by the tower and gable of the chapel, and interrupted by rare and funeral writing on the walls. the other is built in an easier temper. staircases open upon it below, and many windows occupy it above. it is the covered thoroughfare of the college. [illustration: stone pulpit, magdalen.] it should be remembered, however, that magdalen cloisters have suffered much. they have been pulled down almost throughout and rebuilt. an upper storey has gone from the north side, ugly westmorland slate has replaced the grey stonesfield kind, and windows have been made bigger and more regular. historically it is to be noted that magdalen superseded a collegiate building of another kind, the old hospital or almshouse of st. john the baptist. the stone pulpit in st. john's quad marks this. on the saint's day a sermon used to be preached from the pulpit, and the quad was strewn with rushes and hung with boughs to represent a wilderness. at last a principal caught his death of cold by going out into the wilderness, so they gave it up, and had the sermon in chapel instead. there was some grudging show made of keeping up the almshouse. a low vault under a chapel was given over to the poor. a report was drawn up for the year 1596 giving the following cheerful particulars:--"in sommer the resort is greater, in winter very smale, bycause of the coldnes and onwholesomenes of the vault; which is in verie deed so moyst and dampish that we have the last yeare removed the beddes into another house not far of, for that everie winter they are subject to rottennes." however, they were going to repair the floor "as well for the safetie of our beddes as for the health and ease of the poore."[2] the building of the old quad of lincoln went on by stages during this same fifteenth century, and corpus followed early in the next. neither of these has been rebuilt, but both have been defaced so as to lose almost all interest; but they stand for points in history. lincoln was a college of priests, to make head against lollardry; corpus stood for greek. [illustration: "tom" gateway.] then follows the notable foundation of wolsey's cardinal college, afterwards christchurch. all souls' had been founded with the spoil of "alien" priories--cells, that is, of foreign monasteries in england. magdalen had taken the place of a religious society; but the final step was taken when english religious houses were suppressed to form one great educational foundation. st. frideswide's was preserved to be its chapel. the huge ungainly quad was planned out and partly built. after the suppression of religious houses stone was cheap, so the building went on even after wolsey's fall. the tom tower was added much later. it is one of wren's essays in gothic, masterful and striking in general design, but unfeeling in detail. the fan-vaulted roof of the hall staircase is a lovely piece of later work, but the staircase itself is badly managed. the cathedral is a rather disconcerted building; but there is plenty in it to study and enjoy. the story of the saint may be read in a window by mr. burne jones. other four windows by the same artist were executed by mr. morris, with the result that in colour as well as in design they rank with the best of old workmanship, and can be compared with nothing new, except those from the same hands in other places. if new and magdalen stand for the enriching sunset of gothic in oxford, the great group of buildings that follows the reformation stands for a strange and prolonged after-glow of the art. it is this period that more than any other belongs to oxford, gives it a peculiar character. nowhere else is it so largely represented. the renaissance, coming all this way, was too weak and distressed to create forms of architecture quite its own; but it passed as a principle of change into the veins of the old style, and broke out here and there in the strangest features. the main ideas of the gothic structure held their own--the sloping roof, the traceried window; but a languor and a fever seized upon the mouldings and details of the old work. at any moment the sedate lines of the perpendicular tracery might run wild into twirls of trivial scroll-work, or one whole side of a building speak a sleepy gothic and another stammer the queerest greek. but the whole seldom fails to please, because it is ordered throughout by the most sure and delicate sense of proportion. it is the work of men whose hand is well in, whose ideas are running few and thin, but are dealt out and recombined with the utmost freedom and familiarity. one is often blankly disappointed by the flatness, the poverty, the childishness of the decoration; but however meagre and thoughtless and alien the elements of the design may be, there never fails an artistic sense in the way they are set out, so that the most incongruous lendings of various styles meet and are subdued to perfect comfort in one another's company. perhaps the salt that saves the whole is the sense of humour that pervades it, just as it does the rich enjoyed sentences of the contemporary literature. the buildings do not expect to be taken quite seriously; the figures on the tombs are very much at play with death. sometimes, indeed, the windows of grave buildings like the chapel of wadham stiffen out into the older and more decorous manner; but it would be hard to match for rollicking irresponsibility the porch that laud added to st. mary's church. colour, too, was near the heart of the builders. they revelled in gilding, in paint, in marbles and alabaster. and in the weighty matters of architecture that go beyond the mere building, in the recognition of its neighbourhood, of its place as a mass in the streets or a kindly growth among fields and trees, they were very much at home. the presence of such buildings is one of comfort, of fun, of flexible tradition and generous possibilities. the style begins at oxford under elizabeth, and continues under charles; but it centres under james, and hence is conveniently called jacobean. not only university and college buildings belong to it, but most of the beautiful domestic work of the streets, like archbishop king's house off st. aldate's, and the house off the high, used as a police-office. it was in a building of the jacobean time that the university idea first found adequate expression, gathered out of the scattered lodgings in which it had been housed. already, by 1480, a noble room had been built for the divinity school, with the library of duke humphrey above it. sir thomas bodley's first act was to give this library a new roof and fittings, and to add to it at right angles the building that forms above an extension of the library, below the proscholium or ambulatory of the schools. it was the day after his funeral, in the year 1613, that the first stone was laid of his magnificent plan for completing the quadrangle, of which the proscholium forms one side. this quadrangle is a plan or map of the university's theory of knowledge. as one enters under the gateway tower the scholastic sciences announce themselves in gold letters above the various doors. the faculties--the faculty of arts with its subdivision into the trivium and quadrivium, the faculties of canon and civil law and of medicine lead up to the fifth and crowning faculty, the science of sciences, divinity, lodged behind the richly-panelled front of the proscholium. before this, the faculty of arts had been housed in the thirty-two schools that gave their name to schools street. in these the regents, that is the young m.a.'s, the ruling and teaching body of the university, gave lectures and sat, at stated times, to determine in the disputations that preceded, as examinations do now, the b.a. degree. the public viva voce in the schools is the remnant of this formal exhibition of logical skill. the disputant went round to solicit the presence of his friends, and statutes were passed to restrain the system of touting for an audience as well as to limit the regular supper that followed. at cambridge it was the duty of the bedells to go round to the various colleges and halls where the questionists were, and "call or give warninge in the middest of the courte with thees words: 'alons, alons, goe, mrs., goe, goe,'" and any tendency to a real viva voce was rudely checked by the same officer. "if the father shall uppon his chyldren's aunswer replie and make an argument, then the bedel shall knocke him out"--which seems to have meant that he hammered loudly on the door.[3] the act, or public contest of degrees, still took place in st. mary's, till the sheldonian theatre completed the new group of the schools in 1669. the new convocation house, with the selden library above, had already been added in 1640 at the further end of the divinity school. about the same time as the new schools wadham college had been built. complete at the outset, it is remarkable among oxford buildings for its singleness and symmetry of design, and its skill of building or fortune of stone; it is one of the most ancient of the colleges in the sense that it is authentic. the rebuilt university college and oriel and the new jesus may be grouped together. they have in common the beautiful treatment of the upper windows as a series of little gables in place of the tiresome screen of battlements. the front of jesus is a modern disguise, the clever but unsympathetic work of mr. buckler. it replaces the old elizabethan front with its gateway in the fashion of the beautiful one of st. alban's hall. the jesus gate, however, had been obscured by a heavy rusticated screen. brasenose gained in the jacobean period its exquisite dormer windows; lincoln its homely second quad and lovely chapel. another fine example is the hall and chapel of st. mary hall. in merton four of the five orders of the schools tower were reproduced. the chief author of all this work was a thomas holt of york. among his followers were the brothers bentley, and acroide, oxford builders. a greater name is associated with the new quad of st. john's. in this inigo jones was mastered by the genius of the place, and constrained to build the wonderful garden front. inside the quad he had his own way in the colonnades, but he was more in character still when he designed the danvers gateway of the new physic garden, and plotted its wall and walks. here, at last, in a quiet corner of the place, where science was beginning in a gentle way to stir, the english gothic tradition of building was fairly broken, and the key struck of the manner that in the end of the seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth century gave oxford its sturdy and picturesque english classic. soon after, the troubled times of the civil war, the rather farcical, but disastrous siege of oxford, "leaving no face of a university," and the subsequent spoiling of the colleges by the puritans, must have served very effectually to snap the chain of building tradition, and make a blank for the new ideas. [illustration: the dome of the radcliffe, from brasenose.] when the strange holiday time was over, and the university was in a frame for building again, the period of wren and of his school began. the chapel of brasenose, built under the commonwealth, marks the point when the relations of the mixed styles were becoming too strained. the sheldonian theatre announces the rupture. it is in wren's happiest manner. there is no building where the audience is more artfully disposed so as itself to be a great part of the architecture. this was followed by various buildings of the school of wren. he revised bathurst's design for trinity chapel, though he clearly thought it a bad job, and he is said to have had a hand in hawksmoor's work at queen's and all souls. certainly the robust screen and gateway of the queen's front are not unworthy of him. aldrich's all saints' church and peckwater quad at christ church belong to the early eighteenth century. the last great building in this manner is gibbs's radcliffe library. it gives the university a comfortable centre as only a dome can, and counts for quite half in any distant view of oxford buildings. the rest of the eighteenth century has nothing very notable to show. hawksmoor, in his nightmare buildings at all souls', had proved how dead gothic was. a good deal of classic went up, the work of academic amateurs, dabbling in vitruvius and palladio. but one holds one's breath till the period is well over. dilettanti among the dons travelled to italy and came back terribly ashamed of their barbarous oxford. it is a matter for thankful wonder that all the old buildings were not replaced by palladian colleges. the clean sweep of old queen's and of the mass of buildings that made way for the radcliffe, must have tempted many a common room. hawksmoor actually prepared a design for a brand-new classic brasenose, with four domes and a high street front. magdalen had the narrowest escape. a mr. holdsworth, a fellow of the college, "an amiable man and a good scholar," returned from a sojourn in rome full of enlightenment. his first scheme was to pull down the whole building, tower and all; but he had to give up the tower chapel and hall, and content himself with the destruction of the cloister quad. however, he began his scheme with the new buildings on unoccupied ground, and somehow it was not carried further; so the great new quad, with its three colonnades, remained on paper. but in 1771 the university set itself to a wider change. the rough unpaved streets in which the buildings were rooted like trees, the island markets that blocked the traffic, the narrow rambling bridges, and above all, the north gate or bocardo by st. michael's, and the east gate above magdalen, hurt the best feelings of dons dreaming of vistas and piazzas. the place, besides, was no doubt very dark and dirty. an act of parliament was obtained for cleaning, lighting, and paving the town, removing gates and other obstructions, building markets, and repairing or rebuilding magdalen bridge. so oxford became convenient and lost half its pictorial effect. the old bridge over the cherwell at magdalen was everything that a good bridge can be without being convenient. it had a chequered course of six hundred feet over land and water, leaping the water in a series of arches of different height and width just as was necessary; occupied by houses and shops where it crossed the land; and throwing out, at irregular intervals, angular bays of varying width and projection. but in some places it was as narrow as thirteen feet, some of the arches were ruinous, and the city and county were responsible for the repair of different parts, which they both appear to have left alone. so it had to come down. the new bridge, as well as the market and other changes, was the work of an engineer named gwyn. his bridge kept something of the old picturesqueness, though in a formal way. it had the same places to go over; a circular bay in the centre stood for the old angles; and the lines at either end swept out in graceful curves. but people were very angry because it was so narrow and high. the roadway was afterwards heightened to reduce the pitch of the bridge, the parapet was lowered, and in our own time the width has been doubled for the convenience of trams. old st. clement's church, too, has gone from the road on the further side, and has been rebuilt in another place and manner in full view of every one who crosses the bridge. many of the old houses had been shorn away in the process of widening the streets; but some people were not satisfied. the old gothic buildings had begun to command a certain zeal without knowledge; but people disliked the gothic pattern of the streets, and the irregular patches of domestic buildings. they wanted to have things cleaned up, and made regular; to have "views;" to see the great buildings in solitary distance with no interference from house-roofs or trees, a thing that very few buildings in the world can stand. an interesting evidence of this state of mind is a little book by a certain rector of lincoln, dr. tatham. it was he who defaced the old quad of his college with stupid battlements and other changes. he is remembered by mr. cox as an old gentleman, who lived out of oxford, but might be seen landing his pigs in the market-place on saturdays, and who, in defence of the faith and the three witnesses, in the university pulpit, wished all the "jarmans" at the bottom of the "jarman" ocean. the book is called "oxonia explicata et ornata: proposals for disengaging and beautifying the university and city of oxford." the buildings of oxford, he thought, were "too crowded and engaged. our forefathers seem to have consulted petty convenience and monastic reclusiveness, while they neglected that uniformity of design which is indispensable to elegance, and that grandeur of approach which adds half the delight. if the colleges and public edifices of this place were drawn apart from each other, and dispersed through the extent of a thousand acres, so that each might enjoy the situation a man of genius would approve, we might boast," &c. he prefixes to the book a little design of his own for a martyr's memorial, "a triumphant monument to be placed across broad street, the whole so airy as very little to obstruct the view of the buildings." of this design one may say that it would have been much more interesting than the eleanor cross of sir gilbert scott. this cross of scott's was one of the first new works at oxford of the gothic revival. wyatt and others had already worked at what they called restoration, and pugin's gateway, lately removed, had been set up at magdalen the year before. oxford has suffered its full share of buildings that were the costly grammatical exercises of men learning a dead tongue. in architecture such exercises are more expensive and obtrusive than in any other art, and it will be long perhaps before people will have the courage and sacrifice to pull them down again. some are merely learned and lifeless, like buckler's magdalen school and jesus, and scott's chapel of exeter. others are hopeless, sullen blocks, like scott's extensions of exeter and new college, and butterfield's new buildings at merton. others are fancifully bad, like the conscientious ugliness of the museum, and the _recherché_ ugliness of balliol, and the mixture of both in the meadow buildings of christ church. butterfield in balliol chapel and keble college shows a great power of geometrical invention in form and colour, an invention for the most part greatly astray. it is refreshing among all this to come upon the strong, though wayward artistic temperament of burges in the decoration of the hall and chapel of worcester, or even the respectable classic taylorian buildings of cockerell, unpleasant in colour and jarring on the spirit of the place as they are. [illustration: the 'varsity barge.] very different work has been done of late years. there is less about it of defiant expression of undesirable artistic personality, or pedantic exhibition of a style--more recognition of the power of the place, more actual artistic instinct. even the much abused indian institute of champneys, in spite of the heavy frivolity of its details and interior, is, in the disposition of the wall and window space, the invention of its tower, and the way the whole building takes its place in the picture, a piece of architecture, which such things as balliol are not. the space of blank wall on its corner tower is worth more than all the geometrical troubles that fret the face of keble. at magdalen, again, the genius of the old buildings has been lovingly reproduced by mr. bodley in the new. his tower is not good, and it was carrying faithfulness too far to reproduce the stupid gargoyles and grotesques of the original; but much of the rich decoration in wood and stone is refined in design and workmanship. one can praise, too, the extension of st. john's. it may be said of all the new oxford buildings that they are apt to be heavy within, owing a good deal to the fear of fire that makes all the staircases of stone. but there is an architect who has taken up the tale where thomas holt dropped it, and who has carried it farther, with results almost as important for the appearance of oxford. a like moment in the history of the place seemed to have come round again. the new ways of the university needed new schools--for examination this time instead of disputation--and a great extension of college building coincided. never, perhaps, since wren had the churches of london to rebuild has one architect had such a fling in so important a place as mr. t. g. jackson in the oxford of our time. and there can be no question that, whatever the faults of restlessness and overcrowding that sometimes mar his designs, mr. jackson has been worthy of his opportunity. the last great addition to oxford is its undergraduates. it is not very long since the colleges, in respect of undergraduates, were normally as all souls' is now, with its four bible clerks; but they were not as all souls' is in respect of its fellows. the long deserts of theological and political war had left them for the most part mere club-houses, whose members existed to drink port together of an evening, and abuse one another in little pamphlets during the day. the common room was the great invention of the late seventeenth century, and the eighteenth was spent in bringing it to perfection. then came the fellows of oriel, the examination statutes, the genius of the masters of balliol, the commission, the new statutes, the unattached. it is an exciting show for the visitor, this incongruous surface of new and old, this great bustle and pulse of the machine among the frail and crumbling walls. each morning dilatory tides of men in cap and gown set about the streets under the jangling bells; each afternoon, in punctual haste, a steady stream of the same men, in flannel, makes for the river, and flows back for the monastic evensong and refectory dinner. there was a time when the dinner-hour was ten o'clock in the morning, and it was thought that so late an hour was a sign of the decay of learning. [illustration: a "bump" at the barges.] meanwhile the streets grow emptier, and the visitor, in the abstraction of the growing darkness, will gather hints of the antiquity about him. he will see the society grimace of the buildings relax. their features will relapse into startling meanings, and the presence of other centuries will strike in upon his senses. if he is an american, like mr. james's _passionate pilgrim_, he will feel about it all the pang of a forfeited possession. it is part of himself that was lost and is found, a history forgotten long before he was born. now he remembers it. nowhere is midnight so late as in oxford. it is announced from so many towers at so many moments by bells of the most various tone and cadence; but by all, even to the most maundering and belated, with the same precise conviction, as if one could hear all the lecturers saying the same thing in their own words--_it is midnight here, now_. and faint and loud another and another awakes and insists, _it is midnight here, now_. through the middle clamour the chime of st. mary's drops down three pathetic steps and climbs up through the same intervals. the university is older by another hour. [illustration: iffley mill.] the great deed of the new undergraduates was the discovery of the river. in the early years of the century it was still only a place for fishing in; occasionally a heavy tub was rowed down to nuneham. bell-ringing had gone out as an exercise; cricket was the game of one exclusive club; the nearest approach to a healthy rivalry between the colleges was a competition between new college and all souls' in making negus. new college won by putting in no water. it was not till 1837 that the old boats had their sides cut down. about ten years later outriggers came in, and after another ten, keelless boats. another ten brought sliding seats from america, and so the skiff and the four and the eight reached their perfect economy of construction, and the quality of beauty they share with their counterpart, the bicycle, on land. both bicycle and skiff are extensions of the human machine within such limits that they remain as it were mere developed limbs working at every moment as parts of one balancing frame, projections of the person. [illustration: iffley church.] in 1839 the university boat club was started, and the great oxford school of rowing shot up to overshadow the older faculties. before this time college racing had begun on the admirable bumping system, that not only makes the race a prolonged spectacle for those who stand still to see, but allows of so much spirit of body in those who run by their college boat. at first the boats started out of iffley lock. the stroke of each boat, as its turn came, ran down the thwarts pushing out, and the next boat followed as soon as he cleared the lock. [illustration: littlemore church and kennington island.] the river between oxford and abingdon in its present shape is a sort of free canal, locked at iffley and sandford, and again just above abingdon. there used to be a lock at nuneham, but it was taken down. more recently, too, the folly bridge lock was carried away, and has not been replaced. the history of the river as a work of art is a long and interesting one. obstructions to its natural course, and to its navigation, began with mills and mill-weirs. in early charters there are provisions for removing "gorees, mills, wears, stanks, stakes, and kiddles." commissions and acts of parliament tinkered at the navigation, but till the end of the eighteenth century no progress was made beyond the old mill-weir, with sluices in it to let the boats through. this arrangement was called a "flash" lock. the flashing emptied the reach of the river above the lock, but all the water was needed to move the heavy barge sticking on the "gulls" below. navigation was of course terribly slow. a bargeman had sometimes to send on ten miles ahead to get a flash when going up stream, and sometimes lay for a month till enough water had accumulated. when he got it there was none for any one else. leonardo da vinci, who thought of everything, had invented the pound-lock long ago; and other people before and after him had hit on what seems a very obvious contrivance. but that ingenious people, the chinese, are said still to hoist their barges over weirs, and it was not till the time of the great period of canal-making that began with the bridgewater canal in 1760 that the pound-lock made any way in this country. the canal from birmingham reached oxford in 1790, and shortly afterwards the locks and towpath were put into their present shape. then followed jealousies between rivers and canals, till the railways came and made inland navigation of less importance. nowadays there is little barge traffic through oxford (folly bridge was always a difficult point), but another question, that of floods, presses as much as ever. quite recently the engineer to the thames commission brought out a scheme for doing away with iffley lock and weir, and dredging a deep and narrow channel between iffley and folly bridge. the vice-chancellor and the dean of christchurch, both by virtue of office commissioners, were in favour of this scheme with a view to oxford health; but it has been proved to the satisfaction of the thames conservancy board, whose officers have examined the place, that so sweeping a change is not needed. the effect of the change would be to give the river banks instead of brims, and it has been argued that it would kill the elms of christ church and the fritillaries in the water meadows about iffley. most serious of all would be the loss of iffley mill. we may hope that oxford health need not be bought so dearly. [illustration: oxford to abingdon.] meantime iffley lock ends the shorter course for rowing practice, sandford the longer; while nuneham and abingdon, to keep to an oxford point of view, mark the longer picnic courses. it is all frideswide ground; the saint was rowed to the outhouse near abingdon by an angel, when she was warned in a dream and fled. the meadows of her convent now are lined by the college barges. these are an interesting study in development. the first of them were old procession barges of the london city companies. one of them, the oriel barge, still remains, with its delicate form, and long sharp prow, in which the rowers sat. the bronze figures by the door of the saloon are untouched, the oval windows, the tarnished gilding within. but the spirit of utility rebelled and the model changed. the long prow was chopped off close, the semblance of the high stern went, and there was left merely a square floating dressing-room with railings round its roof, and seats for the spectators of races. then the sense of beauty mutinied, perhaps alleging the use of the toy for picnic excursions, and the prow and stern were restored. the university barge is a monument of the gothic revival. several architects have tried their hand in designs for these craft, and new ones are from time to time constructed. it is the oddest little street, this row of motley noah's arks; and when the high poles shake out their amazing flags, and the men come down in fearless college colours, and a vast and diverse millinery decks every foot of standing room the roofs can give, there would seem to be some touch of an arabian night about a very english day, were it not that the vigorous people wear many more colours than arabia would allow. a little hill at iffley lifts up the rusty-grey rectory and church. the church is, for its size, made in an absurd number of styles, beginning with late norman. the heavy arches inside are carved round with sunflowers, looking like an ancient imitation of modern work. outside, there is the strangest confusion of carvings; a centaur strayed from phigaleia, and other pagan images among the christian symbols. the gods in exile have visited iffley too. on the south side a great yew has been building all through the transition and the perpendicular and the tractarian times, and the people who decorated, and the people who late middle pointed, and the rest make the ground quite uneven round its roots. an undated villager, who styles himself archdeacon of iffley, and has a venerable humour, comes among the graves for company. behind the hill, and a little beyond iffley, lies littlemore. here is the little church that newman built, and came to from st. mary's for the last two years of the via media. near it is the range of low buildings that people called a monastery, where mark pattison and others came to be with newman, and where, on october 8th, 1845, newman was received into the "one fold of christ" by father dominic the passionist, the good father making holy puns upon the name of the place. now the college, as the building is called in the village, is given as almshouses to the poor. the largest room is a public library. in the kitchen lives an old woman who served the newmans in her youth. her husband, an old toy peasant, with smock-frock and silver hair, and a fine rheumatism that i am sure his country gladly supports, sits by. she stands up and remembers newman. he lived there with his pupils "before he became a pope. the pope of rome, that's the real pope, over-persuaded him, and he went away and never came back again. she did hear that the church of england gave him some punishment for leaving, but didn't rightly know. and the clerk's wife had been to see him, and found him in a bare room with no carpet on the bricks, like any poor person, and had said that it was to be humble and like his master that he did it all." meanwhile on the river we have to pass some ornate sewage works, and the wanton embankment of a railway, that here crosses to littlemore. below lies the rose isle, with its "swan inn," and on the right the heights come nearer with the little village of kennington. a beautiful tree-planted road runs along the top to radley, with its school in the old park of the bowyers' house, and against the tall trees is a little grey church and thatched cottages, where women come out and sit with their sewing machines on the summer evenings. from this the road goes on through a corn country to abingdon. next on the river comes sandford mill, with a leaning chimney, that has all the interest and all the beauty of the leaning tower of pisa. sandford church lies away from the river, nearer the nuneham road. the porch proclaims, "condidit me domina eliz. isham. anno gratiæ 1652," and adds- "thanks to thy charitie, religiose dame, which found me old, and made me new againe." it is proper, at the same time, to speak strongly of the taste which found the church norman, and made it something very new indeed. but it is worth while going in to see the curious carving in the chancel of the assumption of the virgin. [illustration: a picnic to nuneham.] another mile, and the heights of nuneham close in on the left with woods sweeping down to the very edge of the water. presently one comes upon a little island, connected with the nuneham side by an intensely rustic bridge. by the landing-place is a cottage with exaggerated thatch. here they make tea. they make most not for the university picnics that the summer term brings to these hospitable woods, but when the great revolt of the town sets in with the long vacation. the river is as populous as ever then with dashing young fellows in flannel, and enchanting young ladies dressed in the depth of fashion. great and many barges are towed down to nuneham, and there merry people dance round carfax, and float up again to salter's in the heavy purple dusk, trolling snatches of songs. carfax reminds us what a place of shifting nuneham is. to begin with, the family was removed hither from stanton harcourt in the last century; then they moved the church and the village to new places; then the river was moved into a new cut, and the town of oxford presented lord harcourt with otho nicholson's conduit. it was a work that gave the town the final accent of the jacobean style; but it was in the way of cabs. may one hope that perhaps it came to nuneham, like other pilgrims from oxford, only for a season, and that it is waiting in that hospitable retreat till its home is worthy of it again? [illustration: the bridge and cottage, nuneham.] the conduit did good service to nuneham at the time. it took the place of a projected "gothic castle." gothic castles and abbeys, well ruined, were in vogue, to cap a rising ground or to conceal a dairy. it was the time of "landscape gardening." people corrected their land as much as possible after the ideas of claude. it is for his pictures one must look in grounds like those of nuneham. the trim elizabethan garden, with its pleasaunce and mount, and bowling-green and wilderness, its fountains and clipped trees, give place to a carefully-arranged disorder. foregrounds were picturesquely grouped, middle distances were plotted, and sunk fences, palings painted green, grottoes with stalactites and stalagmites and other devices went to make up what was called nature. the disciple of rousseau felt that he had indeed returned when he could sit upon a jag of extremely difficult geology fresh from the contractor's hand, and drop the tear of sensibility into the cascade that his own fingers had turned on. the man who had the chief hand in the laying out of nuneham was lancelot brown, called "capability;" but lord harcourt kept, besides, two tame poets, mason, the author of "the english garden," and whitehead, the laureate, to help him to be elaborately natural in his gardening, and to write verses on the seats. the two had a genuine contempt for one another. mason had the last word. he wrote the verses on whitehead's memorial urn. he said- "....let the sons of fire the genius of that modest bard despise, who bade discretion regulate his lyre, studious to please, but scorning to surprise; enough for him, if those who shared his love through life, who virtue more than verse revere, here pensive pause, while circling round the grove, and drop the heart-paid tribute of a tear." mason could do most things badly. his patron says of him:--"in the church there is a barrel-organ, upon which is set mr. mason's music for the responses to the commandments, and his sunday hymns. the adjoining flower-garden was formed by him, and he suggested the alterations on the north terrace. so that in a very small space we have specimens of his genius in music, painting" (the altarpiece of the church was his work), "and poetry; of his taste in improving the beauties of nature; and what is most soothing to those who loved him, a proof that he applied his talents to the noblest purpose, that of celebrating the praises of him from whom he received them." all this has only a little to do with the look of nuneham reach from the river. one may discern upon it perhaps the seal of claude, of this and the other poet. it is so with all planted landscape. but apart from that, nuneham, in its architecture of hill and wood and water, has the trick of the great places in thames scenery. it is an early feat that promises richmond. it is best to see nuneham reach from the railway bridge. from any other point it is necessary to see the bridge itself. soon after its great achievement the river is claimed again by a distant spire. above nuneham the towers of oxford linger, holding the landscape; for the rest of the way it belongs to st. helen's at abingdon. /d. s. maccoll/. [illustration: distant view of abingdon.] chapter iii. abingdon to streatley. abingdon--the abbey--st. nicholas' church--the market cross--the ancient stone cross--st. helen's church--christ's hospital--culham--first view of wittenham clump--clifton hampden--the "barley mow"--a river-side solitude--day's lock--union of the thames and the isis--dorchester--the abbey church--sinodun hill--shillingford bridge--bensington--the church--crowmarsh giffard--wallingford--mongewell--newton murren--moulsford--the "beetle and wedge"--cleeve lock--streatley. unless they be absolutely black and squalid, all old country towns have a charm of their own. they may possess historical or personal associations of the supremest interest, like lichfield; they may hold a central place in some dire story of battle and siege, like colchester; their renown may be architectural, as at salisbury; or that of a vice-metropolis, as at york. others there are, and they are in the majority, which have for all attraction quaint streets of gabled houses, and rural environs gay with birds and flowers, and ancient timbered parks watered by quivering streams. the town of abingdon unites most of these attributes, save that it has seen little of war, and that it is unassociated with any commanding personality. it is handsomer and more shapely than most of the riverside towns in the thames valley; and although it is little more than a big village in the centre of a moderately prosperous agricultural district, it is entitled to take upon itself some of the airs and graces due to the possession of distinctions for which many larger places sigh in vain, since it has been a municipal and parliamentary borough since the days of mary tudor. a town seated upon a river is nearly always seen to best advantage from the water, and the view of abingdon immediately after the bridge is shot is very pretty and reposeful. the bridge itself, although not remarkably graceful, is yet exceedingly picturesque. of great antiquity, it is greyish-brown of hue, and profusely mossed from water-line to coping. several of the arches are dry, and serve only to carry on the road above, with its irregular rows of oddly-gabled cottages. to the left all is level meadow, backed by belts of woodland; to the right lies the town, the tall, handsome spire of st. helen's church, with its flying buttresses, rising high above the red-tiled roofs of the waterside buildings. abingdon is a land of chestnut-trees. along the waterside, on the eyots, in the quiet gardens of the old red-brick houses, there are chestnuts. to the stranger chestnuts and grey-stone villas are, indeed, the two most notable characteristics of this pretty little town. in the late spring and early summer the place seems to be surrounded with the peculiarly lovely blossom of a tree which, whatever the season may be, is always pleasing to look upon. the chestnut in england has in modern times been treated with less courtesy than it deserves. it is a better tree in many ways than the elm, which is usually placed only a step or two below the oak. it may not be so graceful, but it is beautiful notwithstanding, and far less treacherous. in such esteem, indeed, was it held by our ancestors that many of their beautiful half-timbered houses, which a careless posterity supposes to have been invariably built of oak, were largely constructed of chestnut, while many an old house is full of admirably carved and polished chestnut furniture. [illustration: abingdon, from the river.] all that there is of interest in abingdon centres round the bridge--the two ancient churches, the ruins of the abbey, and the market-cross. so many rich and flourishing towns grew up, in the far monastic days, around the great abbeys that it is a not unfair presumption that before the dissolution abingdon enjoyed comparatively greater importance and prosperity than it does now. it is still a flourishing place, and although its streets are quiet they present no signs of decay. it is true that it did not become a borough until after the dissolution; but since the charter was granted by queen mary, it may have been intended as some solatium for what the townspeople had lost. that they really did lose much is clear. abingdon was a mitred abbey, and very ancient, having, all legend says, been founded in the seventh century. at the conquest the abbot held great landed possessions in his trust, and the house was no doubt rich in the portable wealth for which the monasteries were renowned--vessels of gold and silver, censers encrusted with gems, jewelled crosses, and vestments embroidered with cloth of gold. as the abbey grew in riches and independence the monks seem to have taken very little trouble to keep on good terms with the townspeople or with the country-side. quarrels were constantly brewing, provoked, no doubt, by each side alternately; but the town was stronger than the abbot and his chapter and all the brethren, and about the time of edward iii.'s accession the men of abingdon and oxford united to read the monks a lesson they were not likely to forget. a great riot occurred, in which the mayor of oxford and the more muscular students of the university lent their aid, with the result that a large portion of the abbey buildings was burned. the town was gradually becoming independent of the large revenues disbursed by the abbot, for it conducted a very remunerative commerce in cloth, and, indeed, an old chronicler tells us, "stood by clothing." nevertheless, when, in 1538, the abbey went the way of all the other monasteries, abingdon necessarily received a heavy blow. the remains of the monastic buildings, although not extensive, are picturesque and exceedingly interesting. the abbey precincts probably sloped to the water's edge, since the gateway, which is still in fair preservation, is close to the river, near the market-place. it has been shorn of much of its ornamentation, and now possesses no very remarkable features, either of architecture or of decoration; but it has been carefully conserved, and remains whole and sound. the most attractive portion of the abbey buildings still existing is used as a brewery, and this, like the gateway, has been religiously shielded from other injury than time inflicts. this portion consists of the abbot's apartments and the crypt beneath. the abbatial parlours have been converted into lofts, while the crypt has returned to what may not improbably have been its original uses--the storage of great casks of the ale for which abingdon is well famed in its own neighbourhood. the crypt is entered beside a backwater, where grow more of the abounding chestnuts; but to reach the lofts, where once the abbots of abingdon transacted such secular affairs as the regulation of accounts and the inditing of business letters, one has to ascend a short flight of time-worn steps. the doorways have pointed arches, and the windows likewise, in the main, preserve their ancient appearance. in one of the lofts are the remains of a handsome fireplace, which has been assigned to so remote a period as the reign of henry iii. the gigantic chimney served by this fireplace presents a remarkable and picturesque appearance as seen from the road. to those of an antiquarian turn of mind these monastic remains are very interesting; and they deserve to be better known. at the corner of the market-place, adjoining the abbey gateway, is the church of st. nicholas, which, although far less interesting than st. helen's, nearer the river, yet contains much that is worth seeing and describing. architecturally it is not remarkable, save for a norman doorway and an unusual little turret which surmounts the tower, and forms the roof of a minstrels' gallery of great antiquity. here is the tomb of john blacknall and his wife, who left many bequests to the town, one of which is still enjoyed by forty-seven poor persons, who receive each a loaf of bread at their benefactors' tomb every sunday. the monument to this united pair is of great height, and records that, by a rare coincidence, they both died on the same day--the 21st of august, 1625. the epitaph insists upon this touching unity even in death in the undignified language common to inscriptions of the kind:- "here death's stroke even did not part this pair; but by this stroke they more united were. and what they left behind you plainly see- one only daughter and their charity. what though the first by death's command did leave us, the second, we are sure, will ne'er deceive us." [illustration: abingdon bridge.] among the ancient treasures of the church are a carved font, an ancient lantern in the porch, and the remains of a painted window, with an illegible inscription. opposite this church, at the side of the market-place, is the market cross, designed by inigo jones, erected in 1667, and far too extensively restored in 1853. it is really, like so many similar buildings, a covered market, with space for a considerable number of persons to congregate. the fine timber roof, which has happily not been interfered with, is supported upon stone pillars. this building occupies the site of one of our most famous stone crosses, which the town owed--as it, no doubt, owed much else--to one of the religious foundations. one of the fraternities connected with the church of st. helen was called the brethren of the holy rood, and of this godly community no less a personage than thomas chaucer, son of the father of english poetry, was a governor. the brethren of the holy rood erected this cross at their own expense, and it has always been believed that thomas chaucer had some hand in designing it. leland, the antiquary, did not overstate the matter when he described it as a "right goodly cross of stone, with fair degrees and imagerie." it had a decorated base, and two tiers of canopies containing statuettes, while upon the top was a carved tabernacle. the treaty with the scots in 1641 was celebrated by the singing of the 106th psalm at the foot of the cross by a gathering of two thousand people. three years later it was demolished by waller's army, as being a "superstitious edifice." so much admired were the graceful proportions of abingdon cross that it was taken as the model for that which sir william hollis erected at coventry. if chaucer's son really had any part in designing it, we do not know; but it is at least pleasing to fancy that he had. the existing market cross is a not unpleasing piece of work; but many a masterpiece of inigo might be spared could we but have restored to us the graceful sculptured rood built by the confraternity of the holy cross. the church of st. helen, with its precincts, is by far the most interesting part of old abingdon. st. helen's is an exceedingly handsome, well-proportioned church, such as one rarely finds in so small a town. there has been some internal restoration, and the tower, from which springs the slender arrow-like spire, was renovated at a very large expense in 1885; but, at least in the interior, little violence appears to have been done, judging from the undisturbed condition of the tombs and mural monuments. the church is of unusual size, and its generous proportions speak well for the pious large-heartedness of the founders. the timbered roofs are admirable, carved boldly and simply, and still quite sound. in the chancel the roof is more elaborately carved, and the timbers of the north aisle retain faint blurred traces of once brilliant religious paintings. the church possesses the unusual number of five aisles, named respectively the jesus aisle, our lady's aisle, st. helen's aisle, st. catherine's aisle (in which most of the abingdon worthies are buried), and the aisle of the brotherhood of the holy cross. there are said to be only two or three other five-aisled churches in the kingdom. there are two or three good old tombs to bygone abingdon worthies, and upon one of them the inveterate punning propensities of our ancestors, where inscriptions of any kind were concerned, is oddly exemplified. this is the tomb of "richard curtaine, gent., a principall member of this corpâ," whose epitaph reads:- "our curtaine in this lower press rests folded up in natur's dress." the real abingdon shrine, however, is the resting-place, against the chancel, of john roysse, who founded the grammar school. this "pious ancestor" died in 1571, yet there is usually a wreath of flowers lying upon his breast. it is an altar-tomb, with a reclining full-length effigy and a partially-defaced inscription. good master roysse was one of the many charitable benefactors who seem to have flourished in the genial soil of abingdon. the grammar school was founded in his lifetime; but in his will he left at least two other charities. he was clearly not the stamp of man who has a mind to be forgotten after death. the upper stone of his tomb, he ordained, was to be the "great stone" in the summer arbour of his garden in london, and the twelve old widows who were to receive each a loaf, "good, sweet, and seasonable," kneeling round his stone every sunday, were to say, upon receiving their doles, "the blessed trinity upon john roysse's soul have mercy." this once picturesque ceremony, shorn of its olden formalities, has, since 1872, been performed in the hall of christ's hospital. to play upon numbers and words was one of the conceits of the time, and so it was ordered that, since the grammar school was established at once in the 63rd year of its founder's age, and in the 63rd year of the century, the foundation should educate 63 boys "in sæcula sæculorum." a small room shut away from the church, and called the exchequer chamber, is used as the muniment room of the famous "hospital of christ," concerning which much hereafter. yet another interesting tomb--interesting because it exhibits the monumental sculpture of a century ago in all the fulness of its bathos. mrs. elizabeth hawkins, whom it commemorates, died in 1780, and ordered that a sum of £400 should be expended upon a fitting memorial. the money was duly laid out, the lucky recipient thereof being one mr. hickey; and now, after a hundred years, the only people who can look with satisfaction upon the transaction must be they to whom hickey bequeathed his money. the sorrowing stone cherub in the foreground looks very much as though he had just undergone nursery correction. more attractive is a good and very curious bit of wood carving affixed to the front of the organ. the date is unknown, but its antiquity is probably not great. it obviously represents king david, who, with a gilded crown upon his head, plays upon a dazzlingly gilded harp. near the door of the vestry hangs the elaborate genealogical tree of one w. lee, who was five times mayor of abingdon, and lived to see 197 descendants. it is dated 1637. in the vestry is a copy of foxe's "book of martyrs," together with a number of bibles and books of homilies, all having still attached to them the ancient chains by which they were formerly secured. the church registers go back to an unusually early period. upon the south-western side of st. helen's churchyard are the picturesque arcaded buildings which form the more ancient portion of the "hospital of christ"--a long low range of half-timbering extending to the river front, where it is joined by a more modern wing of stone. age has blackened the timber and barge-boardings, and in the sunshine the contrast between the chequer-work of the old and the grey stone of the newer buildings is exceedingly charming. the porch is quite romantic, and such as one rarely sees save in a water-colour. it is supported upon stout oaken piers, the heads roughly but effectively carved; at the partially-open sides is more carved work. it has a steep roof with wide projecting eaves and a diamond-paned lattice in the gable. almost immediately behind rises, from an irregular red-tiled roof, the graceful carved cupola which lights the entrance hall. when the wide door of stout oak, over which one could climb at need, stands open, the passer-by gets a delightful glimpse of a panelled hall, into which the sun streams not too glaringly through the cupola and the little lattices, imprinting quaint arabesques upon the floor and the black polished wainscot, and making life lovely for the six-and-thirty aged men and women maintained by the charity first instituted by the pious brethren of the holy rood. over the porch are some curious paintings illustrative mainly of works of mercy. one of them is a view of old abingdon cross; and another a portrait of edward vi., in whose reign the hospital was refounded. these buildings are strongly remindful of the better-known leycester hospital at warwick, but they are not nearly so lofty. this antique porch is on sunny days the favourite spot "where want and age sit smiling at the gate." the interior of the hall is very quaint, and contains some sturdy furniture, suitable for the support of a giant in complete plate-armour. a large table of oak with carved legs was presented, as an inscription upon the frame of the picture hanging over it records, by "frauncis little, one of ye governors of this hospital" in 1607. in the exchequer chamber in the church is preserved a manuscript history of the hospital, written by good master little, with the title, "a monument of christian munificence." here is another portrait of edward vi., and a curious picture of the building of abingdon bridge. it is of great age, dedicated, it would seem, to "jefforye barbur and john howchion." when the brethren of st. cross first became a corporate body is now doubtful. francis little in his history says that the foundation existed in 1388, and there is reason for supposing that it had come into being long before. at the dissolution the confraternity was abolished, but it was revived by edward vi., and endowed with three-fourths of the old foundation. the charter enjoins upon the governors that they are to keep in repair the four bridges over the thames and the ock, to provide food and lodging for fourteen poor persons, and to devote the surplus of their funds to other charitable uses. these funds have grown to such a bulk that thirty-six poor people are now maintained, while abingdon grammar school has been rebuilt, and a public park given to the town out of the surplus. surely, roses should blossom upon the graves of those who founded and re-founded "the hospital of christ at abingdon." near to this dreamy old-world churchyard is ock street, one of the longest and finest streets to be found in an english country-town. it is broad as a boulevard, and is literally crowded with old jacobean and georgian houses, some of them so large as to be fairly called mansions. [illustration: culham church.] the berkshire shore is lined with pleasant houses for half a mile or so below abingdon bridge. the towing-path is here upon the oxford bank, and skirts rich meadows picturesquely studded with large shade-trees. away to the left lie heavy masses of woodland, such as engirdle the whole of the thames valley; on the facing bank are the straggling environs of abingdon, having, when seen from this point, somewhat of the foreign aspect so often worn by these little waterside towns. but in less than a mile we are amid scenes that are very english. the meadows at first are flat, which, the rather than a blemish, i esteem to be a beauty. the perfection of sylvan and pastoral river scenery, as distinguished from the bold and rocky loveliness of some of our wilder english streams, demands flattish banks, the better to throw into relief the undulating fields and shimmering woodlands which so often close in a homely scene having for relief merely some grey church tower almost hidden among the lofty elms, and the mellowed ruddiness of a farmhouse gable. a little below abingdon the tiny ock enters the stream, and so ends its independent existence. any time from eight to ten in the morning--for, oddly enough, boating-men are rarely up with the lark--camping-out parties may be seen engaged in the serious business of breakfasting, or in the lighter but less exhilarating task of washing-up the cups and saucers, and generally "making tidy" before the day's leisurely pull. as a rule, however, the river is deserted during the whole of the forenoon, even in the height of the season, as, indeed, the towing-path always is, whether it be late or early--at least, upon this portion of the stream. the river banks, from the bridge at abingdon to culham lock, are very charming in summer, to those who are content with ordinary scenery, and do not expect a famous view on entering every reach. nearing culham, the river bends very sharply to the right, and just at the curve a white wooden bridge crosses a beautiful little back-water, brilliantly pied with water-lilies, and thickly bordered with graceful aquatic grasses. then come fields of standing corn, the sturdy ears sheltering the frail crimson poppies--wheat and tares intermingled. from some hidden spot in the centre of the field comes the loud, harsh cry of the corn-crake, that bird so often heard and so seldom seen. sometimes the crop is the drooping oats or the "bold and bearded barley;" but whatever be the grain, there is the fat, solemn rook, who reluctantly wheels away from his farinaceous banquet, to hide for a few minutes in the long row of elms in the adjoining field. close to culham the stream divides, a broad rushy channel flowing past sutton courtney, with its venerable edwardian manor house and the well-known weirs, while a straight, narrow, and not very picturesque cut, makes direct for the lock. in passing there is a very pretty glimpse of culham church, which stands out effectively from a background of trees, and looks in the distance the ideal of an old parish church. a nearer view reveals that most of the building is very modern, and that even the square tower dates only from the days of william and mary. culham is a pretty and interesting little place, and still happily preserves its village green. a few yards below culham lock the river assumes its old proportions, the water from the deep millpool at sutton, where there are fishes indeed, now forming the old main channel with the cut as a mere contributary. hereabouts there are usually one or two camping parties, the proximity of a lock-keeper's cottage being a convenience which none can appreciate so well as a tired oarsman. although the immediate banks continue flat, the country around grows more rugged, the meadows and cornfields become billowy, and sloping gently up long miles ahead, although apparently no farther distant than the next parish, is seen wittenham clump, with its smooth grassy sides and little grove of trees atop. hence away to shillingford it is rarely out of sight, for the river winds so sinuously through the valley over which the clump watches that between clifton hampden and day's lock it describes a perfect semicircle. the clump forms a majestic background to many a stretch of varied timber and parti-coloured fields. something like a mile below appleford bridge commences another unlovely necessary cut--a kind of graduated penance in preparation for the severer _supplice_ of clifton lock. he who elects to see the river-land from the towing-path has a decided advantage over the oarsman, where these cuts and locks are concerned. this particular cut is more tolerable than some of those which the exigencies of navigation have rendered necessary. the berkshire shore has a fringe of plantations and mossy creepered banks, which compensate somewhat for the nakedness of the oxford bank at this point. at the end of this straight channel is clifton lock. the keeper's cottage is in summer a lovely picture, for it stands in a little garden ablaze with brilliant flowers of the old-fashioned stock viewed with disfavour by the scientific gardener; while the cottage walls are covered with creepers yellow and russet. just clear of the lock the main stream re-enters the channel, and a bend in the river's course reveals the heights of clifton hampden and the beauteous vale beneath. the long, red-brick bridge of six pointed arches, which has only of late years superseded the ferry, is in itself a picturesque object. the surrounding country is flat, and so is most of the village; but the bold hill which rises with a sharp slope from the water is crowned by the church and the vicarage. from the summit to the edge of the stream the bluff is densely timbered, and thick belts of woodland line the oxford bank for some distance below the bridge. the delightful little village relies upon nature for all its charms, for it has no history. nor can it be said that the church is very interesting, save as a favourable example of sir gilbert scott's early skill as a restorer. sir gilbert's work here was done in 1844, when he was comparatively a young man. the old work is really ancient, for clifton church was originally a chapelry served from dorchester abbey. the reredos is in mosaic; but the most remarkable thing in the church is an altar-tomb to the late mr. g. h. gibbs, at whose cost the building was restored. the recumbent marble figure is a portrait. the churchyard is kept with unusual neatness, and numbers of the graves are covered with flowers. its altitude is such that it affords delightful views up the river towards abingdon, and down towards day's lock and sinodun hill. the serpentine course of the river is very striking as seen from this height; and even here, with the naked eye, wittenham and sinodun seem to bar the stream. [illustration: clifton hampden church.] at clifton hampden, in the season, there is usually a house-boat or two moored among the masses of water-lilies which profusely strew the stream near the bridge, and a more charming spot, away from such "fashionable" places as goring, henley, or maidenhead, could hardly be selected as the anchorage of these leviathans of the upper thames. the neighbourhood abounds in rural walks, and in subjects both for the pencil of the artist and the pen of the man of letters. one of the most charming "bits" at clifton has neither been sketched nor described quite so often as it deserves to have been. the "barley mow" is assuredly the oddest and quaintest of inns on the river. it lies on the berkshire bank, in a little roadside corner all to itself. what its age may be it would be difficult to tell; but its high, overhanging roof is thatched and its walls are half-timbered. the diminutive casements, about the size of the door of a rabbit-hutch, admit just enough of light to heighten the interior effect. broad masses of light are out of place within such venerable walls. the brick-floored kitchen--or maybe it is the parlour--is delightfully snug; the walls panelled darkly all round; the honest raftered ceiling so low as to do away with the necessity ever to stand upon the naked wooden settles to reach things; the fireplace extending across one whole side of the room, the oddest imaginable cross between an old-fashioned ingle-nook open grate and a modern kitchen range; the chimney-piece garnished with many a brightly-burnished pot and pan. no demure phyllis makes her appearance; but the cider--we are in a great cider country--is nectar. at the back of the inn is just such a queer little garden as dickens loved to write about. all the flowers were our great-grandmother's, and, indeed, modern daintinesses would sadly mar the antiquated aspect of this typical roadside inn of a day that is long past. at clifton bridge the towing-path crosses to the berkshire shore, and for the next two miles the scenery is, perhaps, the prettiest, with the exception of clifton itself, between abingdon and wallingford. the oxford bank is clothed luxuriantly with trees, out of which now and again peeps, half unperceived, the canvas shelter of a camping party. these occasional encampments are almost the only sign of life, so far as the banks of the river are concerned. between clifton and day's lock the country is remarkably solitary. the waterside meadows are nearly all empty; but here and there a herd of cattle browses leisurely, or, if it be high noon, shelters itself from the heat and the tormenting flies under the lee of the thick hedgerows. pedestrians are never seen. that it is good to row upon a beautiful river, but undesirable to walk by the side of it, appears to be the popular idea; but despite the physical exhilaration and the æsthetic delight of the rhythmical swing of oars, the river can be seen best from the towing-path, and if the love of walking-tours had not very largely died out we might expect to see the banks of the upper thames as much frequented as its waters. it is often possible to pass between clifton and day's lock without meeting either man or boat, which seems a little odd, since that reach is in high favour during the season. to the walker upon the towing-path this silence and vacancy become oppressive, and the sudden splash of a water-rat striking out from among the rushes is quite startling. the berkshire shore is flattish here; but there are swelling uplands beyond, and the wrekin-shaped sinodun hill looms quite close upon the left. presently there stands out from among the trees on the oxford bank an old church with a very long nave and tall tower, with an unusual high-pitched red roof, topped by a vane. that is the famous abbey church of dorchester, the solitary remnant of the ancient grandeur of the olden capital of wessex. a little farther is day's lock, with the ferry between little wittenham and dorchester, where, even in a season of drought, the water is unusually full and brimming, the result, perhaps, of the wedding near by of the little thame with the more classic and magnificent thames, or isis, as the poets have preferred to call it. this conceit owes its origin almost entirely to such comparatively modern poets as warton and drayton, though spenser, in the "faërie queen," seems to have originated the legend in somewhat of a backhanded way:- "the lovely bridegroom came, the noble thamis, with all his goodly traine, but before him there went, as best became, his auncient parents, namely, th' auncient thame; but much more aged was his wife than he, the ouze, whom men doe isis rightly name. full weak and crooked creature seemed shee, and almost blind through eld, that scarce her way could see." [illustration: dorchester, from little wittenham.] nearly opposite dorchester there is an eyot adorned by a remarkably fine chestnut, while between clifton and day's lock are others which bear little save the humble, useful osier. at day's the towing-path crosses into oxfordshire. dorchester, which makes a very picturesque appearance from the river, since it stands upon a greater elevation than the country through which we have passed, is about half a mile from the lock. the field-path, which runs for some distance through a most unpoetical turnip patch, skirts the famous dyke hills, the roman fortifications upon which sheep most peacefully browse. the fortified camp of which these earthworks formed part is supposed to have been guarded on one side by the thames, on the other by the thame, and must, consequently, have been of enormous strength. dorchester, which fell from its splendour and ceased to be a capital more than a thousand years ago, is a quaint little village, in which the antiquarian voyager can spend some hours of crowded interest. its three or four old streets are full of strange twists and oddly-gabled houses, and the number of old-fashioned inns is remarkable, it being remembered that the population of the place but slightly exceeds a thousand. there was surely never a more complete fall from a high estate than that suffered by dorchester. not only was it the capital of wessex, but it was the seat of the great bishopric eventually removed to lincoln; and the venerable bede records that dorcinca was full of richly-garnished churches. twelve centuries and a half ago cynegils, king of wessex, was baptised there, as of right in his capital, by the sainted birinus. the bishopric, after being removed to sidnacester, was restored to dorchester, and it was not until after the conquest that lincoln was finally selected as the home of the bishop-stool. the abbey church is the glory of the place, since it is not only exceedingly fine in itself, but is the sole survival of the dim ages in which dorchester was a cathedral city, and the capital of one of the heptarchical kingdoms. the church of dorchester abbey was undoubtedly built upon the site of the saxon cathedral, of which some fragments, such as the north wall of the nave, and an arch or two, probably formed part. as it stands now, the church is a patchwork of styles, from the norman to the tudor. it is of great size, the length from east to west being 183 feet, and the area over 10,000 square feet. dorchester churchyard has sometimes been considered handsome; but it is too ragged to be fairly so described. near the south door is an ancient churchyard cross, the shaft of which is very much dilapidated, but the head has been well restored. the porch to the south door is tudor work in stone, with a good timbered roof. the interior of the church is not unremindful, at a general glance, of st. albans abbey, since the nave is entirely blocked by the tower. restoration was commenced by sir gilbert scott; but there is so much to be done, and the cost of doing it is so considerable, that the work will probably not be finished for years to come. at the bottom of the north aisle is a large collection of sculptured stones, which, no doubt, before the dissolution, formed part of the monastic buildings. they were mainly obtained from an old house in the village, which would seem to have been largely built with materials taken from the abbey, and it is intended to build them into the fabric as opportunity offers. the western end of the building is somewhat gloomy, a defect which might without difficulty be removed by the uncovering of the handsome west window, which has long been bricked up. dorchester has one of the very few leaden fonts of norman workmanship which now remain to us: there is another at long wittenham, on the opposite side of the river. round the bowl are cut, in high relief, the figures of the eleven apostles, judas being, of course, inadmissible. what, had not the tower intervened, would have been the western end of the nave, forms an ante-church, which is used for the minor services. a pillar in this chapel has some quaint carvings near the base. one of the most ancient portions of the church seems to be the lady chapel, at the eastern extremity of the south aisle adjoining the chancel. the altar here was erected in memory of bishop wilberforce, of winchester. there are four altar-tombs in the lady chapel, the survivors of probably a much larger number. two are to ladies; the others represent crusaders. the feet of each rest upon a lioncel. close to these tombs is the brass of richard bewforest, to whose piety posterity owes the preservation of this abbey church. in 1554 master bewforest purchased the church from the hands of the despoilers, paying therefor £140, which, although a goodly sum for his day, was assuredly not extravagant. here, too, is an unornamented brass to an undistinguished person, named thomas day, with the following odd epitaph, dated 1693:- "sweet death he came in hast & said his glass is run; thou art ye man i say, see what thy god has done." [illustration: sinodun hill and day's lock.] in the chancel there have been many fine and elaborately ornamented brasses, but only a few remain in their integrity. one of the most perfect thus records another bewforest:--"here lyeth sir richard bewfforeste: i pray thee give his sowl good rest." this richard was not a knight, but an ecclesiastic, as the brass, upon which he is represented with cope and crozier, proves; and the prefix was given him according to an ancient custom, of which we have an example in the person of sir oliver martext, the priest in _as you like it_. on the north side of the chancel is the wonderful "jesse window," which has been so often described that it has become one of the best known of our ecclesiastical antiquities. the ornamentation of the window takes the form of a pictorial pedigree in stone, the tree having its root in the body of jesse, each progenitor of the line of david being represented by a small stone figure; but the effigies of christ and his mother have disappeared. upon the glass of the window are somewhat rude representations of the chief members of the line of jesse. this very remarkable window is in good preservation, notwithstanding that it is now at least five centuries old. a word must be said of the fine timbered roofs of the abbey. that of the nave, supported upon most graceful clustered columns, is really magnificent, while the groined roof of the lady chapel possesses a lightness and grace which such work often lacks. there are still many brasses, together with an enormous number of flat stones in the church, but the majority of the brasses and incised stones have been damaged, apparently with wilful intent. here and there an elaborate matrix sadly suggests the treasures we have lost. against the lych-gate at the western end of the churchyard is one of the largest and most luxuriant chestnuts to be noticed even in a neighbourhood full of large chestnut trees. the gate and the tree, with the great grey church for background, fashion themselves into a lovely picture. beyond the church and the quaint old houses there is nothing of interest in dorchester save the building now occupied as a national school, which was formerly the grammar school. the interior, full of great timber beams and joists, is very picturesque. it is believed to have been the refectory of the abbey, and an antiquity of some seven centuries is assigned to it. opposite dorchester is sinodun hill, which has been growing gradually nearer for several miles during our leisurely progress down-stream. if it be good climbing weather--that is to say, not too hot--sinodun should not be passed heedlessly by. the climb is a stiffish one, but once the shelter gained of the little clump of trees atop, there is ample compensation for an exercise such as englishmen are not usually afraid of. from this eminence the country lies displayed as though upon a map. the shining river twists and curvets like a snake in agony; upon its timbered banks repose tiny villages, distinguishable in the mass of foliage only by the vanes upon the steeples and the thin quivering lines of smoke which melt into nothingness just above the tree-tops; roads and railways look straight and uncompromising indeed beside the sinuous stream. the country is multi-coloured--the fields green and brown and yellow, with here and there a great square of black woodland. the sun seems to shine upon some and to leave others in shadow, while over all there move flecks of trembling light. the view in the direction we are travelling is closed by swelling downs destitute of all colour but the dim grey of distance. down below us, near the weir, industrious anglers are barbelling or spinning for jack, for hence almost to shillingford are fine fishing grounds. here the river bends somewhat towards dorchester, and it is long ere we pass out of sight of the abbey. upon the berkshire shore are uplands, broad, swelling, and cultivated to the utmost rood. these rolling uplands never look better than in haymaking or harvest time, when the cocks and sheaves are yellowing in the sunlight. the regular, almost square, boundaries of the fields suggest a green and yellow chessboard, and at seedtime the mathematical furrows are as straight as though cut by a machine. the nicety of vision, and the accuracy of touch with which a ploughman cuts a furrow are astonishing in one who usually has instinct and eye alone to guide him. after all there is something intellectual in the following of the plough, and the peculiar qualities required of the ploughman are such that it is not altogether surprising that both science and letters have drawn notable recruits from the furrowed field. almost until we reach the next ferry, a couple of miles below day's lock, dorchester still straggles along parallel to the river, and the last glimpse of its red roofs from a bend in the stream is exceedingly picturesque. the towing-path ceases abruptly at the ferryman's quaint little cottage, and the _venue_ for the pedestrian changes for a time into berkshire. the stream just here is very charming to the lover of rivers, for although both shores continue flat they are dotted with clumps of woodland, and the water's edge is gaily caparisoned with verdure. the towing-path for a short distance grows almost wild for so highly civilised a country as that through which the thames flows, and the pedestrian wades to the knees through rank brambly grass. a few more minutes and we reach shillingford bridge, with its four grey arches. at the berkshire end of the bridge is that pretty rural inn the "swan," a favourite abiding place of boating parties which include ladies. the little lawn is dotted with gay costumes of coolest tints and softest texture, for a lazy afternoon hour or two is not ungrateful upon the banks of thames in the dog-days. on the oxford bank is a cluster of tiny cottages, each in an ample garden full of those brilliant old-fashioned flowers which the cottager loves so well. the diminutive latticed windows are garnished, too, with geraniums and fuchsias; honeysuckle climbs to the not very lofty gables, and the little trellis-work porches are aglow with the cool foliage and delicate tints of clematis. the road is thickly bordered with elm and beech, and beyond, shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun, are long red ranges of barns and cow-sheds, darkly-roofed and golden-walled ricks of last year's hay, side by side with the brand-new thatch of the yellow stack that has just left the thatcher's hand. from the bridge itself there is a pleasant view up and down the river over what our grandfathers would have called a "fine champaign country," flat and pastoral on the oxford shore, but swelling into bold wooded undulations on the opposite bank--such a stretch of varied scenery as most becomingly wears the sober darkling tints of autumn. when the wind swirls the brown sapless leaves into the turbid river, and the bare stubbles echo to the crack of the breechloader, nature hereabouts has that distinct autumnal charm which is never more delightful than in a sylvan and pastoral landscape. [illustration: shillingford bridge.] from shillingford to bensington the towing-path is again in oxfordshire. the river banks become more frequented, and the complete angler abounds; for most renowned baskets are constantly obtained from this pretty stretch of water. the eyots are luxuriant with osiers, and in the osier harvest punt after punt lies heavily laden with the lithe, flexible sticks which the men cut and tie into bundles with astonishing deftness and rapidity. many of these little osier-covered islands are surrounded with white and yellow water-lilies, which seem to have an affection for such a situation. the square tower of bensington church has a venerable appearance; but the really ancient church has been restored into newness. consequently, nothing remains of any great interest; but, most happily, the reforming zeal of the re-builders stopped short of interfering with the handsome chancel-arch. on the south wall of the nave is an inscription which, from its very oddity, deserves to be recorded:- m. s. to the pious memory of ralph quelch and jane his wife who slept } together in 1 { bed by ye space of 40 yeares. now sleepe} { grave till ct. shall awaken them. he } fell asleep ano. dni. { 1629 } being aged { 63 } yeares. she } { 1619 } { 59 } for ye fruit of their { labours } they left { ye new inn twice built at their own charge. { bodies } { one only son and two daughters. their son being liberally bred in ye university of oxon thought himself bound to erect this small monument of { their } piety towards { god { his } { them ano. dni. 16.... epitaphs in this form are by no means uncommon; but it would be difficult to find one of quainter conception. even the surname of the worthy proprietors of the "new inn" has a dickens-like grotesqueness. bensington is interesting to lovers of english literature as having belonged to the chaucers, from whom it descended to the de la poles. bensington lock is below the village, and oarsmen pulling up to oxford have learned to beware of the dangerous cross-current at the weir. near the lock the tow-path crosses again to the berkshire shore. hence away to wallingford the country becomes much more picturesque. the oxford bank is most profusely wooded; groves of willows and alders edge the stream; while farther ashore glades of elm and chestnut perfume the air. overshadowed by trees, whose branches intertwine, is a pretty red-brick boat-house, into which as we pass disappears a gaily-freighted boat, seeming to pass from brilliant sunshine and rippling river into the dark recesses of some dusky cavern. then the woodland opens out, the scenery becomes park-like, and through the clumps of oak which stud the foreground we get glimpses of howberry park, a more than usually handsome elizabethan house, the successor of a hardly more picturesque jacobean building destroyed a century ago by the flames which await every country-house, be it soon or be it late. howberry park, once the seat of the blackstones, lies in the parish of crowmarsh giffard, almost opposite the town of wallingford. the vestry-door of crowmarsh church is riddled with bullets--reminders, it is said, of the last siege of wallingford, at which time this door hung in the west entrance to the church. the first view of wallingford is not very prepossessing. against the bridge rises the tall and unutterably inelegant spire of st. peter's church, the hideous product of a mind unhappily diverted from law to ecclesiology. [illustration: st. peter's church and wallingford bridge.] wallingford possesses interesting memories, although its visible antiquities are not numerous. the town was of consequence in roman times, and a line of splendidly-preserved earthworks, thrown up by latin-tongued warriors, is to be seen in a field near the railway station. the castle of wallingford underwent sieges innumerable, since its comparative nearness to london rendered its possession of importance to each side in the dynastic wars of the middle ages. it was held for the empress maud; it resisted stoutly in the behalf of that clever scoundrel, john lackland; it was garrisoned for charles i., but was compelled to surrender, and the parliament made short work of its keeps and battlements. the fortress was not entirely destroyed, and the mutilated remains are carefully preserved in the gardens of the present wallingford castle. in the museum at the castle there is an interesting collection of antiquities relating to the town and the fortress. the importance or the piety of the town must have been far greater previous to the cromwellian civil wars than either is now, since there were then fourteen churches, whereas there are now but three. beyond one or two tablets to local benefactors, there is nothing interesting in st. mary's church on the market place. st. peter's is the burial-place of sir william blackstone, "one of the judges of his majesty's superior courts at westminster," and recorder of wallingford, who built the flint tower, with its uncomfortable spire--both conspicuous monuments of the architectural decadence--and died in 1780. in the council chamber of the town hall there is a modern portrait of the judge in robes and bag-wig. it is charitable to suppose that his lordship's legal acumen was superior to his architectural taste. the most interesting tomb in the churchyard is that of edward stennett, the friend of bunyan, who may have died any time between 1705 and 1795, since the third figure of the date has become obliterated. among the portraits in the town hall is one of archbishop laud ascribed to holbein. the date of 1635 upon the painting indicates that the author of the ascription was daring even beyond the usual audacity of such persons. the presence of laud's portrait is explained by the double fact of his being a berkshire man and a benefactor to the town. in common with most of the towns in the thames valley, wallingford contains many good red-brick houses, chiefly of georgian date. [illustration: moulsford ferry.] the river, after leaving wallingford, widens a little, and there is a continuation of the park-like meadows. a short distance down stream is wallingford lock, which is a lock only in name. here the towing-path deserts the oxford for the berkshire shore, and the long and lovely reach which ends at moulsford bridge begins. this spot marks the commencement of the stretch of meadow, hills, and woodland, which makes the delight of goring and pangbourne. the oxfordshire bank is not merely studded, but is thickly overhung, with trees and undergrowth, beneath whose shade many a boat is moored for those aquatic flirtations which are among the most enchanting of summer diversions. directly one gets clear of wallingford the wooded heights about streatley come in view, with a glowing "scarf of sunshine athwart their breast." on the oxford bank, halfway to north stoke, more or less, is mongewell house, a delicate bit of white in a setting of green lawns and venerable trees. once mongewell was an episcopal retirement, to which the bishops of durham resorted for relief from the fatigues of administration. it was admirably suited to such a purpose, since it is a silent and contemplative spot--the more peaceful, perhaps, from the contiguity of the little church of newton murren, a marvel of the miniature, with a tiny chancel, and a belfry no bigger than a dovecote. any monotony there may be from this spot to the ferry at north stoke is relieved by the streatley hills, looming ever larger as the boat swings down the reach, and by the fine clumps of timber which line the river bank on each side. many a sweet rural picture is passed on the oarsman's highway between newton murren and moulsford bridge, and in such a country all seasons of the year, and all times of the day, have their charm. the early-morning hours upon the riverside provide unending delight to the real lover of nature. everything is fresh, crisp, and blithe, for the life of the fields and hedgerows is busy and bustling long before the earliest man's breakfast-time. the ideal climate, cool but not cold, exhilarating, buoyant, redolent of the delight of life, would be a perpetual summer morning, such as it is from five until nine. every sight gratifies the eye. then the dew is still heavy upon the hedgerows and the tall aquatic grasses, and where there is a bit of furzy country, there is a tear in every golden flower of gorse. the atmosphere is clearer and more elastic than later in the day. the far-distant rush of trains, the only reminder that there is a world beyond the horizon, and that its daily fret has begun, which at noon is a mere rumble, in this crisp air is sharp and almost shrill. the ring of the scythe under the whetstone many fields away sounds but a few yards off, and the metallic clang of the stable clock at some country house, hidden behind the belts of woodland, half-an-hour's walk as the crow flies, is distinct as the raspy cry of the corn-crake in the yellowing wheat near by. it is hard to say at what season of the day this stretch down to moulsford bridge is most charming. to my taste it is the early morning; but poets and lovers would probably prefer sunset, not to say moonlight. [illustration: abingdon to streatley.] against moulsford bridge there is a lovely eyot, edged with flags and rushes, and bushy with willows and alders. in time of drought the furthermost arch on the berkshire shore is not uncommonly dry. there is a path on each side of the river just here; that on the berkshire bank is the more enticing, for it is quite romantically wild and undulating; but the towing-path proper crossed into oxfordshire at stoke ferry a little further up. it is well worth risking trespass and climbing to the railway bridge for the sake of the fine view up and down the river. looking back the way we have come, the country is rich, pastoral, and full of trees; ahead the prospect, while equally sylvan, is far more varied. the river winds but little, and the long reach past moulsford ferry is in sight for some distance, but the banks are more park-like, and the land begins to swell towards the background of hills that closes in the view, the outposts of the range of downs which beautifies the river beyond streatley. the brimming, almost straight, reach of water immediately below the bridge is one of the most interesting spots on the river to the muscular generation, since upon it are rowed the trial eights of the oxford university boat club. close to the bridge the perch-fisher is usually in great force, for around the eyot the perch dwells in numbers. it is but a short distance hence to the ferry, where the water is remarkably deep and limpid. opposite thereto is the oddly-named "beetle and wedge" inn, a quaint, three-gabled old place, overgrown with ivy and shaded by clumps of luxuriant elms. "the beetle" is a grateful halting-place, and its brick-floored parlour a cool retreat from the glare of the outer world. there is usually a garrulous villager or two, in the long-descended smock-frock beloved of the older generation of peasants even in these changeful days, who will pause in the discussion of their mugs of brown home-brewed to greet the stranger with the old-fashioned courtesy which still happily clings to their class. the "beetle and wedge" is an odd old place, and although not nearly so original as the "barley mow" at clifton, it has the low roofs and capacious fireplaces which add so much to the comfort of an ancient hostel. it is really astonishing how large a number of our old wayside inns have survived the crushing blow dealt them by the abolition of the stage-coach. there they stand still, with their venerable gables, handsome red roofs, and ample chimneys, eloquently suggestive of warmth and good cheer for tired travellers. in a comfortable old-fashioned inn the crusty loaf, the hunch of well-seasoned cheshire, and the tankard with "a good head to it," like david copperfield's birthday treat, have a zest and flavour which are always lacking elsewhere; the result, no doubt, of their being usually eaten during the exhilaration following upon physical exercise. these ancient thames-side inns possess a charm peculiar to themselves, due largely to their lovely surroundings and to the river flowing beneath their windows. from the "beetle and wedge" to streatley and goring bridge, the goal of our pilgrimage in this chapter, the towing-path keeps to the berkshire bank. as we near cleeve lock the scenery becomes yet more sylvan. the river is densely lined with trees, the more especially on the oxford shore, and the stream winds just enough for picturesqueness. groups of splendid beeches dot the country, and the water is enlivened by many a boatful of flannelled rowers and pink-vested sirens. ladies appear to have recognised, with intuitive taste, that pink and white are two of the most effective colours for river wear, and the thames, in all the fashionable reaches, owes much of its vivacity to the brilliant hues of its attendant water-nymphs. however solitary the river may be in some parts, as between clifton and dorchester, for instance, there is enough of life and movement within hail of goring. the neighbourhood of cleeve lock is a favourite haunt for house-boats and campers, since there is nothing prettier on that side of abingdon until such famous spots as henley and maidenhead are reached. the house-boats which take up their moorings hereabouts are usually of the larger and more elaborate pattern. the little muslined windows are gaily decked with flowers, there is a miniature flower-garden upon the flat roof, and where the roof overhangs are suspended chinese lanterns, gorgeous with many a brilliant stripe and spot. a graceful white-robed figure, in a coquettish pink sash, seated in the stern, is not the least attractive object in the landscape. the roar of the streatley weirs below is plainly heard, and many are the lovely glimpses of the brimming, rushy river between the lock and the bridge. overhead rise, close at hand, the broad, rolling hills, upon which the sun casts shade and shine in successive flecks. the clouds, alternately deep blue and flaky-white, seem to cast their moving reflections upon the crest of the hills, for the gilded sunshine melts with delicate gradations into soft, shimmering shadow. half a mile or so below cleeve lock the stream divides, the cut to the left going to goring lock and the main channel to streatley. from the point of divergence to streatley and goring bridge is but a brief pull, and few pilgrims of the thames will desire to push on without halting for a while at this pretty village. near the bridge is a mill, fed from the river, looking very picturesque with its steep gables and high-set dormer windows. the weirs here are favourite sketching grounds, and almost daily in summer and early autumn easels are pitched in the wise represented in the final illustration to this chapter. these weirs are exemplars of the picturesque. roughly built up with stone and stakes, they are overgrown with furzy vegetation, to which the water, as it pours foaming down the cascade, forms a charming contrast. there are few prettier glimpses of thames scenery than are to be had from the long white toll-bridge which connects goring with streatley. looking down are the thick woodlands about cleeve lock, with the rich, timbered meadows on the berkshire bank. upward, towards goring and pangbourne, the course of the river is seemingly stemmed by the downs, which are covered with herbage and timbered to the water's edge. the weirs, with their tumbling waters, and the little eyots, cumbered with tall osiers, add to the picturesque diversity of the scene. the twin villages themselves are embosomed in foliage, which in the wane of summer takes many changing tints. [illustration: streatley mill.] although it is not a very distinguished spot, historically speaking, streatley has far-reaching memories. ina, king of wessex, is mentioned in the cartulary of abingdon abbey as having given a piece of land there in 687. after the conquest the manor was part of the rich booty secured by that bold brigand geoffrey de mandeville. the church, which nestles among some grand old trees at the foot of the village, near the waterside, is ancient but hardly picturesque. its patron, oddly enough, is doubtful, but is believed to be either st. mary or st. john the baptist. the massive square tower is well preserved and dignified. there is some uncertainty as to the date of the church, but it appears to have been built by pone, bishop of sarum, in the first or second decade of the thirteenth century. he it was who endowed it, and some of the architectural details are similar to those in the bishop's own famous cathedral. the oldest funeral inscription in the church is upon a brass, dated 1440, in memory of elizabeth osbarn. this brass, like one or two others, is very well preserved, and still bears the full-length figure of the lady. large families appear to have been very common in the thames valley in the olden times, as numberless inscriptions in riverside churches testify; and it is not surprising to find here a brass, dated 1603, to a parent of eleven daughters and six sons. the village has a pleasant street on the brow of the hill, with some good old houses shaded by older trees. streatley is a delightful place to halt for the night on a boating or walking excursion. its material advantages are that it has capital accommodation for the tired walker and rower, and that the proximity of goring station makes it easy to bring up the heavy luggage, without which ladies are not happy, even on the river. of its more æsthetic attractions i have already spoken. to the dweller in towns it is unspeakably delicious to be lulled to sleep and gently awakened by the musical plash of the weirs, while a stroll at dusk along the river bank is full of delights. in the gloaming the ruminating, sweet-breathed kine loom mistily as they lie sociably grouped under the lee of a protecting hedge. on the river twinkle through the gathering night the lamps of the house-boats, the chinese lanterns, depending from the overhanging roofs, glowing through their fantastic filaments like great transparent fire-flies. and but for the rush of the weirs, the dip of a belated oar, and an occasional ring of laughter from the huge, blackly-outlined boats, the night is silent. /j. penderel-brodhurst/. [illustration: the thames at streatley.] chapter iv. streatley to henley. streatley, the artists' mecca--goring versus streatley--goring from the toll-gate--streatley mill--weirs and backwaters--antiquity of streatley and goring--goring church--common wood--basildon ferry and hart's wood--a thames osier farm--whitchurch lock--pangbourne--hardwicke house and mapledurham--caversham bridge--reading and its abbey--a divergence to the kennet, with calls at marlborough, hungerford, and newbury--the charms of sonning--"the loddon slow, with verdant alders crowned"--st. patrick's stream--shiplake weir--wargrave and bolney court--park place--marsh lock--remarks on thames angling--the approach to henley. "the village swarms with geniuses and their æsthetically dressed wives," was the touching lament written in "our river" by mr. leslie, r.a., with regard to the berkshire village of streatley. the sentence is, in some senses, both a description of the place as you may see it at almost any time during the summer season, and an indication of the reason of its popularity amongst artists. no doubt it is the fashion in the sketching months for mere idlers at the palette to saunter and pose up and down the village street, in company with the strangely-dressed women-kind who some years ago provoked an outburst from a royal academician. but it is also, and has long been, the resort of genuine workers with the brush, who make streatley their temporary home because, in the long white bridge, shady backwaters, lively weir, busy mills, woods, and hills, they find materials worthy of their ambition and their care. in the thames valley this portion of the river may be pronounced the mecca of landscape painters. streatley, however, is the fashion, because it is honestly deserving of such a distinction. unlike many popular stations, it does not owe repute to one distinguishing attraction, but to many advantages which, in combination, raise the village to a high position upon the catalogue of places to be enjoyed, talked about, sketched in water colours, immortalised in oil, and haunted by the inoffensive people referred to in the first line of this chapter. streatley receives more assistance from goring, however, than is generally acknowledged in set phrase. the oxfordshire village on the left bank is, indeed, as by common consent, ignored in conversation, the word streatley doing duty for both sides. the two communities are separated, not only by the river, which, after the straight length above, widens out into unusual breadth, but by the toll-bridge, which fixes a coin of the realm as an additional barrier between the few hundreds of persons who constitute the respective populations of goring and streatley. the villages possess certain characteristics in common. to each is allotted a mill. that of goring is the more modern, and probably best furnished with appliances for contributing to the trade and commerce of the country, and its rapid little stream is marked "private" to warn off the ubiquitous angler who may look with longing eye upon the shoals of barbel which congregate in its deep strong current. the mill at streatley is quite another affair--time-stained, decidedly picturesque in its antique pattern of architecture, and maintaining to this day a simple half door, suggestive of- "the sleepy pool above the dam, the pool beneath it never still, the mealsacks on the whiten'd floor, the dark round of the dripping wheel, the very air about the door made misty with the floating meal." the country behind goring is stamped with strong characteristics by the receding hills, which soon develop into the historic chiltern range; and at the rear of streatley we mount, direct from the village, the grassy sides of the chalk downs of berkshire, which, geologists maintain, were once a continuation of the chilterns. the lock and weir are on the goring side, but the distinction is to some extent nominal, since, standing upon the crown of the long wooden bridge, it will be seen that there are two weirs and backwaters, imparting a special animation to the character of the river. the eye wanders with delighted satisfaction from the merry streams to the reedy eyots, to the grand trees of the one side and the osiers and green meadows of the other, while weirs and backwaters play and plash throughout the livelong day. above the lock, the thames, after broadening for the express purpose, throws an arm each to goring and streatley, and the goring weir, within the distance of half a mile, is the primary cause of several of those sequestered backwaters which add so many potent and diverse charms to the thames. the stream issuing from the streatley mill is too near, for proper effect, to the spectator who stands upon the bridge; and requires to be looked at from the meadow, to which the tow-path crosses at the bridge from berkshire to oxfordshire. while at goring there are many private grounds adorning the bank, with a rich background of shrubbery, ornamental walks, gay flower-beds, and pleasant residences, at streatley we have the inn, the boat-builders' and timber-yard, and the pretty cottage gardens of the waterside and of the straggling street extending therefrom up towards the foot of the downs. the toll-bridge invites excellent acquaintance with the river at close quarters, that down stream being exceptionally fine; but it is the high land sheltering either streatley or goring which commands rare birdseye views of the river and adjacent country. [illustration: streatley to henley.] streatley is supposed to have derived its name from icknield street, a roman road continued from the other side by a ford. the cartulary of the abbey of abingdon refers to a gift of land at "stretlea" by the king of wessex who ruled /a.d./ 687. domesday book deals with the manor, whose tithes at the time of the production of magna charta were under the assignment of herbert pone, bishop of sarum, who probably built and endowed the church, which has lately been restored, and whose square tower is always a distinctive object amidst the trees. the neighbourhood centuries ago obtained a reputation for health-giving qualities, and one of the memorial brasses in the church, dated 1603, incidentally bears testimony thereto by recording the virtues of an inhabitant who had six sons and eleven daughters. more than a hundred years since a medicinal spring at goring was somewhat famous for its powers of healing, and plot, the historian, mentions the water of "spring well" as celebrated for its curative properties in certain cutaneous disorders. the church at goring, close to the river, is a historically interesting as well as picturesque structure. the grey square tower, with its round-headed windows divided into two lights by a central pillar, bespeaks its venerable age, and gives promise of the specimens of norman and early english architecture to be found in and around the edifice. built in the reign of henry ii., dedicated to thomas à becket, and enlarged when king john tried to rule the country, it was connected with an augustinian nunnery, of which traces still exist; and the remains of a priory have been built into a farmhouse some two miles from the village. the body of the church is singularly composite in its character. to its one lofty original norman aisle without chancel, a north aisle, porches, and other appurtenances, have been at different times added. a road ascending from streatley skirts common wood, and at its highest point opens out a magnificent panorama of thames valley. the tow-path, however, as mentioned in a previous paragraph, now runs along the oxfordshire bank, and the line of pedestrian traffic is therefore on that side. the short distance intervening between the banks lends undoubted enchantment to the shady recesses and warblings of the feathered songsters of common wood. when you have re-crossed by the wooden bridge towards the southern end of the hilly wood, the scene changes. admirably situated at a bend of the stream stands the substantial, and the reverse of hidden, modern mansion termed the grotto, surrounded by a clean-shaven lawn, which is intersected by gravelled walks, one of which follows the bank of the thames, and is o'er-canopied with trees. from the sharp and picturesque curve of the river the bold round-headed hill of streatley, the cosy village, the broad, divided river, and the norman tower and delightful grounds of goring, stand out a clear broad picture, which is almost suddenly lost round the bend studded by the eyots below the grotto grounds. the undulating chalk lands, rich in corn, roots, or pasture, as the exigencies of crop rotation may require, and dotted here and there by dark clumps of firs and larches, are absorbed opposite the berkshire village of basildon by hart's wood. the trees fringe the thames closely, and densely clothe the wooded steeps. at all seasons these fine hanging plantations are fair to see; but there are special effects in spring and autumn, the intermixture of larches, at the former period, giving the wood a glow of dainty colour before other trees have put forth their leaves, and the abounding beeches, elms, oaks, and chestnuts, when mellow october comes round, making it equally conspicuous by the wondrous tints of decay. the tow-path terminates for the time being abruptly opposite the snug village of basildon; this may be gained by enlisting the services of the ferryman, who dwells in the solitary cottage under a line of full-headed pollards. the village and even its church are half-hidden in foliage, and there is an effective background formed by the plantations of basildon park. passing peeps of the house are vouchsafed as we descend the river, steering by the berkshire side of the group of islets in the middle. the parted stream marks the site of yet another hart's lock (hart's old lock), of which no token remains. the chalk downs still appear on the berkshire side, and the ridge that maintained hart's wood swerves in unison with the course of the river, and, well covered with wide-spreading oaks, shelters coombe lodge from the north and east. the osier beds of the thames give employment to numbers of women and children, and maintain a distinct riverside trade. on a recent visit i was fortunate in witnessing the operations of an osier farm, thus described in my note-book:--the men, women, and children clustered on the farther shore, busily engaged in an occupation which is not at first apparent, come upon you with a surprise as you enter the next meadow. out of the river formal growths of tall green sheaves seem to flourish within a ring fence. there is a rude building, half shed and half cottage, at the mouth of a gully, and in an open space between it and the thames the above-mentioned people are working. proceeding down the path the mystery gradually unfolds. we are facing an osier farm. the tall slender sheaves are bundles of withies that have been reaped from the islands and osier beds, and punted to this depôt. here, in a square enclosure, they are planted _en masse_ in the water, and the cut branches make the best they can of divorcement from the parent root, and preserve their vitality until they are required for use. the girls and boys are very handy at the operation of peeling. they take up a withy from the bundle last landed from the pound, draw it rapidly through a couple of pieces of iron fixed to a stand, and in a twinkling the bright green osier has become a snow-white wand. this humble colony of workers, about whom little is generally known, is one of many engaged in an out-of-the-way industry, hidden from the eyes of the world in some nook of the thames. it is the first which meets our observation on the journey from oxford. but even this simple form of industry has challenged the attention of the scientific. at the inventions exhibition of 1885 at south kensington, an apparatus for willow-peeling was shown amongst the labour-saving machines. [illustration: goring, from the toll-gate.] whitchurch lock, two miles and a half below basildon ferry, is the halting-place for pangbourne, the twin villages of whitchurch and pangbourne occupying similar positions, and enjoying the same type of communication as goring and streatley. st. mary's church, before its restoration, must have been a remarkably quaint building, and its singular wooden steeple attracts a considerable amount of attention even now. amongst the curiosities in the interior, besides the memorial windows of stained-glass, is a monument to a sixteenth-century lord of the manor of hardwicke, and his dame, represented kneeling at a _prie-dieu_; and a tablet with the following very original inscription:- "to richard lybbe, of hardwick, esq., and anne blagrave united in sacred wedlock 50 years are here againe made one by death she yielded to yt change ian. 17, 1651, which he embracied ivly 14, 1658. /epitaph./ "he, whose renowne, for what completeth man, speaks lowder, better things, then marble can: she, whose religious deeds makes hardwick's fame, breathe as the balme of lybbe's immortall name, are once more ioyned within this peacefull bed; where honour (not arabian-gummes) is spred, then grudge not (friends) who next succeed 'em must y'are happy, that shall mingle with such dust." the resemblance of the twin villages of pangbourne and whitchurch to the dual communities with whose concerns this chapter opened is sustained in several features. the reach immediately above pangbourne, which is one of the very lovely stations of the thames, is straight and uninteresting. the cut on the whitchurch shore makes an abrupt curve to the lock, and the breadth of the river above the wooden toll-bridge, own cousin to that at streatley, and the two islands side by side near the lock, produce a vivacious backwater, and a fine weir-pool, twenty-five feet deep, abounding in holes, eddies, and scours intimately known to london anglers, to whom pangbourne is as much the object of worship as streatley is the haven of desire to the artists. the wooden bridge, as at the last-named station, is the best coign of vantage from which to obtain adequate views of the three distinct streams, which gallop in joyous ebullitions of foam from the obstructions planted in the channel. a goodly current rushes from the very new-looking mill on the whitchurch shore. the lower part of the church is concealed by trees, but clear above the rooks' nests in the swaying tops may ever be seen the wooden spire. the turbulent pool at pangbourne weir may best be studied from the timber-yard on the berkshire side, and there is a subsidiary weir which assists the larger body to create a homely and miniature delta before the scattered forces are collected in one uninterrupted volume of water at the bridge. the scenery at pangbourne is not less charming than that of streatley, and it is in both places of a character peculiar to the hilly country through which the thames now flows. a wide-spreading prospect of the valley may be obtained from shooter's hill. both whitchurch and pangbourne lay claim to a past history of some importance, but the old church, save the red-brick tower, which only dates from 1718, was replaced in 1865 by the present building; and this contains, amongst certain architectural qualities, an oaken pulpit, probably of the time of elizabeth, carved in arabesques. the pang bourne, which gives a name to the village, is a pretty trout stream joining the brimming river, straight from the village, at the tail of the noisy weir, and coursing with its overflow down the gravelly shallow. the undulating chalk hills, prolific of agreeable changes in the scenery, continue without cessation for many miles below pangbourne, but on the opposite side we have once more the flat meadows, neat farms, and humble cottages of agricultural berkshire. the thames, which had arrived at pangbourne by a south-easterly course, moves for a short distance from west to east along a straight and deep-running reach. the recurring woods on the left are a welcome foil to the level land on the right, and the distant landscapes are now very striking. [illustration: whitchurch church and mill.] under the hill on the oxfordshire side, about a mile and a half below pangbourne, hardwicke house, a notable specimen of the tudor manor-house, is a conspicuous feature. from the meadow on the opposite shore you have a perfect view of this most picturesque exterior. the colour of the brickwork has deepened, in the course of time, to the darkest of red; and its gables and clustering chimneys are clearly defined against the screen of noble elms which intervene between the house and the north wind, and cover the slopes behind it. the trim terrace is raised safely above the river; old yew, cedar, oak, and elm-trees cast long shadows upon the mossy turf, and indicate alleys and bowers such as those in which charles i. spent some of the time passed by him at hardwicke, "amusing himself with bowls" and other sports. numbers of the trees upon the lawn, and some of the cool, quiet nooks of its shrubberies, are, no doubt, precisely what they were two hundred years ago. [illustration: mapledurham: the church and the mill.] hardwicke house is, however, but an item in the catalogue of strong and varying attractions of the section of the thames which began with streatley, and which may be said to end at mapledurham, something less than a mile farther down. many lovers of the river thames declare that, take it all in all, there is no sweeter spot from source to sea than this. in 1883 the hand of renovation was laid upon one of the overfalls, introducing of necessity an element of change; but the lock, weir, and lasher, the great bay of swirling water by them formed when there is no scarcity of supply, the backwaters, brook, and shallows have not been interfered with. as of yore, the whispering trees overhang the swift current, the lazy lilies wave in the tranquil backwater, and the rare old mill, first, perhaps, of its class upon the river, remains, like the face of a familiar friend, to greet the visitor, who, with each returning season, will assuredly, on the moment of arrival, bestow his earliest attention upon it. mapledurham has, indeed, an almost unrivalled collection of good things to offer in the grounds of purley on the west and those of the elizabethan mansion on the east. mapledurham house, largely concealed behind the foliage, is not at first so visible to the passer-by as hardwicke; but it is too celebrated as a genuine example of elizabethan architecture, and too well worthy of deliberate examination, to be neglected. the house was built in 1581 by sir michael blount, who was lieutenant of the tower of london, and in the blount family it has ever since remained. the name is a corruption of mapulder-ham, and mapulder was the old english designation of the maple-tree. the glorious avenue of nearly a mile in length by which the front of the house is reached is, however, of handsome elms, but around the mansion are grouped poplars, oaks, beeches, and firs in picturesque profusion. from the right bank below the lock the gables, bays, oriels, roofs, and decorated chimneys, amidst such surroundings, constitute a striking picture. in the house are secret rooms and passages, supposed to have been used in the time of the civil war by the royalists for the concealment of priests or soldiers. by-and-by, in resuming your voyage down the river, mapledurham house becomes the central object of another type of picture, composed of the delightful old mill, the curious church tower, the symmetrical trees, and the bright streams gathering from between the islands, and fresh from the mill race, and so continuing the sober volume of the thames by purley, and parallel with the railway. mapledurham church is near the manor-house, from whose grounds access is obtained to the churchyard by a pair of huge old-fashioned iron gates. it is a restored church, the south aisle of which is claimed by the blount family as a private mortuary chapel. purley is a small rustic berkshire village, standing back half a mile from the river. the church, however, is nearer, and the ancient tower bears a scutcheon with the arms of the bolingbroke family, and dated 1626. a horse-ferry below mapledurham conveys the pedestrian to the oxford side, where, for less than half a mile, the tow-path continues. the ferryman is not always to be found, and the pedestrian, stopped by the iron railing, had better follow the footpath skirting the beautiful park at purley. backward glimpses may thus be indulged in of the mill, church, and manor-house, with a breadth of fertile meadow intervening; and, walking up the steep road towards belleisle house, the temporary desertion of the river will be amply repaid by the extensive general view of the thames valley which has just been traversed. purley hall, built by south-sea-bubble law, was the residence of warren hastings during his trial. for the boating-man, the river makes no exceptional demand upon his strength or imagination for several miles. the divergence by land, as above suggested, brings you presently to the "roebuck," where a second ferry within the half mile assigns the tow-path once again to the berkshire shore. the old-fashioned boating-tavern has not been demolished, but perched upon the hill above the caversham reach a more modern hotel tempts the oarsman to pause and refresh, and the holiday-maker to look out upon the remarkable map of river and landscape for which the situation is celebrated. the thatched roof, ancient kitchen, and tap of the original wayside inn are left standing--an eloquent contrast by the side of its successor. the thames between purley and the eelbucks at chasey farm is studded with a variety of islands. they are at their best but small and tiny, bearing a few trees, or a crop of osiers, or amounting to nothing more important than a bed of rushes. insignificant, however, though they may be, they preserve the character of the river, breaking as they do the monotony of the current, which, in the more level tract now watered by the thames, shows an increasing tendency to the commonplace. the conclusion will be irresistibly forced upon us that we have at length, with reluctance, parted from the beautiful section which includes streatley and goring, pangbourne and whitchurch, hardwicke and mapledurham--scenic pearls of price lying within a convenient range of not more than seven miles. notice-boards upon a willowy eyot, and a fence athwart the stream, forbidding the passage of boats round the considerable backwater to the left, introduce us to a permanent line of eelbucks. soon the bridge and church of caversham appear afar; and, dimly, to the right, the chimneys and roofs of reading. the thames is again bordered on the north by hills, a continuation of the range which began at hart's wood. from mapledurham lock, however, the river, instead of running parallel with the hills, made a detour, and ran side by side with the railway, until, at the chasey farm eelbucks, it turned north again to meet them. "there is not," wrote mary mitford in her "recollections of a literary life," "such another flower-bank in oxfordshire as caversham warren," and this reference is to the breadth of country extending from the sedge-lined river to the tree-crowned chalk hills which have terminated their guardianship of the northern banks of the thames. from the brow of the hills, upon which modern residences have of late years multiplied exceedingly, there are widespread prospects through which the silver thames pursues the even tenor of its way, more beautiful from the distant standpoint than, for some miles above caversham bridge, it is when near at hand. the bridge at caversham is one of the plainest on the thames, and this suburb of the county town is not in any way remarkable for its romantic adornments. the bridge was nevertheless of sufficient importance to draw from "cawsam hill" (the rustics to this day so pronounce the word caversham) a furious onslaught from the troops of general ruven and prince rupert, who "fell upon a loose regiment that lay there to keepe the bridge, and gave them a furious assault both with their ordnance and men--one bullet being taken up by our men which weighed twenty-four pounds at the least." sir samuel luke's diary, in which this scrap of history is preserved, goes on to state that the "loose regiment" made the hill "soe hott for them that they were forced to retreat, leaving behind seven bodyes of as personable men as ever were seene." and, according to leland, there stood in the time of henry viii., at the north end of caversham bridge, "a fair old chapel of stone, on the right hand, piled in the foundation because of the rage of the thames." in consequence of the danger in which the meadows stood of floods, in the old pre-drainage days, when the river often played pranks unknown to modern times, the bridge was constructed of stone in its most critical part, but extended partly in wood by a number of arches over the pasturage. before the days of the cavaliers, as far back, indeed, as 1163, caversham bridge was the scene of a trial by battle, adjudged by his majesty henry ii. henry of essex, the king's standard-bearer, had charged robert de montford with cowardice and treachery. at a fight in wales the standard-bearer had thrown down his flag and fled, and his plea was that he believed at the time that the king was killed. the trial by sword is said to have been performed upon one of the islands near the bridge, with almost fatal results to the challenger, for though he recovered from what were at first supposed to be mortal wounds, he was obliged to retire to the abbey, where he exchanged the accoutrements of the soldier for the habit of a monk. the thames leaves reading to the right, but according to some topographers the town derived its name from the saxon "rheadyne" ("rhea," a river), or from the british word redin (a fern), the plant, as stated by leland, growing thereabouts in great plenty. hall, however, makes light of these derivations, urging that the name simply meant that reading was the seat and property of the rædingas family. the thames approaches close to the town below the pretty island, of about four acres in extent, which monopolises more than half the river, midway between caversham bridge and lock; and is to the traveller by rail from london one of the earliest indications--with its line of willows on the farther bank, and the playing-fields intervening on the southern side--that the town is at hand. the facilities inherited by the inhabitants for bathing, boating, and angling are a boon appreciated to the full, and the thames materially contributes to the reputation enjoyed by reading as one of the most desirable country towns of england. the principal branch of the river below the swimming-baths sweeps to the left, but the navigable channel runs through the lock south of the small island. the divisions by islets and curvature of the course between the lock and lower caversham make the thames a beautiful feature of the locality. full of historical memories (it is supposed that the danes brought their war-ships up the thames to the mouth of the kennet), reading is proudest, perhaps, of the abbey, of which so many interesting portions are well preserved in connection with the forbury, the name given to the pleasure-grounds for the people, most creditably maintained by public subscription. there were four noted abbeys in the south of england--glastonbury, abingdon, st. albans, and reading, and reading was not the least important. the wife of king edgar founded the establishment as a nunnery, and henry i. pulled it down to make room for two hundred benedictine monks. it was given out that the hand of st. james the apostle was deposited in the abbey, and the so-called relic "drew" a perennial inflow of support. royal bones were laid in the abbey. henry himself expressed a wish to be buried within its walls, and his body, accordingly, having been rudely embalmed at rouen, was wrapped in bull-hides, and conveyed to reading for ceremonial interment. at the dissolution the royal tomb was destroyed and the king's bones ejected, with other _débris_, to make room for a stable. but the abbey during its existence was a power in the land. in it john of gaunt married his plantagenet wife, and there the marriage of henry iv. to lady grey was proclaimed. the abbots of reading were peers of parliament, ranking only below their brethren of glastonbury and st. albans. they had the right of coinage; they gave to the abbey much wealth; and amongst the relics was one sent to cromwell, and described by the commissioner who was sent down to inquire into the revenues as "the principell relik of idolytrie within thys realme, an aungell with oon wyng that brought to caversham the spere hedde that percyd our saviour is syde upon the crosse." the last abbot of reading, defying the bulky defender of the faith, was hanged, drawn, and quartered, with a couple of monks, within sight of his own abbey gateway. what of the building was left after the energetic measures of bluff king hal, was finally razed by commonwealth victors. portions, however, of the ancient chapel and chapterhouse are left, and the old gateway stands, patched up with modern materials, in excellent preservation on the south side of the forbury. it is understood that the abbey stones have been worked up into some of the public buildings of the town, and some of them were undoubtedly carted right and left, far and near, for miscellaneous use. the most interesting fragment is a norman archway belonging to the abbey mill, and still spanning the mill race known as holy brook. [illustration: flooded meadows, from caversham bridge.] when the plague raged in london, king, statesmen, and judges, with their courts, removed to reading. later, the royal troops held temporary possession of the town, and, after a ten days' siege by the roundheads, the garrison displayed a flag of truce. charles, and the looting rupert, operating from caversham hill, tried in vain to retrieve the disaster, and when they were driven back, the garrison surrendered. in the reign of james ii. the royal troops and those of the prince of orange, had a tussle in reading market-place, one december sunday morning, james's men, after a brief engagement, promptly leaving the enemy masters of the position. archbishop laud was a native of reading; and john bunyan, as related by southey, was a frequent visitor to the town:--"the house in which the anabaptists met for worship was in a lane then, and from the back door they had a bridge over the river kennet, whereby, in case of alarm, they might escape. in a visit to that place bunyan contracted the disease which brought him to the grave." valpy was head-master of reading grammar school; and judge talfourd was one of the later worthies of the clean, thriving, berkshire capital. the river kennet, referred to in the previous paragraph, runs through reading. the great abbey was built upon it, yet within view of the broader thames flowing through the level meads northwards. the hallowed or holy brook, in which the reading schoolboy of to-day angles for roach and dace, was a timely tributary turned to ecclesiastical uses, and employed to grind corn for the benedictines, and minister generally to the refectory. the kennet is, with the loddon in the same general portion of the home counties, one of the most considerable tributaries in the great watershed of the thames. drayton, as usual, fastening upon some quality that accurately describes the character of his stream, says:- "at reading once arrived, clear kennet overtakes her lord, the stately thames; which that great flood again, with many signes of joy, doth kindly entertain. the loddon next comes in, contributing her store, as still we see, the much runs ever to the more." [illustration: the thames at reading, from the old clappers.] the clear kennet is, moreover, in other respects an exceedingly interesting river, and a stream, too, of some practical importance. it rises on the edge of the wiltshire downs, and for three or four miles runs in modest volume until it passes through the old town of marlborough, a steady-going wiltshire borough, deriving its life not from manufacture, mining, pump-room, or esplanade, but from the land, as represented by the cattle, corn, malt, cheese, and woollen fabrics which are the subjects of barter and exchange at its periodical markets. in the palmiest days of coaching, four-and-thirty four-horse coaches used to stop at marlborough on their journey between bristol and london, the high road at that time running through what is now the centre avenue of the college grounds. the vale of kennet is here bounded by the wiltshire downs on the east, and savernake forest on the west. the forest is about a couple of miles from the town, and is the stateliest forest in the kingdom belonging to a private proprietor. it is sixteen miles in circumference, finely timbered, and possessing that too-often-lacking essential of a forest, harmonious alternation of hill and dale. there is a glorious avenue of beech-trees five miles long; and in the spring season the hawthorn-trees, of immense age, with heads that often compete in size and shape with the ordinary forest trees, and each standing bravely by itself, are a marvel of fragrant bloom. amongst the groves of oak, beech, and chestnut, and undergrowth of bracken, fern, bush, and briar, there are hundreds of fallow deer; and a considerable head of red deer is still successfully maintained. the kennet ornaments the park of ramsbury manor, and touches littlecote park, a tragic reminiscence of which is given in the notes to sir walter scott's poem of rokeby. so far, the kennet has watered wiltshire; but soon after leaving chilton lodge it enters berkshire, meandering through a tract of marsh, and, dividing into two streams, runs through the decayed but once considerable town of hungerford. pope signalised the river in the line- "the kennet, swift, for silver eels renowned;" and the successful attempt recently made by the flyfishers' club of hungerford to introduce grayling into it reminds one of the super-excellent quality of the fish indigenous to its waters. the kennet and avon navigation makes the connection of this portion of berkshire with the river thames direct and valuable. the canal navigation, forming a waterway between the thames and the west of england, is for the first nineteen miles, namely, from reading to newbury, the river kennet itself; from newbury to bath, the canal proper is cut for a distance of fifty-six miles; and the avon river completes the communication to bristol. the numerous locks in the vale of kennet are connected with this system of navigation, which is practically associated with the concerns of the great western railway. hungerford, the town which has been here noticed as standing upon the kennet, was described by evelyn as a "town famous for its troutes," and it has well preserved its reputation. amongst the inns of the town is one named after john o' gaunt, who was a person of note in both hampshire and berkshire. his association with reading has been already signified in the reference to the burials and funerals which took place in the abbey; and in hungerford is a horn, highly honoured as a gift of john o' gaunt to the town, and as a memento of the right of fishing enjoyed by the commoners, who still maintain the custom of fishing the kennet three days per week. at hungerford, in 1688, the negotiations which ended in the substitution of james ii. by william of orange were conducted. the vale of kennet, from the hungerford meadows to within a few miles of reading, is a compact stretch of rural loveliness. we hear of the vale of avoca, the vale of llangollen, and the vale of health, but we do not find the valley through which the kennet flows magnified in song, though of the smiling and peaceful order of valley landscape it has few competitors in england. its green pastures lie by still waters, and its little hills seem to drop fatness. between reading and marlborough the eye may, right or left, almost at any moment, rest upon limpid and often rippling water. narrowed here to the dimensions and restless volume of a goodly lowland trout stream, it there journeys at an even pace, betraying anger and vexation only when subject to artificial restraint; as, for example, when it boils and swirls at a mill-tail, or races impetuously round into the repose of a backwater. the kennet and avon canal is mixed up rather bewilderingly, to a run-and-read stranger, with the river. pleasant brooks and brooklets thread the water-meads, garnished with forget-me-nots and cuckoo-pints; while in the moist hollows the marsh marigold blossoms in golden clusters. ancient roofs of thatch-covered tenements, built in another generation, appear now and then; and long-established farmhouses and beautiful mansions vary the prospect on either side of the valley in whose typical english country scenery there is no break of continuity. at the town of newbury the kennet becomes navigable, and so continues throughout the remainder of its course, which is concluded a little below the town of reading, at the point where the thames dips to the south as if to meet it, and almost touches the great western railway line. newbury is a very old town, as the description in foxe's "book of martyrs," of the burning of palmer, askew, and gwyn, in the middle of the sixteenth century, will show. in the fifteenth century newbury was famous for its cloth weaving, and "jack of newbury," who may almost be said to be the patron saint of the town, was a wealthy cloth manufacturer. he kept a hundred looms at work, and on the invasion of the country by the scots marched the entire force into the field, and received much compliment upon their martial bearing and superior garments. the two battles between charles i. and his masterful parliamentarians are historical, and the canal near newbury lock passes the ground where the roundheads camped prior to the first battle of newbury. in the corn-fields and grass-lands of the rural outskirts of the town, occasional traces are unearthed of a battle in which six thousand men were killed, and a suitable monument, raised by public subscription, stands to commemorate where- "on this field did falkland fall, the blameless and the brave," and to record that lord carnarvon, lord sutherland, and other cavaliers also, perished in the unfortunate cause of their unfortunate king. [illustration: sonning-on-thames.] the thames from reading to sonning calls for no marked comment, and i must confess to a habit, when in these parts, of leaving the waterside at caversham bridge and travelling to sonning along the high road that passes lower caversham, by farmhouses, corn-fields, and pastures, and one of the osier farms described on a previous page. a road at right angles conducts to the "french horn" inn, and to the bridges here spanning the thames. arriving at sonning by river, however, you glide underneath the woods of holme park, and so take into calculation the church and village from a point of view highly favourable to their scenic pretensions. no visitor can do justice to the exquisite beauties of this village without leaving the water and exploring the bridges, islands, and waterways which are so lavishly distributed between the widened banks. on the "french horn" shore, the left branch sweeps round and streams abroad in a skittish shallow under a lightly-built bridge. at first it is difficult to decide whether this is a backwater or the main stream. looking upwards, you notice that another channel yonder follows a row of pollards and orchard-trees on the "white hart" side. there are separate streams, apparently, on either side of the bridge; and a shoulder-of-mutton-shaped eyot and other islets create a rapid current in another direction, overhung by a perpendicular bank. this is topographically confusing, but most agreeable in its endless motion and diversity. there are two divisions of the bridge; and beyond the first an independent backwater gallops down from the mill, past which, and its chestnut-trees, is the brick county bridge. the houses of the village, clad with creepers, and often embowered in fruit-trees, and the square tower of the church, as represented in the engraving, constitute one of the most familiar pictures of the thames. a charming walk, immediately above and below the lock--locally termed the thames parade--extends along the skirts of the woods of holme park, the projecting boughs of which o'er-canopy the towing-path, and are reflected in the water. the eyot is connected with the shores by the lock and weir, duly illustrated on another page from a favourite point of view. one of the choicest views at sonning may be obtained by standing on the parade, say a hundred yards above the lock, and peeping under the boughs of the trees towards reading, which sometimes looks almost romantic in the dreamy obscurity of an enveloping haze. [illustration: sonning weir.] sonning, or sunning, was not, in all probability, as some maintain, the seat of a bishopric, though it was a standing residence of the bishops of salisbury, who had a palace here through successive generations. even in leland's time it was "a fair olde house of stone, even by the tamise ripe, longying to the bishop of saresbyri; and thereby a fair parke." the church, without which the charming landscape would lose one of its most harmonious features, contains curious monuments, a celebrated peal of bells, and rich carved work. it is peculiarly rich in memorial brasses, many full-length figures of the barker family dating from the middle of the sixteenth century. very different is the view down the river, when the back of the observer is turned upon the graceful trees drooping into the water, the masses of chestnuts and elms interspersed between the houses, and the divided stream and osier-bedded islets. the sinuous course is for a couple of miles between low banks; while in the somewhat distant background appear the towering woods, with which we shall become by-and-by more intimately acquainted. on the lower side of the bridge the river at once collects its scattered forces, and proceeds stately and slow until a chain of islets diversifies the course, and, with the assistance of sundry sharp twists in the left bank, gives increasing strength to the current, and braces itself for the press of business demanded by the mill and lock at shiplake. the rev. jas. grainger, author of the "biographical history of england," was vicar of shiplake, and, in his dedication to horace walpole, remarks that he had the good fortune to retire early to "independence, obscurity, and content." the rev. gentleman, who considered shiplake as synonymous with obscurity, died at the altar of his church while performing divine service, and is buried within its walls; and the tablet which marks his grave refers, as does the dedication, to the obscurity which at shiplake accompanied the content. the church stands upon a very charming slope. the southern face of the tower is mantled over with ivy, and the sacred edifice does not lose in dignity by the near neighbourhood of farm buildings, rickyards, and orchards. from the porch there is a fine view of the valley of the river. the church, in which lord tennyson was married, was restored in quite recent times, but the stained-glass windows are so ancient that they are supposed to have been originally in the abbey of st. bertin at st. omer. the singular vagaries of the mouth of the loddon introduce an unexpected variety above shiplake. it was this tributary, mentioned after the kennet by drayton, in the lines previously quoted, which gave pope a hint for his fable of lodona, and he stamps the character of the loddon in the line- "the loddon slow, with verdant alders crowned." the loddon is, nevertheless, scarcely a river on its own merits to inspire a poem, though it is in an especial degree the kind of stream which has attracted the consideration of pastoral poets. almost any portion of the country watered by the sluggish loddon might have yielded just such scenes as gray describes in his immortal elegy. the river rises in the north hampshire downs, and flows by the site of that basing house which is famous in the annals of cromwellian warfare. fuller, the church historian, resided in the mansion during the siege, and amidst the confusion of the battle is reported to have composed some portion of his "worthies of england." fragmentary ruins of the house are yet shown. every visitor must bear witness to the debt owed by strathfieldsaye park to the loddon, which divides it into two unequal parts. the quantity and quality of the water gave the late duke of wellington an opportunity, of which he perseveringly availed himself, of indulging privately in the pursuit of trout breeding, a project which was abandoned soon after his death. the loddon in berkshire passes by swallowfield, where in his son's house lord clarendon wrote his "history of the rebellion." two centuries earlier than that the manor was the property of john, duke of bedford, regent of france; and it has been in later times of more immediate interest to the admirers of mary russell mitford, as being her home and burial-place. her ever-delightful book, "our village," is composed of rural word photographs, taken when the lady lived at three mile cross, and all the scenes are faithful pictures of loddon-side life. on returning from a recent visit to the loddon, an old friend of miss mitford's, in reading, gave me, as a memento of the authoress whom we both admired, a note in her handwriting, and after it had been some time in my possession i discovered that the small envelope in which it was enclosed was one which had been previously sent to, and turned by, the industrious old lady. the operation had been performed with wonderful neatness, and it was only by accident that i discovered inside, and in faded ink, the original address, to "miss mitford, three mile cross, reading, berks." arborfield succeeds swallowfield, and the river here feeds the picturesque lake in mr. walter's park at bearwood. the loddon next touches hurst, and flows in its lazy way to twyford, so called from the two fords, which are represented in these days by bridges, crossing the two arms of the river. after a north-eastern course of some twenty-four miles, the loddon here runs into the thames. it should perhaps be stated, with reference to pope's fable of lodona, that it was not connected with the loddon proper, but with one of the inconsiderable tributaries of a tributary that ripple through part of windsor forest. the poet was, nevertheless, quite accurate in his description of the loddon as "slow," and "with verdant alders crowned." it is an altogether different river from the kennet, which is bright, and abounding in gravelly shallows, after the fashion of the hampshire chalk streams, and is a famous trout river. the loddon, on the contrary, is deep, dark, sluggish, almost troutless, and thickly furnished with the alder, of which it has been written- "the alder whose fat shadow nourisheth, each plant set near to him long flourisheth." this attribute is only a poetical fancy, but the alder is essentially a tree whose roots are at home when planted by the river, and which is always contributing some evidence of its vigour--in the winter with its catkins hung out to freeze, in the spring with its queer little black cones, and in the summer and autumn by the glossy green leaves which are merciful to the defects of shape in its branches, and which sturdily hold on when the leaves of other trees have been snatched and scattered. the water of the thames flows into the loddon through the private backwater known as st. patrick's stream, but the loddon finally joins the thames below shiplake lock, after indirectly opening into it by means of the mouths of st. patrick's stream. there is also, intersecting burrow marsh, a backwater, irreverently termed burrow ditch, and this joins with st. patrick's stream in swelling the volume of the loddon. it should perhaps be explained that although under its normal conditions the thames, through both branches, runs into the loddon, in times of flood the position is reversed, and the loddon pours its current into the thames. shiplake has more than the ordinary share of backwaters and bye-streams, and on this account is a favourite resort of anglers. independently of the virtually three outlets by which the waters of the loddon escape, there are phillimore island and shiplake mill to be considered. by following the course of the loop formed by st. patrick's stream, the lock may be avoided; but the stream is a very strong one. half-way round the bend the comfortable farmhouse of burrow marsh will be noticed, and the upper portion of the backwater is generally so choked with rushes as to be almost imperceptible. the weather-board mill and the weir are prettily set, and the islets abounding above the lock are links in a chain of choice thames scenery. near shiplake lock, as the illustration to that effect will signify, stands an island which is a favourite camping-out spot for boating-men who do not fear the risk of rheumatism, and who prefer a night on shore under canvas to the cramped and unsatisfactory repose attempted by those who decide to spend the night in their boats. for miles downwards from this point the thames winds through scenery in which hill and woodland again take their welcome place. the views on water and from land may change in degree, but the general character is ever that of quiet beauty. the commanding situations upon the elevated ground overlooking the valley have long been built upon, and, on brow, slope, or level, mansions of varying styles succeed each other. phillimore island takes its name from the late learned owner of shiplake house opposite. it is a dainty little bit of dry land in the midst of the water, covered with willows, poplars, aspens, and one or two chestnuts. down stream wargrave hill with its imposing white house finishes the view for the time being. it was at the "george and dragon" hostelry, at wargrave, about a quarter of a mile below shiplake weir, that mr. leslie and mr. hodgson, r.a., entered into a temporary partnership in the production of a humorous signboard. wargrave was once a market-town, but it is now, happily for those who seek its quietude, a mere village far removed from the noise of the world. sequestered backwaters between and at the rear of the islands, suggest a change for the visitor who is tired of the shaven lawns, pretty villas, and park-like grounds behind the public ferry and the sleepy village. the railway runs the other side of the river, crossing it below shiplake lock, and so passing by bolney court to henley. a high road to the latter place runs past the "george and dragon," and, under the towering woods, are the eyots opposite bolney court; while on the other side of the space, known as wargrave marsh, the hennerton backwater, or wargrave stream, extends for over a mile, and is crossed by two modest foot-bridges. this backwater is well known for its aquatic offerings, and the artist has appropriately "happened" upon it at a characteristic moment, when a bevy of fair boaters have discovered that the lilies are in flower, and have ventured up to gather the æsthetic blossoms. in the secluded village of ruscombe, between shiplake and wargrave, penn, the founder of pennsylvania, died, and was buried; and the notable objects of the neighbourhood may be concluded by mention of the monument, in wargrave church, to the memory of thomas day, who wrote "sandford and merton," and was thrown from his horse and killed on bear hill close by. the heights, of which there are no lack in the neighbourhood, give many picturesque and wide-spreading views of the river and the surrounding country. the islands in the thames opposite the remarkably plain mansion of bolney court are a truly beautiful group, even if they have escaped the popularity accorded to less charming reaches of the river. up stream a fine pine wood will be noticed; hennerton house, to the right, stands on a lofty steep, embowered in trees; and below are the dark woods and white cliffs of park place. [illustration: shiplake: a camping-out party.] park place now absorbs all the notice of the downward traveller. for miles above, the wooded heights have been visible, increasing in beauty as we approached nearer and nearer. they will now be close on the right hand, until progress is temporarily checked at marsh lock. the mansion was built originally by one of the dukes of hamilton. the father of george iii., when prince of wales, lived there; and george iv., before he came to the throne, and the first earl of malmesbury, there abode. the marvellous beauty of the situation, and the splendid success attending the efforts of those owners who understood how to compel art to assist, by judiciously developing, nature, have made park place what it is. the principal agent in this latter work was marshal conway, who, nevertheless, in many respects, carried his notions of improvement to excess. towards the end of the last century much had been done to endow it with the attractions which made it so desirable a residence; but the marshal, devoting all his time to additional embellishment, ran no little danger of pushing from the sublime to the ridiculous. the inhabitants of jersey, to mark their appreciation of his governorship of the island, presented him on his departure with a druid's temple or tomb, which had been found by workmen during his reign on the summit of a hill near st. heliers. the relics were brought to park place and set up on the summit of one of the lesser eminences. forty-five stones, averaging seven feet in height, four in breadth, and from one to three feet in thickness, were arranged in a circle sixty-five feet in circumference, and in the exact positions, so far as could be understood, which they occupied in the dim era of antiquity. the marshal built also an artificial roman amphitheatre, approached by a long underground passage leading to a valley planted with cypress; constructed a bridge from materials carted over from the remains of reading abbey; overhung a walk, at the end of which was a marble tomb, with weeping willows; and elsewhere excavated a cavern, and left other tokens of his eccentric restlessness. the mansion was rebuilt by its present owner, mr. noble, in the french-italian style; but its principal merit is the incomparable situation (300 feet above the level of the thames), and surroundings of nine hundred acres of superbly wooded hill and dale, velvet lawns and romantic glades, mossy dells and tangled thickets. the domain is entered by seven lodges, and east of the house a cedar is pointed out as having been planted by george iii. the latest considerable, and not least sensible, addition to park place is the gothic boat-house, at which visitors, who have the privilege of roaming over the grounds, are permitted to land. the really handsome exterior is not belied by the artistic furnishment within, comprising pictures, carvings, and statues. the walk through the grounds, with its surprises of mimic ruins and suggestive emblems, its sylvan glories which owe nothing to the hand of man, and the fairy-like glimpses which owe everything to the bountiful river, is a treat, indeed, of which one never tires, and which every sojourner in these parts should, in duty bound, make his own. from the bosom of the river the white gleams of chalky cliff contrast admirably with the masses of foliage. the residence at park place shows well from the second or third meadow below marsh lock; but the fields on the henley side are being converted into brick-yards, and the first view of the town is marred by the coal-sheds, sidings, and ugly little railway station, to which the adjacent block of terrace-buildings cannot be accepted as in any degree a set-off. the fine old weir which, until recent years, furnished an everlasting object-lesson to young artists at marsh lock, has been superseded by a modern arrangement erected near the paper-mill, and worked by a travelling pulley; but on the right bank the brick-mill, house, and exquisitely kept river frontage of its gardens, improve by time, and worthily complete the charms of park place; and, zig-zagging across the broad thames, there remains the wooden bridge by which the barge-horses cross from oxfordshire to the farther shore and back again without touching land. underneath the high staging, the river, in alternate pools and shallows, reveals a pebbly bottom more resembling the bed of a mountain-born salmon river than the placid thames. in the rapid and moderately deep water running from the paper-mill, the patient observer, waiting on a sunny day until the fish have recovered from the alarm communicated by the shadow cast as he took his position, will have favourable opportunity of observing the kind of creatures which inhabit the waters. in the spring months, when the barbel are congregated on domestic cares intent, the almost incredible piscatorial resources of the thames can be easily understood, and this particular run of water at times appears to be crowded with this sport-giving species. the district of which henley is in a sense the riparian metropolis is one of the best along the entire length of the river for the angler, in whose interests we may agree, perhaps, to break off our downward voyage for the moment, in order to complete the information proffered in brief in the first chapter, with respect to the piscatorial capabilities of the river. although the right of the public to fish in the thames has been frequently called in question, and threatened with opposition, it remains one of the principal rivers in england free to the general angler. probably forty or fifty years ago men fished from any section of the tow-path, or with their boats moored in any pool, without let or hindrance. within the last quarter of a century, however, and especially within the last fifteen years, anglers have increased probably a thousandfold. a distinct angling literature has been established. the clubs and fishing societies of london alone may be numbered by hundreds, and the increased facilities of locomotion all over the country combine, with other progressive changes, to promote a spirit of sport, and develop the sporting instincts of the people in this innocent direction. one of the results of the multiplication of the angling fraternity, and the consequent hard fishing to which the river thames has been put, was seen in the evidence given before the special committee of the house of commons during the session of 1883. prominent amongst the grievances complained of by witnesses who appeared for the general public, was the assertion that waters which had been free to anglers, all and sundry, from time immemorial, were now claimed as private fisheries by riparian owners; and the report of the committee, as many readers will remember, though it was only an expression of opinion, was rather against than for the anglers. in many of the most important districts of the thames local preservation societies have been established, vested with some sort of control over the fishing, and enforcing, by their bailiffs and keepers, those by-laws of the thames conservancy which were framed after consultation with gentlemen representing the different classes of metropolitan anglers. it is only, therefore, in rare instances, that permission to fish is refused to the public, and the system of preservation is acquiesced in by all earnest sportsmen, who do not need to be informed that unless the pastime of angling is conducted on strictly fair principles, the thames, or any other river, would soon be depopulated of its fish. [illustration: backwater at wargrave: a pool of water-lilies.] for angling purposes the river thames may be roughly divided into three sections. the first comprises the tidal waters, in which the fishing is principally confined to roach, dace, barbel, and an occasional trout in teddington weir. of the coarser fish, incredible quantities have been caught since the regular supervision of the river was undertaken by the local piscatorial society of richmond. the next division is from teddington weir to staines, where the city waters end, and over this the thames angling preservation society, the most important of its kind in the country, holds sway. the last section comprises all the water between staines and oxford, and as i have already intimated, of this henley is the principal station, or head-quarters. the trout-fishing of the thames is probably not what it was in the palmy days when salmon were caught in the river, but it is still surprisingly good, considering the very much-restricted haunts of the fish. it is supposed by many persons who have only a passing acquaintance with thames trout that it is a distinct species. the fish, it is true, is in external non-essentials different from most of its family, and has, through a long course of residence in the thames, established certain characteristics of its own. a typical thames trout, with its deep thick body, shapely head, silvery sides, and fine spots, is an extremely handsome fish, and second to none in its sport-yielding qualities when fighting for its life in a tumbling bay. the difficulty is to catch it. trout-fishing in the thames commences on the 1st of april, and terminates in the middle of september; and is chiefly confined to the weirpools. here, in the foaming and churning water, all the predatory instincts of the species find ample opportunities of practice amongst the delicate bleak and other small fry which love the rapid turbulent streams. whatever the thames trout might have been in olden times, it is not to be denied that his representative in these days has no partiality for insect food, of which, however, such a river does not yield an abundance; hence few anglers attempt that most sportsmanlike method of angling for trout--the artificial fly. failing this, the most fashionable mode is that of spinning with a bleak or small dace, and latterly this has been supplemented by the less commendable practice of live baiting. in many of the upper waters, as at henley and reading, _salmo fario_ of the ordinary kind have been artificially hatched and turned into the river. loch leven trout have also been introduced, and one of the latest efforts at acclimatisation has been with great lake trout and land-locked salmon, sent to this country by the united states fish commission, and introduced to the thames through the national fish culture association and thames angling preservation society. whether these interesting experiments in pisciculture will be attended with success time only will prove, but there can be no question that the number of common trout in the thames have, of late, largely increased, though a greater proportion of small fish have, as might be supposed, been taken. the principal sport of the thames, however, must be looked for in what are called the coarse or summer spawning fish, for whose advantage a close time has been instituted between the 15th of march and the 15th of june. the latter date is full early for many of the species. at the same time, the periods at which the fish get into condition after spawning depend so much upon the varying circumstances of the water that the angling public have been, reasonably enough, allowed to enjoy the benefit of any doubt that might have been entertained. the increasing number of steam-launches has in many ways interfered with the pursuit of angling, and the disciples of izaac walton entertain anything but a friendly feeling towards the frequenters of the thames who take their pleasure in other ways than through fishing-rod or punt. the thames fish have, indeed, many enemies to contend with, and angling in its waters with success becomes a more and more uncertain and difficult art every year. the fish that has deteriorated, most probably, from the introduction of the steam-launch is the pike. the thames is not, naturally, except in a comparatively few reaches, and at the weirs and mill-pools, a trout stream; but it is precisely the water in which the voracious pike should flourish. the beds of reeds and rushes, the eyots, the deep holes under willow-lined banks, the long straight reaches down which the currents, "strong without rage," maintain their easy progress--these are the natural haunts of _esox lucius_. but pike-fishing has suffered greatly on account of the pernicious and cockney system of trailing from the stems of pleasure-boats and steam-launches. by the murderous flights of hooks, dragged in their wake, without any exercise of skill or attention on the part of the owners of the apparatus, infant fish, too often under the legal minimum of length, are taken. any pike-fisher who is wise will, therefore, avoid the watery highways which are swept and harried by this legion of pot-hunters. in the particular district, however, at which we are pausing to indulge in these piscatorial reflections, the troller or live-baiter may find his most liberal opportunities. no steam-launch can push its way up the overshadowed and tranquil backwaters of hennerton, or round about the islands at bolney. the skilful pike-fisherman will not only seek such undisturbed retreats as these, but will obtain his best sport by deftly dropping his paternoster fitted with one gimp hook upon a gut trace, and baited with gudgeon or small dace, between banks of weeds, and in those odd and beautiful clearings in the aquatic forests which the practised eye may always find. the thames, nevertheless, as a pike river, has for some years been a disappointment, and will so continue to be until trailing is prohibited by law. after the month of october the pike angler has a fairer chance of sport. simultaneously with the disappearance of the steam-launches and pleasure-boats, from which angling is conducted as a passing amusement, and in utter ignorance of the science, or even rudiments of the art, the decay of the weeds begins. this is the signal for a general exodus from summer quarters by the fish. they sheer off into deep water. the pike, no longer concealed in a thicket of subaqueous vegetation, from which he has, during the summer months, pounced like an insatiable ogre upon the silvery wanderers swimming heedlessly about in search of minute freshwater crustacea and larvæ, takes to the life of a roamer, free from much of the harassing which kept him close, out of the range of roistering thames excursionists. but it is unfortunate for the pike that the keen sportsman also benefits by this change. the dying down of the weeds leaves him space for the exercise of his skill at the precise time when his game may be taken at disadvantage. pike-fishing is, therefore, the winter recreation of the angler in the thames, though, for the reasons indicated, large specimens are rarely killed now. the perch, most cosmopolitan of fishes in the rural districts of england, the bold biter idolised by schoolboys, whose easy prey under favourable conditions he is certain to be, has almost disappeared from some portions of the thames. henley used to be a grand perch preserve, and the late mr. greville fennell, whose angling contributions to literature were chiefly founded upon his observations and experiences in the reaches between henley and pangbourne, gave it at one time a first place on the list of good perch waters. but cosmopolitan as the perch may be in its character, habits, and haunts, it is more difficult to rear than many other of the summer spawners, and the peculiar manner in which it hangs its eggs in festoons around the roots and branches beneath water, renders it an easy victim to the rough usages of swiftly-passing traffic. shiplake hole, and the "tails" (as the fishermen term them) of all the islands mentioned in this chapter, are still favourite places for perch during the winter time, when the steam-launches are in dry dock, though the quality and quantity of the well-beloved zebra of the fresh water have unfortunately declined in the thames. the carp family thrive, as ever they did, and in some years are caught in unusually large numbers, rejoicing the hearts of the professional fishermen who have languished for want of customers through a series of depressing fishing seasons. the head of the family is very rarely taken in the thames proper. some carp, however, are found in the cherwell, and by accident, at very rare intervals, solitary specimens are caught in the thames itself. but these are the accidental wanderers; exceptions proving the rule. bream are more plentiful, but the most prolific of all are chub, roach, dace, and gudgeon. the popularity to which the canadian canoe has risen on the thames is not a little due to the adaptability of the light and elegant boat for chub-fishing. regulating the drifting of the canoe with one hand, the operator, armed with a suitably short and supple fly-rod, drops down some fifteen yards distant from the overhanging willow-bushes, from under whose branches, close to the loamy or gravelly bank, a lightly-dropped fly of large dimensions will, in the calm of a july or august eventide, seduce the great bronze-coloured "chevin" to its fate, while, in the winter time, artful concoctions of cheese-paste, and other gross baits, directed down stream by a long nottingham line and the familiar float tackle, will be equally efficacious in the formation of a bag. roach and dace-fishing, the simplest of angling practices, as conducted from the comfortable floor and chair of a thames punt, continues to be, as of yore, the most familiar form of the contemplative man's recreation for the average citizen. in the mysteries of fly-fishing, and the ingenious devices invented for betraying the fishes that follow spinning-baits of all descriptions, improvements real and so-called are continually announced, but no change seems to have been suggested for many years in the ancient methods adopted on the royal river for the capture of barbel by ledgering, and roach and dace by ground-baiting, plumbing, and thames punt-tackle. angling in the thames is a source of untold delight and innocent enjoyment for tens of thousands of persons every year, and long may the day be postponed when the modest privileges of the london anglers, whose opportunities are limited, and whose ambition in the matter of sport is easily satisfied, are reduced or interfered with. the deeper pool across the river, near the flour-mill at marsh lock, used to be a favourite resort of those anglers who pursued their sport from a boat; and the bank from the paper-mill towards henley witnesses many an exercise of patience from the youthful waltonian. the utilitarian spirit which has rendered necessary the hideous iron weir above the mill, and which is step by step destroying so many of the gems of thames scenery, has, however, built a black barricade from the miller's boat-house to the head of the eyot, completely cutting off the communication by water with the further bank. the stream below is narrowed by the two islands in the middle of the channel, and rendered busy by that constant traffic of pleasure-boats which is inevitable in proximity to such towns as henley and reading. during the last quarter of a mile the familiar buildings and substantial bridge of henley have opened to view, and we conclude the voyage to this stage amidst the bustle of boats and boatmen, and a parting glance at the head of isis as chiselled by the hon. mrs. damer. water-plants are entwined around the face, which aptly looks in the direction of the river's source. /william senior/. [illustration: henley regatta. (_from an instantaneous photograph._)] chapter v. henley to maidenhead. the best bit of the river--henley--the church--the "red lion"--shenstone's lines--henley regatta--the first university boat-race--fawley court--remenham--hambledon lock--medmenham abbey and the franciscans--dissolution of the order--hurley--lady place and its history--a strange presentiment--bisham abbey and its ghost--bisham church--great marlow--the church and its curiosities--"puppy pie"--quarry woods--the thames swans and the vintners' company--cookham and cliefden--hedsor--cliefden woods--the house--raymead--the approach to maidenhead. notwithstanding the old proverb concerning comparisons, we may venture to assert of this section of the thames that it is the richest in natural beauties. though there are spots on the upper part of the river which individually can hold their own with any, there will nowhere be found such a succession of exquisite views of noble reaches of water, of wooded bluffs and slopes, of green meadows and tree-covered islands, of old villages and stately or ancient mansions. there is, of course, nothing between henley and maidenhead which can rival the grand grouping of windsor castle on its wooded eminence, or the formal magnificence of hampton court; neither can the gardens of kew, or the park on richmond hill, be equalled by anything on this part of the thames; still, it affords us such a series of beautiful views of meadows, woods, and buildings that only between richmond and kew can we be induced to hesitate in awarding the palm to the portion of the river which is the subject of this chapter. at henley-on-thames we are on the border of oxfordshire. from its bridge we obtain not the least striking of the views to which we have alluded. the wider expanse of the upper valley contracts a little as the stream approaches the base of remenham hill, whose wooded slopes descend to the neighbourhood of the water. the thames is deflected slightly towards the left as it commences the curve, in which, a mile or so farther down, it sweeps round the base of the long shelving spur which forms the northern termination of remenham. on the oxfordshire side the ground rises more gradually, but perceptibly, from the river bank. just where the valley is narrowest is the site of henley. a little farther down the hills recede on this side, and a fertile strath intervenes between their base and the water's edge. henley is an old town--indeed, plot claims for it the distinction of being the oldest town in oxfordshire--but it makes little figure in history. a conflict between the royal and the parliamentary troops in the "great rebellion" is almost the only stirring incident which it has witnessed. moreover, it has retained fewer relics of ancient days than many places of more modern date. even its church, which is well situated in the neighbourhood of the river, is not a building of unusual antiquity. the greater part of the fabric is in the perpendicular style. the tower is even younger, and is said to have been erected by cardinal wolsey, so that it belongs to the latest period of tudor work. several of the windows have been filled with modern stained-glass, and the interior has been carefully restored, so that the church is not unworthy of its position. some of the monuments have a certain interest, though no great historical personages have found a grave here. one commemorates richard jennings, "master builder of st. paul's cathedral"; another, jack ogle, an almost forgotten humorist of the days of the restoration; a third, the widow of sir godfrey kneller; and a fourth, general dumouriez, who ended an eventful life at turville park, in this neighbourhood. he was one of those unlucky men who have the misfortune to be too rational for the age in which they were born. a distinguished soldier even in his youth--for by the time he was four-and-twenty he had been wounded almost as many times--he fell under court displeasure for his liberal opinions. these the bastille did not eradicate, so that he afterwards became a member of the jacobin club. but though he had striven and suffered for freedom, though he had headed the troops of the directory in a successful campaign in belgium, he was too moderate in his views to satisfy the fanatics of the revolution, and, to save his own life, was obliged to put himself into the hands of the austrians. at last he came to england, where he lived for nearly twenty years the unobtrusive life of a man of letters. though henley has not retained any of the picturesque mansions of olden time, there are several houses, dating from various parts of the last century, which will repay rather more than a passing glance; and the town, as seen from the river bridge, is not without a certain beauty. while these hanoverian mansions do not afford us the charm of the varied outline and picturesque grouping--the light and shadow--of mediæval buildings, there is a certain stateliness in their strong-built walls and formal rows of windows; and the rich red of their brick façades, especially when relieved by the green tendrils or the bright flowers of climbing plants, is not without its attractions from its warmth of colour. of these mansions--for they are almost worthy of the name--henley contains some good examples; and some bow-windowed houses, perhaps of slightly earlier date, are in pleasant contrast with their stiffer outlines, and give variety to the domestic architecture. the berkshire side of the river also is not without its contingent of attractive residences. on the higher ground are two or three handsome mansions; at the bottom of the slope are many pretty villas--all modern. the bridge itself, a five-arched stone structure, is by no means the least adornment of the town. it, too, is a work of the last century, being built about the year 1787, from the design of mr. hayward, a shropshire architect. he died during the progress of the work, and greatly desired, it is said, to be buried beneath the centre arch of the bridge. this singular place of sepulture--almost rivalling that of alaric--was out of harmony with the spirit of the age, so, as the next best thing, they buried him in the neighbouring churchyard, and set up a fine monument to his memory. close by the bridge is the "red lion" inn, a hostel of note now, as it has been for long years past; for on a pane in one of its windows shenstone wrote the well-known lines.- "whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, where'er his stages may have been, may sigh to think that he has found his warmest welcome at an inn." a sentiment which, though perhaps not very complimentary to english hospitality--or indeed to any hospitality, as the author obviously does not limit himself to our own island--has been endorsed, as boswell tells us, by dr. johnson, who also, in his time, made trial of the "red lion." at any rate, shenstone would have written more guardedly if he had been welcomed by the clerk at the counter of one of the great american hotels. an interview between one of these gentry and dr. johnson would make a good subject for an "imaginary conversation," except, perhaps, that it would be too brief. [illustration: henley, from the towing-path.] [illustration: regatta island.] henley is generally a quiet enough town, though the increasing fondness for river-side amusements gives to it a certain briskness through all the summer-time; but it has one epoch of thrilling excitement, one brief period of dense crowd and ceaseless bustle, in the early part of july, at the time of its regatta. if the universities' race between putney and mortlake is the aquatic derby, henley races are the goodwood meeting of the thames. the inns, the lodgings, the private houses, are full of visitors; house-boats are moored on the river, tents pitched in the meadows for those who enjoy the delights of camping out, excursion trains disgorge their thousands, boats of every description bring their contingents from various localities up and down stream. the "fair mile," the famed approach to the town on the oxford road--the special pride of henley--has no rest from the stream of passing vehicles, and its trees are powdered with their dust; the streets, the meadows, the bridge, every "coign of vantage," are crowded; the usual itinerant accompaniments of an outdoor festivity are there in abundance, and the whole place is noisy with passing vehicles, shouting throngs, vendors of "c'rect cards," and other wares. the course is rather less than a mile and a half in length, from an "ait" below fawley court, which bears the name of regatta island, to the bridge. so the town itself becomes the theatre in which the interest of the aquatic drama is concentrated. the banks may be said to blossom with artificial colours, for as it is summer-time the "bright day brings forth," not the serpent, but the daughters of eve in their smartest dresses and their most brilliant of parasols. beauty and fashion are there, for a day or two at henley make a pleasant change in the london season, when its gaieties begin to pall a little, and the streets of the metropolis are at a july temperature. here may be seen subtler harmonies and the delicate blendings of tints that indicate the handiwork of some mistress of the art of dress; there the more glaring colours and gaudier contrasts that mark the efforts of the shorter purse and inferior taste; but even to these distance lends enchantment, and all unite to form a variegated border to the river and make a flower-bed of the meadows. the men, too, don brighter colours than is their wont, for boating uniforms are in the ascendant. the river is alive with craft of all kinds--skiffs and dingies, tubs and boats of every degree--and the officials find it no easy task to clear the course for each race. the interest is not, as at putney, concentrated on a single contest; the "events" are many, the chief, perhaps, being the ladies' plate, the grand challenge cup, and the diamond sculls. these also are not settled in a single race; usually there are two or three heats, in order to reduce the number of competitors, before the final struggle. the interest of the henley contests also affects a wider circle than the inter-university race. the colleges of oxford and cambridge, which have taken the lead on the isis or the cam in the annual races, send their representative "eights" or "fours," the best oarsmen of the london clubs put in an appearance, and one or two of our public schools now commonly send a boat, and not seldom carry off a trophy from henley. thus these races have a special interest for fathers and mothers, for "sisters, cousins, and aunts;" and a visit to henley is not without its attraction for those by whom the good things of this life are held in esteem, for luncheons and various comforts for the inner man--and woman--are by no means forgotten. we may recall to mind in passing that the course at henley was the scene of the first aquatic contest between the universities of oxford and cambridge. it took place at the beginning of the long vacation, on the 10th of june, 1829, late in the afternoon. contrary to expectation oxford was victorious. the race of course was rowed in the old-fashioned heavy boats, without outriggers, which were then termed "very handsome, and wrought in a superior style of workmanship.... the oxford crew appeared in their blue-check dress, the cambridge in white with pink waistbands. some members of the crews on both sides afterwards became men of mark; four of them have risen to high positions in the church. in the oxford boat rowed w. r. fremantle, now dean of ripon, and christopher wordsworth, the venerable bishop of st. andrews. in the cambridge boat rowed merivale, the historian of rome, who is now dean of ely, and george augustus selwyn, the first missionary bishop of new zealand, who after years of arduous labour in that distant field of christian enterprise was transferred to the bishopric of lichfield. there he laboured earnestly at work not less in amount, and more exhausting in nature, than that of the colonial mission-field, till he was called away to his rest." on the berkshire side of the bridge at henley a road climbs the steep slope, which may well be followed by any who desire to obtain a wider view of the neighbourhood--stately trees, grassy slopes, now and again a villa with its garden, brighten the nearer distance; below lie the valley and the town. in one place the bank by the road-side is steep and broken, the red soil contrasting pleasantly with the rich green of the foliage. there is a walk also at the base of the hill, which should not be forgotten, where the path leads along a level strip of meadow, dappled in the spring season with innumerable flowers, to the little church of remenham, with its remnants of norman work, its exceptionally pretty lych-gate, and its carved porch. its situation, with the river on one side and the wooded slopes on the other, is not the least picturesque in the valley of the thames. on the meadows below henley, and on the left bank of the thames, is fawley court, a mansion built by sir christopher wren, but subsequently enlarged. the grounds extend from road to river, and their fine aged trees enhance greatly the beauty of this reach of the thames. the present house occupies the site of an old manor-house, which was plundered by the royalist troops at the outbreak of the civil war. the owner, bulstrode whitelock, has left on record a pitiful account of the wanton ravages committed by the troopers. they consumed, or wasted, a great store of corn and hay; they tore up or burnt his books and papers, many of them of great value; they broke up his trunks and chests, stole whatever they could transport of his household goods, and destroyed the rest; they carried off his horses and his hounds, killed or let loose his deer, and broke down his park palings--"in a word, they did all the mischief and spoil that malice and enmity could provoke barbarian mercenaries to commit." we have heard often of the devastation wrought by the roundheads; it is well to remember that the cavaliers were by no means guiltless. remenham village, with its little church, already mentioned, nestles below the slope opposite to fawley court, and lower down, on the buckinghamshire side (for we have now crossed the county boundary), comes greenland house, opposite to where the thames makes its sharpest bend. this fared even worse in those unquiet times. about two years later than the incident just related it stood a siege of six months, when it was held by the royalists against their opponents, and did not capitulate till it was almost knocked to pieces. some traces of the works raised during the siege still remain, and when the house was enlarged, about a quarter of a century since, quite a crop of cannon-balls was dug up. [illustration: fawley court.] sweeping round the eastern side of the berkshire slopes the thames is checked by hambledon lock and its islands--well known to fishermen, the reach above being noted for pike--by aston ferry, where the river begins to strike out into the more open part of the valley, by culham court and the islands below, till it approaches a place well known to the pleasure-seekers of the present day as a sort of half-way house between henley and marlow, and as the fittest site for a picnic. pleasantly situated on the level meadows in the valley on the berkshire side, and backed by the wooded uplands which are now some little distance from the river, is medmenham abbey, a place of more note since its suppression than in earlier times. the convent was founded not long after the norman conquest, when the owner of the manor bestowed it on the abbey of woburn, in buckinghamshire, which he had recently founded, for the endowment of a separate but subsidiary house. medmenham does not appear ever to have become wealthy, and never made any figure in history, except that the abbot was epistolar of the order of the garter, a distinction which one would not have anticipated for a place so humble. the report of the commissioners at the time of the suppression of the monasteries is curiously negative. it had at that time only two monks, "servants none--wood none--debts none--bells, &c., worth 2l. 1s. 8d. the house wholly in ruins, and the value of the moveable goods only 1l. 3s. 8d." a poor piece of plunder, certainly. [illustration: aston ferry.] as this statement would lead us to suppose, not much of the original conventual buildings now remain. even of those parts which bear an ancient aspect, some are only imitations of the last century, when medmenham enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity. at that time the abbey, which after the suppression of the monasteries had been converted into a dwelling-house, was the property of francis dashwood, lord le despencer. he determined to found a society, which was called after his first name--the franciscan order. it was, however, anything but an order of poverty. the number was twelve, in imitation of a band to which these men were the most opposite possible, for the old latin lines- "exue franciscum tunicâ laceroque cucullo qui franciscus erat, jam tibi christus erit" --are the very last one would think of applying to this order of debauchery. great mystery was observed; the workmen who prepared the building were brought down from london, secluded as far as possible from any communication with the people of the neighbourhood, and then conveyed back as mysteriously as they had come. very few servants were kept in the "abbey," and these were not allowed to wander beyond the monastic precincts, or to hold any intercourse with the neighbouring villagers. still, though there were no penny papers or "own correspondents" in those days, though "interviewers" and "special commissioners" had not been invented, some rumours got abroad as to the sayings and doings of the new fraternity. it is to be hoped that they were exaggerated, that the author of "chrysal" has over-coloured the picture; but that these franciscans carried out to the full the rabelaisian motto, "fay ce que voudras," inscribed over their portal, there can be little doubt. their rites and ceremonies appear to have been profane parodies of those of their predecessors, their lives in keeping with their religion. among the band were numbered the earl of sandwich, bubb dodington, wilkes, and churchill. society seems to have been rather scandalised, but we do not read that the franciscans suffered any social penalty. happily, after a time the order was dissolved, under what circumstances it is not exactly known. one version, perhaps legendary, is that a disappointed member secreted a large monkey in a chest in the hall prior to one of their great festivals. at a particular stage of the ceremonies there was an invocation to the evil one. at this moment the treacherous monk pulled a string and lifted the lid; pug sprang upon the table, and then leaped through the open window. the revellers, mistaking their kinsman for their master, thought matters were getting serious, and so held no more merry meetings. [illustration: medmenham abbey.] [illustration: below medmenham.] the house is at present a pleasantly situated inn, with farm buildings attached; ivy mantles picturesquely some of the old walls, and the tower, an "antique" of the last century, looks well when not too closely examined. fine aged trees add greatly to the beauty of the place. the village lies back from the river at the foot of the bluffs, and is reached by a lane, bordered by some of the old-fashioned free-growing hedges which, though not much favoured by modern farmers, are such a delight to the wayfarer. of the many sequestered spots in the valley of the thames, medmenham village is by no means the least attractive. a wooded slope rises steeply at its back, the little church is half buried among trees, its cottage gardens are bright with flowers, and more than one of the buildings is ancient and picturesque. a farmhouse on the upland above is said to be the successor of one which occupied the site some eight centuries since, and there is an old-world air about the whole place, as though generation after generation of its simple inhabitants had lived and died, apart from the turmoil of the outer world; hearing of stirring events, of battles, of changes of government, even of the dethronement of kings, and of civil strife, as of things which altered but little the even tenor of their lives, and only came home to them when, like bad seasons, they raised prices or lowered wages. in such places generation follows generation with little note of change. the son grows up to manhood, and lives as his father did before him; takes his place on the farm when the old man retires, first to his easy-chair by the fireside in winter, and at the cottage door in summer, and then to his long resting-place in the churchyard; the young man, in his turn, becomes the father of sturdy boys, begins to stoop a little, and to show the signs of advancing years, till at last he too sinks down into the "lean and slippered pantaloon," and then follows his forefathers to the silent land. these quiet days now seem nearly ended for our country--machinery, steam, electricity, have so quickened the pulse in all the great centres of national life that there is a responsive thrilling of the nerves even in the most remote extremities. the old order has changed, yielding place to new. we have gained much, but we have lost something, and can appreciate, from their increasing rarity, the calm of these little nooks and corners of england, where the scream of the steam-whistle, or the bellow of the "siren," does not scarify the ears; where the voice of the costermonger is not heard in the land, and no excursion train disgorges a crowd of noisy revellers; where factory chimneys do not blacken the air, nor heaps of chemical refuse disseminate their fetid odours. below medmenham some more islands vary the course of the thames, and on the high ground upon the left bank is danesfield. woods surround the house and clothe the slope. here flourish holly, box, and yew--trees, it is believed, of indigenous growth; descendants, very probably, of those which covered all the uplands, when men were few in england, and many a mile of unbroken forest separated the scattered settlements. a curious relic is said to be preserved in the house--a withered human hand, which was discovered among the ruins of reading abbey. this is believed to be identical with the supposed hand of st. james the apostle, presented to that establishment by henry i. [illustration: bisham abbey.] hurley comes next, with its islands and locks, interrupting the even tenor of the river, with harleyford house, backed by sloping woods, on the opposite shore. hurley is another old-world place, for it too carries back its history to the days of the conqueror, when a convent was founded here. a former writer on the thames makes this a text for some sarcastic remarks:--"the fascinating scenery of this neighbourhood has peculiarly attracted the notice of the clergy of former periods, who, in spite of the thorny and crooked ways which they have asserted to be the surest road to heaven, have been careful to select some flowery paths for their own private journeyings thither; among which ranks hurley, or lady place, formerly a monastery." this was founded by geoffry de mandeville, a comrade of william the norman on the field of hastings, to whom fell a share of the plunder of england. parts of the church belong to that which he erected, and within its walls edith, wife of edward the confessor, was buried. a group of farm buildings still incorporates portions of the ancient monastery, the chief one being the refectory. but the house called lady place, which once occupied another part, has a more important position in history than ever belonged to the benedictine convent, which, perhaps, was somewhat thrown into the shade by its annexation to the great abbey of westminster. after the dissolution the site of the monastery of hurley was purchased from the family to which it had first been granted by richard lovelace, who had been a companion of drake on one of his expeditions. he built a fine house "out of the spoils of spanish galleons from the indies," and this, in the year 1688, was the property of his descendant richard, lord lovelace. "beneath the stately saloon, adorned by italian pencils, was a subterranean vault, in which the bones of ancient monks had sometimes been found. in this dark chamber some zealous and daring opponents of the government held many midnight conferences during that anxious time when england was impatiently expecting the protestant wind."[4] in acknowledgment of this the house was afterwards visited by william iii. the lovelace title became extinct in the year 1736, and lady place passed into other hands. the purchaser was "mrs. williams, sister to dr. wilcox, who was bishop of rochester about the middle of the last century. this lady was enabled to make the purchase by a very remarkable instance of good fortune. she had bought two tickets in one lottery, both of which became prizes, the one of £500, the other of £20,000." the last person to live at lady place was a brother of admiral kempenfelt. concerning him a curious story is told in murray's handbook. the brothers had each planted a thorn-tree, in which the owner of lady place took great pride. "one day, on coming home, he found that the tree planted by the admiral had withered away, and said, 'i feel sure that this is an omen that my brother is dead.' that evening came the news of the loss of the _royal george_." the house, which contained a fine inlaid staircase and a grand saloon, its panels "painted with upright landscapes, the leafings of which are executed with a kind of silver lacker," was pulled down and the more valuable part sold in the year 1839; but grass-grown mounds mark the site of the historic vaults; and the old cedars and other fine trees in the enclosed meadows are memorials of its former splendour. [illustration: bisham church.] bisham comes next, a spot of rare attractions. between the wooded hills and the river there is a broad and fertile strath, the very place on which, in ancient times, monks "most did congregate." accordingly they soon got hold of a goodly estate at bisham, and that grey old manor-house standing among groves of stately trees some little distance from the thames marks the site, first of a house of the templars, then of an augustinian priory. the latter had about two centuries of tranquil existence, for it was founded in the year 1338, by william montacute, earl of salisbury. the last prior submitted to the change, adopted the tenets of the reformers, and became bishop of st. davids. moreover, he took to himself a wife, who bore him five daughters, each one of whom had a bishop for her husband. his memory is not held in great honour in the annals of st. davids, for he cared more for money than for the good of the see. after bisham passed into the hands of secular owners it becomes better known to history. henry viii. made a present of it to his discarded spouse, anne of cleves, and she, by royal permission, exchanged it with sir philip hoby for a manor in kent. he was the last englishman who was legate to the pope at rome, and, like many others of his nation, never left the place alive. his brother, sir thomas, who succeeded to the estate, was ambassador to france, and he also died abroad. in queen mary's time the princess elizabeth was committed to his charge, and she spent a considerable time within the walls of bisham. what she thought of the place and of her keeper may be inferred from a graceful compliment which she paid him on his first appearance at court after her accession. "if i had a prisoner whom i wanted to be most carefully watched, i should intrust him to your charge; if i had a prisoner whom i wished to be most tenderly treated, i should intrust him to your care." the house, which now belongs to the vansittart family, is a picturesque old structure of grey stone, with pointed gables, mullioned windows, and a low tower; portions of it, for instance, the tower and the hall--once part of the convent chapel--are remnants of montacute's abbey; but the larger portion of the building is later than the date of the suppression of the religious orders, most of it being late tudor work, due to the hoby family. bisham is said to have its ghost. lady hoby, wife of sir william, "walks" in one of the bedrooms, appearing as the duplicate, in opposite tints, of a portrait which hangs in the hall, and engaged in "washing her hands with invisible soap in imperceptible water," in a basin which, self-supported, moves on before her. this is the cause which disturbs her rest: "she had a child william, who, being a careless or clumsy urchin, kept always blotting his copy-book; so the mother did not spare the rod, and spoiled the child in a physical sense, for she whipped master william till he died." the author of "murray's guide-book to berkshire" states, as a curious coincidence, if not a corroboration of the story, that on altering the shutter of a window "a quantity of children's copy-books of the reign of elizabeth were discovered pushed into the rubble between the joists of the floor, and that one of these was a copy-book which answered exactly to the story, as if the child could not write a single line without a blot." bisham has also its secret chamber, an indication that it was built when political struggles had their real perils. bisham priory in former days--perhaps owing to its connection with the montacutes, earls of salisbury--was the burial-place of several distinguished men, whose monuments once adorned the priory chapel, but have disappeared since it became a dwelling-place. the following list of such interments is testimony to the perilous life led by the aristocracy of those days:--"thomas, earl of salisbury, who died at the siege of orleans in 1428; richard neville, earl of salisbury and warwick, beheaded at york in 1460; richard neville, 'the king-maker,' killed at the battle of barnet, 1470; his brother john, marquis of montague, killed at the same battle; and edward plantagenet, son of the duke of clarence, beheaded in 1499, for attempting to escape from confinement." "the paths of glory lead but to the grave" was a true saying in the days of old. between the foeman's sword on the one hand and the headsman's axe on the other, a goodly proportion of our nobility came to untimely ends. the hobys rest in the parish church. this is beautifully situated close to the riverside. grand old trees cast their shadows on its graveyard and overhang the walk by the brink of the thames. the grass-grown plot studded with graves is almost merged with the trim garden of the rectory, the flowers in which brighten the view and pleasantly vary the greens of the foliage and of the grassy meadows. these, too, are bright enough in spring-time, when they are dappled with its golden flowers, before the taller herbage of summer has begun to wave in the soft wind. the tower of bisham church--the part most conspicuous from the river--is of very early date--a rude and rather curious piece of norman work, which may be older than the days of stephen, when the templars first came to bisham. the body of the church is also picturesque, but it has been so greatly restored--even to rebuilding--of late years that it is no easy task to separate old from new. at the present time its most interesting features are some of the monuments of the hoby family, especially those to the two brothers mentioned above. the widow of the second brother, thomas, had the bodies of both brought back to england for burial at bisham; and being a lady learned even for those days, when people did not, as in later times, suppose that a woman made the better wife for being as ignorant as a scullery-maid, she wrote them an epitaph in three languages. the concluding lines on her husband's monument appear to express a willingness, under certain circumstances, to be consoled even for the loss of such a paragon:- "give me, o god! a husband like unto thomas, or else restore to me my husband thomas!" she seems to have considered that the first part of her prayer was granted, as the second could hardly be expected, for before the year was out she married sir thomas russell. but on the whole the interior of bisham church will not detain the visitor for long; he will care rather to linger in the churchyard and its neighbourhood. it is pleasant to pass up and down by the riverside under the shadow of the trees, to gaze upon the noble sweep of the thames, and over its fertile valley plain, to seek some quiet spot which commands a view of the grey walls of bisham priory and the beautiful trees in its park. even the village is in keeping with the rest of the scene, and is brighter and prettier than is usual, and this is saying much; for though, as a rule, english cottages cannot compare in picturesqueness with many that we see on the other side of the channel, the frequent poverty and monotony of their design is often atoned for by the creepers which blossom profusely on the walls, and the flowers which make the strip of ground in front one living posy. but in bisham not a few of the cottages are picturesque. for some reason or other, partly, perhaps, owing to the absence of mechanical industries, the towns of the south and west of england are commonly, and the villages almost always, more attractive than in the north, and this disparity, as regards the latter, becomes still more marked when we cross the border; for a scotch village often attains to the extreme limit of dreary ugliness. [illustration: great marlow, from quarry woods.] turning aside from the woods of bisham and sweeping away yet farther into the broad valley plain, the stream of the thames brings us to the quiet market-town of great marlow. a suspension bridge crosses the river, and the gardens and houses on either side afford many scenes of quiet and homelike beauty. just below it are a weir and a mill, not without a certain picturesqueness; and from a distance the spire of the church, rising from among groups of trees, enhances the attraction of the scene. in this little buckinghamshire town, before the railway approached its outskirts, life must have passed peacefully, not to say sleepily; and even now, as it lies off the main line, it does not strike us as a place for over-stimulation of the nervous system. the river, during a considerable part of the year, would still be almost as fit a scene for a poet's musing as it was when shelley resided in the town, and wrote the "revolt of islam," spending much of his time dreamily floating in a boat upon the thames. the most conspicuous feature in great marlow, as has been already said, is its church, which stands near to the river and the bridge. unfortunately, it is one of those where "distance lends enchantment to the view." the present building was erected in the year 1835, on the site of an older one. whatever this may have been, it could hardly have been so ugly as the present structure. the style may be called gothic--that is to say, the architect had in his mind some of the english parish churches of the thirteenth or fourteenth century; but it is the gothic of what we may call the pre-victorian revival, and about as like what it supposed to imitate as the "english as she is spoke" of the ingenious portuguese is to our mother-tongue. efforts have been made, and we believe will continue to be made, to improve it. for instance, the church was constructed for galleries; these have been pulled down--at some inconvenience, we should think, if a fair proportion of the population goes to church; and the interior has been divided by means of the usual arches into a nave and aisle. these, as they come to an end before they reach the roof, have at present a rather forlorn aspect, and, as there is no particular merit in their design, scarcely justify their existence. it is intended, we are informed, to rebuild the whole structure piecemeal; but as the original fabric appears to be in no danger of premature decay, it is a question whether it would not have been better to accept its ugliness, and employ the very large sum which must be expended before the work can be completed for other and more directly useful purposes. the church, however, is not wholly without interest, as it contains one or two "curiosities." of these, one is a portrait of the "spotted boy," the work of coventry, in 1811. the lad was one of richardson's "exhibits," and died at great marlow. he was a negro, but was mottled with white patches on body and hair--as if he had been imperfectly operated on with soap after the manner of the advertising placards. in fact, he was a parallel example in the human race to barnum's famous white elephant. the picture might by some be deemed more appropriate to the walls of madame tussaud's galleries than to those of a church; nevertheless, so long as it is there, it should be hung where it can be seen. at the present time, the removal of the gallery staircase has resulted in "skying" it most effectually. a good instance of modern mediæval absurdity may be seen in a monumental brass erected to the memory of a lady who died so recently as 1842; for in the inscription the words _charitie_ and _mercie_ occur as written. more interesting, and in its way quaint, is the monument to a doughty englishman, sir myles hobart, who once represented great marlow in parliament. he was a steadfast opponent of the court party in the troublous days before the great rebellion, and, on one occasion, with his own hands locked the door of the house during the reading of a protest against certain illegal taxes. for this he was, of course, imprisoned; but it is pleasant to read that the long parliament voted a considerable sum to his family as an acknowledgment of his services and a compensation for his sufferings. a bas-relief indicates the manner of his death, which was the result of an accident. his horses ran away down holborn hill, upsetting the coach, and fatally injuring their master. great marlow is in truth a town of unusual antiquity, for it is heard of before the norman conquest; but an old monastic barn by the bridge, and some fragments of an ancient building in the town, which is called the deanery, are all that remain from mediæval times. of the latter, the most conspicuous remnants are two windows, with tracery of a rather flamboyant character, which are incorporated into an old house, now undergoing "restoration." in short, the lions of the town will not long detain the traveller, although he will be tempted to look rather longingly at some of its substantial houses, with their bright and pleasant flower-gardens. [illustration: henley to maidenhead.] there is a circumstance connected with great marlow, beneath the dignity of history indeed, which, however, as we are writing of the thames, must not be passed over in silence. in former days--and perhaps still, for we do not wish to make experimental proof--the simple and apparently purposeless question, "who ate the puppy pie under marlow bridge?" sufficed to throw the bargee of the thames into a state of mind which could only find adequate expression in words which more than bordered on profanity. the venom rankling in the taunt is thus explained:--the landlord of the inn at medmenham had received private information that certain bargemen meditated that night a foray on his larder. he was a humorous man, who had just drowned a litter of young puppies. so he had their corpses baked in a pie, which he placed in the larder, and did not sit up to keep guard. the larder was robbed, the pie was carried off and conveyed to marlow bridge, where the plunderers feasted, as they supposed, on young rabbits. [illustration: a picnic at quarry woods.] below the weir, where the thames is parted by willow-covered islands, are some pleasant nooks for the artist who loves riverside scenery, and quiet spots where he may pursue his work without the presence of a small circle of gaping bystanders. brothers of the angle also find much employment near marlow, as the fishing is noted. taunt, in his useful little "guide to the thames," tells us that he saw a trout weighing eight pounds, which had just been caught near quarry woods, and that in the hostel called the "anglers" is one stuffed, which is reputed to be the largest that has been taken in the thames. from great marlow weir and locks the thames sweeps back through level meadows to the foot of quarry woods. there is now a pleasant diversity in the scenery. on the left the level plain continues, over which we glance backwards to the spire and houses and trees of great marlow, and sideways for a longer distance to where the grey, stumpy tower of little marlow is almost concealed by foliage. but on the right bank the steep wooded slope of the ancient valley which runs at the back of the groves of bisham is now approached by the thames, whose stream for a time hugs the foot of the declivity, and gives us a foretaste of what is to come at cliefden. at one place the dense woodland is interrupted by a pretty cottage, and an old chalk-pit has been utilised as a part of its garden. a pleasant retreat this would be from the time when the woods begin to brighten with the first buds of spring until they are dappled with the many tints of the dying foliage of autumn. but these nooks and corners by the thames are no longer, as they would have been a generation since, suited for the abode of an anchorite. all through the summer day there is now little solitude to be found on this part of the river. boats laden with pleasure-seekers pass and repass--from skiffs and dinghies to steam-launches and house-boats--and there are not seldom obvious signs of londoners at play. still, there are quiet, dreamy hours when all the charm of the scene can be enjoyed--most of all in the earlier months, when the flowers are at their brightest, and the verdure is at its freshest; when the dweller in the city is still tied down by duty or by the desire of gain to the crowded streets, and must be content with extensive views of chimney-pots. [illustration: a group of swans. (_from an instantaneous photograph._)] after a time the river once more deserts the shadows of the wooded slopes and strikes out again into the open plain. a reach begins when the islands are passed, pleasant when the wind is favourable to those who love sailing. the surface of the water lies open to the breeze, and from bank to bank it is a little wider than usual. in other respects the scene, after the beauty of the last stage, becomes a little monotonous. the chalk downs have receded and their slope has diminished on the right; on the left they are still distant. there are but few trees by the river bank, and the meadows on either side are level and uninteresting; even the embankment of the railway, which we are now approaching, is a prominent and not attractive feature in the landscape. the bridge, however, for a railway bridge, is not unpleasing; and when we have left behind both it and some works on the nearer side the scene once more brightens. just inland is bourne end station, where the branch line from great marlow joins that which runs from maidenhead to high wycombe and thame. no one can journey a mile or two along the thames without noticing the swans, which add so much to the beauty of the royal river, as they "float double, swan and shadow," on some quiet pool, or come ruffling up towards some passing skiff, in defence of their young. a sheet of water is hardly complete as a picture without some swans floating upon it. white specks in the distance, forms of exquisite grace and purity of colour in the foreground, they give a harmony to the composition and add to the scene the interest of life. the moorhen and coot are too inconspicuous as they lurk under the reeds, or swim hurriedly across the open water. the swallow and the kingfisher, brilliant though the plumage of the latter, dart too swiftly by to produce any lasting impression on the mind; but the swan sails slowly along, and lingers here and there, in harmony with the traveller, who is seeking only to drink his fill of nature's charms. the abundance of swans on the thames is due to the fact that they are carefully tended. they are not to be reckoned among _feræ naturæ_; indeed, though other species are chance visitors, the "mute swan" is never, strictly speaking, a wild bird in england; but they are private property, the dyers' and the vintners' companies being among the principal owners. keepers are appointed to look after them, especially in the building season, when they are in some danger from predaceous animals, and more from predaceous persons. still, they can take pretty good care of themselves, for the cock bird is very fierce in defence of his nest or young, and can deal formidable blows with his pinions, although, if he has succeeded in breaking a limb, as popular report asserts, the sufferer's bones must have been rather weak. the nests are generally built on the "aits," where the osier beds afford a quiet retreat and a good foundation for the capacious structure. this is constructed roughly of twigs and reeds, and raised some little height above the ground. in former days, when _fay ce que voudras_ was a motto adopted by city companies more easily than in the present, they used, as sole conservators of the river thames, to make an excursion annually in their barges, with all due ceremony and festivity, in order to count and mark their swans. this process was called "swan upping," corrupted generally into "swan hopping." the swans were caught and examined, sometimes not without a good deal of trouble, for a strong old cock bird did not submit himself very willingly to the physical suasion of the "swan crook." cygnets were marked on the bill with the special symbol of the company to which the parent birds belonged. the vintners' company mark was two nicks, whence, by a slight corruption, came the curious inn-sign of the "swan with two necks." "swan upping" began on the monday after st. peter's day, just at the time when a water excursion would be most pleasant, in the full warmth of summer, and before all the spring brightness had passed away from the foliage. at an earlier date the birds appear to have been regarded as royal property; and in hone's "every-day book," under the heading of july 12, is the reprint of a curious tract published in 1570, entitled, "the order for swannes." it is here enacted that all private owners must compound with the king's majesty for the right to use a mark; while penalties, commonly fines of thirteen shillings and fourpence, were inflicted for stealing the eggs, for unlawful carrying of swan-hooks, and the like; but the erasure or counterfeiting of marks entailed a heavier fine and a year's imprisonment. abney house, below the bridge, is one of those places by the river which must often set the wayfarer coveting, in despite of the decalogue. climbing plants of many kinds mantle with flowers and with leaves, large and small, the verandas and walls of the house; and their green foliage is in pleasant contrast with its red-coloured bricks. the smooth-cut lawns are green even in the hottest season, and are interspersed with living bouquets of bright-coloured flowers. the shrubberies are adorned and the lawns are shaded with many a rare tree, such as cedars and conifers of diverse kind, which by the side of the english river call up memories of their distant homes in far-off lands. the woods of cliefden are now in view in front of us on the right, and henceforth remain a conspicuous feature in the landscape, though it is yet some time before our boat will be gliding along in the silence of their shadows. there is a pleasant reach below the bourne end bridge, during which the views are more varied and the riverside is less monotonous than on the part which we have left above it. the willows growing by the stream are always pleasant to the eye as they whiten in the summer breeze; there are sure to be tufts of flowers here and there by the waterside, and if these be wanting we need not weary of the woods of cliefden, on the high chalk escarpments, as they stretch away inland on our left. the ivy-mantled tower of cookham begins to show in front, as we approach one of the prettiest spots on the thames. if it be summer-time, there is evidence that this opinion is held by many. there is no lack of boats on the river; here is a house-boat moored by the shore; in yonder meadow some small white tents proclaim that two or three parties are "camping out"--all being direct indications that the neighbourhood of cookham has many admirers. tent life may be all very well in fine weather, but its charms on a rainy day must be more than dubious. granted the most studious habits, granted that power of immediate concentration upon some absorbing treatise--let us say "the philosophy of the uncreated nothing"--which few possess--at any rate, in holiday time; granted a companion of great but not too provoking amiability, and yet we will undertake to say that a tent will seem, at the end of a day's steady rain, to be rather cramped quarters, and the inmate's thoughts will turn regretfully homewards. excitement may no doubt be found sometimes when the rain detects shoddy workmanship, and begins to drip upon the floor, or there is a battle with a gale of wind; but an incident of this kind, though a variety, is not always a pleasant one. below cookham bridge, a light iron structure, the river broadens out before it splits up into channels, in a way that is rather perplexing to new-comers. on the left hand is the original main channel, which takes a great bend outwards towards hedsor before curving back to pass under the shadow of the cliefden woods. then comes "the cut," with its locks--an artificial canal made to avoid the circuit and difficulties of the old channel. beyond this are the entrances to two smaller channels, one leading to odney weir, the other entering the thames some distance below cliefden house. in the neighbourhood of cookham it is often hard to say whether the foreground or the distance is more beautiful. here the ancient fabric of the church, with its ivy-clad tower, rises from its trim churchyard, surrounded with aged trees, some of them little more than huge trunks, which still retain enough vitality to support a short but thick output of branches. here is an attractive hostel by the waterside. here are the narrower arms of the river running up invitingly by the side of pleasant gardens and under the shadows of giant trees--places where the idler may linger for a long summer afternoon in some shady nook. contemplative pursuits appear to be much in favour near cookham. fishing for roach out of a punt beguiles the time, and the excitement is of the mildest form, one, probably, from which few persons, however highly strung their nerves, would be debarred. an aroma of botanic origin, but not attributable to any flowers, sometimes steals over the water, to announce that the boat, half hid among the bushes, is not untenanted, and that the occupant is a victim to the herb denounced once by an enthusiastic divine as "the gorging fiend." here is a student of books, but the volume bears a resemblance to the literature of railway stalls rather than of the academy. here is a devotee of the brush. he, at least, is at work, but in a leisurely way, as if he entered too fully into the spirit of the picture to spoil it by over-much intensity. in short, cookham is one of the prettiest, pleasantest, laziest spots that the peripatetic traveller could find within a two hours' journey from charing cross. [illustration: cookham.] cookham church, which has just been mentioned, is almost hidden by the bridge and by houses from the prettiest part of the river, though well seen higher up the stream. its low tower is partly covered with ivy; the body of the church is of various dates, the oldest part being early english. it contains several modern stained-glass windows and old monuments, especially brasses. the cook of queen eleanor, wife of henry iii.; the "master clerk of the spycery, under king harry the sixt," have their tombs within the church; a modern monument by flaxman commemorates the death by drowning of sir isaac pocock, and a bas-relief by woolner adorns the tomb of frederick walker, the well-known artist. in the distance, to the left of cliefden, and seemingly forming with it one demesne, lies hedsor park, the seat of lord boston, with its imitation castle, which would be improved, pictorially speaking, by a judiciously administered dose of dynamite. hedsor overlooks the old course of the river, but is not approached by the traveller on the thames, who has to follow the new cut, the only navigable channel. there is nothing attractive in the house, which is in the modern italian style, and is hardly worthy of the magnificent situation it occupies. the tiny church, which is within the park enclosure, and has been beautifully restored, contains some monuments of the irby family. dropmore park, with its noted pinetum and fine gardens, lies still farther back, another creation of the same reign. the house was erected and the grounds were laid out by lord grenville, at the beginning of the present century, about the time that he was prime minister. the chief point of interest about the new cut--which, as might be expected, has rather too much of the dutch canal about it to attract the traveller just fresh from cookham--is that, in making it, a number of skeletons, with swords and spears of roman workmanship, were found entombed together; indicating that these meadows had been the scene of some long-forgotten conflict. [illustration: a crowd in cookham lock.] at the lower end of the new cut we pass through a lock into the main channel of the thames, a short distance below a weir, and at the very foot of the cliefden woods. it would be difficult to find a fairer scene on any river within the limits of our island, and not easy did we take a wider range over the surface of the earth. on both sides art has been called in to the aid of nature; but that aid has been only bestowed where it is a boon. the level island on the right hand has been converted into a beautiful garden, where clusters of bright flowers stud the greenest of lawns, and trees from distant lands are mingled with those of native growth. on the opposite shore the hand of the gardener is less conspicuous, and his art, though the more subtle, has been concealed. the chalky upland, which for some miles past has formed a marked feature in the scenery, and has bounded our view in front, now descends to the river brink in steep slopes, sometimes almost in cliffs. between the foot of these and the water, only here and there does a narrow strip of level land intervene. on two or three of these a picturesque cottage has been built, and the brightest, gayest, trimmest of gardens planted; but the slope itself is one mass of trees and brushwood, through which, though very rarely, gleams forth a little crag of the white chalk rock. all the trees of england seem to have congregated on this bank: there are hazel and maple and thorn; there are ash and oak, and beech and elm; there are chestnut and sycamore, and, especially at this upper end, the brighter tints of the deciduous trees, and of the broad-leaved evergreens, are dappled by the sombre hues of scotch firs, with their ruddy trunks, and of ancient yews, very possibly lineal descendants of trees among which the ancient britons hunted, before ever a roman galley floated on the thames. for cliefden woods, though doubtless they are in part the result of the gardener's art, are very probably a relic of the primæval forests which once covered so large a part of england. as in the kentish weald, this rough and broken ground must always have been waste, and there trees would take root, from the time that the slope first was furrowed out by the river, and there would be the "lurking-place of wild beasts," in days when the huntsman wore skins for clothing, and pointed his arrows with chipped flints. down by the river's brink what a wealth of beauty is often to be found; the waterside plants grow strong and free, pink willow-herb and purple loosestrife, yellow fleabane and st. john's wort, with numbers more which it is needless to mention; while the bank above is green in summer with many a herb, and bright in spring with many a flower. no trim shrubbery this on the cliefden steeps; nature is left to wanton at will--nay, even to struggle for existence. ivy and briony and wild bine festoon and sometimes half smother the trees, while the traveller's joy creeps and clings in masses so profuse that from afar it seems to flicker like grey lights among the green shadows. from this position we cannot see the mansion, but from time to time as we pass down the stream it comes into view, standing above the slope on the edge of the plateau. its absence is a boon rather than a loss; its clock-tower, indeed, as it rises above the hills, occasionally forms a pleasant addition to the view; but the house is not particularly striking in itself, and the design is wholly unsuitable for its position. that requires a building of irregular outline and broken, but well-conceived sky-line. this magnificent site, above the great river cliff, ought to have been crowned with a group of buildings, whose outline should suggest a cluster of hills. yet the design of cliefden house could readily be imitated with three or four packing-cases. it was a great opportunity, such, for instance, as that of the architect of the parliament buildings at ottawa not only had, but also seized; but here, as is the rule, it has been wholly wasted, for to find an architect who has also the feelings of an artist is rare indeed. since the middle ages they have been seldom more than learned master-masons. so we shall look as little as possible at cliefden house, and as much as possible at its woods, and be thankful even for the tiny mercies of its clock-tower. the present house occupies the site of an earlier mansion, which was destroyed by fire, as was that which it succeeded. the destruction of the first house, in the year 1751, may be used to point a moral against reading in bed--at any rate, by the light of a candle. one of the maid-servants, while indulging in this practice, fell asleep, the candle set the hangings on fire, she woke up in too great a fright to do anything to extinguish the flames, and in a surprisingly short time almost the whole of the mansion was destroyed, but little of the furniture and few of the pictures being saved. this house had been erected by the notorious george villiers, second duke of buckingham, whose duel with the earl of shrewsbury is among the memories of another part of the thames; and when the latter fell wounded, it was to the shelter of this mansion that the guilty pair went off in triumph. time, however, brought its revenge, when villiers died "in the worst inn's worst room": "how changed from him that life of pleasure and that soul of whim! gallant and gay, in cliefden's proud alcove the bower of wanton shrewsbury and love.... there, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, and fame, this lord of useless thousands ends." to him, as owner of cliefden, in course of time, succeeded frederick, prince of wales, father of george iii. of him "who was alive and is dead, there's no more to be said," except that through him the national air "rule britannia" is associated with cliefden. thomson the poet had been taken into favour by this prince at a time when he was, to some extent, the patron of literature. thus the masque of alfred was first performed within the walls of cliefden, and into this masque "rule britannia," composed by dr. arne, was introduced, and has alone escaped oblivion. this house, which appears to have been a stately structure, was destroyed, as has already been explained, and it was rebuilt in the present century by sir g. warrender, from whom it was purchased by the duke of sutherland. another great fire occurred in 1849, after which the present house was built. the gardens are very beautiful, but the walks through the groves which mantle the slope--through the dense vegetation and trailing undergrowth--are in their way not less attractive. the cliff runs by the riverside for more than a mile, unbroken except at one spot, rather beyond the house, where a glen, now forming part of the gardens, winds down to the riverside, and affords an easier access to the terraced plateau above. though less favourably situated for prospect or for health, there are, as we have said, homes of no little beauty on the opposite side of the river. of these the most conspicuous bears the name of formosa, and so far as its gardens are concerned it would be difficult to find one more appropriate. to apply it to the house would be flattery of which few would be capable. white place, which obtains its name from the colour of the stone of which it is built, lies back from the river. it, too, like cliefden, is connected with the memory of villiers; and its avenue of elms is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a "white lady without a head," who was one of his victims. it is difficult to describe the beauty of this part of the river, because it does not so much consist in notable features as in a series of exquisite combinations of subtly varied forms, and in delicate harmonies of colour. there is, of course, the one great effect of wooded slope and of flowing stream, which differs but little from place to place; but there is in addition, at every step, some novel harmony of its minor features--fresh drapery of the aged limbs of trees, a new contrast of sombre yew boughs with the bright green of the sprouting beech or the tender tints of the maple, or of the darkling water beneath the shadow of the wooded bank, with the sparkle of the sun on the ripples of the stream. there float a pair of swans, white as snow; there darts a kingfisher, a flying emerald; there the lilies speckle the stream with gold; there the tall willow-herb forms a pink-tinted fringe to the river, and with its summer splendour alleviates our regret for the many-coloured carpets which in spring-time overspread the meadows. [illustration: the landing-stage, ray mead.] beyond cliefden, where the plateau begins to slope more gently towards the plain, the river is broken up, and its scenery is pleasantly varied by a group of low islands densely clothed with willows. boulter's lock forms a new feature in the view. near here is taplow court, which has a most attractive garden. so also have smaller houses near the river; even some mills, which would be tolerable but for their chimneys, bedeck their bank-sides with flowers. to praise these villas would be only to repeat a formula; enough to say that if passers by break the tenth commandment in regard to these little arcadias, it is not for want of temptation; indeed, a casuist might argue that the owners were not morally justified in affording such an opportunity for coveting. in extenuation, however, they might plead that they so much increased the beauty of the river, and enhanced the general gratification, that they might be forgiven for causing lapses in particular cases. the guide-book states that the saloon of taplow court was built in imitation of kirkwall cathedral. this must be a curiosity; it sounds almost as attractive as a bedroom built in imitation of the catacombs. for this, however, the present owners are not responsible. the house was erected by the earl of orkney, one of the duke of marlborough's companions in the great european wars. [illustration: taplow woods.] now houses begin to thicken on the river bank, and boat-sheds are dotted on the strand. the view of the landing-stage at ray mead will give an idea of the appearance of this part of the thames, when the pleasant summer weather brings good times to the boatmen. maidenhead on the one hand, taplow on the other, straggle--vaguely, in the latter case--down to the riverside. the thames is crossed first by the seven-arched stone bridge that carries the high road; secondly, by the single arch of brick, one of brunel's bold designs, that supports the great western railway. the former has been for long the site of a bridge across the thames--at any rate, from a date prior to the reign of edward iii. at this spot there was once some smart fighting, when the duke of surrey, brother of richard ii., held the bridge against bolingbroke's troops all through one winter's night, so as to cover the retreat of his friends, himself at last stealing away without molestation. except for this, and for being the place where charles i., when fortune had deserted him, met his children, after a long separation, maidenhead is nearly in the blessed condition of a place that has no history. it has been asserted to derive its name from the fact that the head of a british maiden, one of the eleven thousand virgins martyred with st. ursula, at cologne, was kept here; but the etymology is as legendary as the maiden, the true derivation being maiden hythe, as there was here a wharf, or "hythe," for timber in olden times. the town is not in any way remarkable. though its streets are less busy than in the old days of stage-coaches and post-horses, it has a well-to-do look, and there are not a few pleasant residences in its outskirts; but it is very destitute of attractions for the antiquarian. the parish church is modern, having been rebuilt about sixty years since; but that of boyne hill will afford satisfaction to those with whom the movement in favour of ritualistic development finds favour, and as a work of the architect is far superior to churches of the earlier part of the present century. the only building in maidenhead which carries us back to days earlier than the last century is a block of almshouses, which, though plain, has a rather picturesque appearance. at the end of our journey we look back on a view, more artificial, but hardly less pretty, than most of those which we have seen. railways are often deservedly execrated, but it may be doubted whether something may not be forgiven to the great western for the singularly attractive view which its bridge affords. the riverside between the two bridges is occupied by well-built houses, with lovely gardens and shrubberies. green lawns, brightened with beds of flowers, groups of shady trees, villa residences of not unpleasing design, and an island on the river, combine to form a view that is not readily surpassed within an equal distance from london. t. g. /bonney/. chapter vi. maidenhead to windsor. maidenhead--bray--jesus hospital--the harbour of refuge--frederick walker--a boat-race--monkey island--the river--surley hall--boveney lock--eton--windsor--st. george's chapel--the castle--mr. r. r. holmes--james i.--surrey--the merry wives of windsor. the next scene in our shifting panorama of the gentle river will be the fair stretch of bank and stream which extends from picturesque maidenhead to the winding shore from which rise the proud towers of royal windsor. from its source, at which a little bright spring bubbles up with a low, softly singing sound, from amid stones and moss and grass, until it becomes merged into the immensity of ship-bearing ocean, our thames, unhasting but unresting, flows for ever onward between source and sea. "thames! the most lov'd of all the ocean's sons by his old sire, to his embraces runs, hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, like mortal life to meet eternity." and denham adds a wish- "o, could i flow like thee! and make thy stream my great example, as it is my theme; though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full." one of the charms of thames is, that the calm river "glideth at its own sweet will." it is no straight-cut, level, mechanical dutch canal; but it winds and curves, it widens and it narrows, according to its own caprice and delight. and then, through what scenery it wanders! locks are erected, in order artificially to check its full-flowing stream; but then thames subdues even locks to himself, and makes them--especially the old wooden ones--singularly picturesque. man is sometimes too many for him, but thames, when allowed to have his own way, will tolerate nothing about him that is not lovely as himself. i love to think of the dear old river through all the seasons, and under all aspects. i fancy the sun-bright day, and then "the dark, the silent stream" of evening, when the untrembling shadows are so deep and full; when the belated boat is itself a creeping shade, hardly seen, but regularly audible through the sound of its beating rowlocks, and the splashing fall of its rowing oars. and who can ever forget the cool freshness of the dewy summer morning, before the sun's "burning eye" gleams upon the shining surface of the watery sheen? then the still, dusky stream becomes "clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;" and then, perhaps, moonlight sleeps silverly upon flood and banks, on trees, and on dreamy habitations of slumbering men. the back-waters are then all mystery, the birds have all gone to roost; sleep and silence rest upon the resting river, the peace of night is over all, and still the gentle river glideth ever to the sea. [illustration: bray church.] the thames has, however, undergone one disastrous change. it has become crowded, noisy, vulgar. its beauties remain what they ever were; but its character has deteriorated. gone are the pure peace, the cool calm, the tranquil seclusion which--say twenty years ago--rendered it the most charming haunt of the lover of nature, of the poet, too much in populous city pent, who sought an alterative of mental repose in most lovely and most quiet scenery. an aged ghost, restlessly revisiting the _cari luoghi_, must often find a change, great and sad, in the old places in which life was lived in love and joy; and he who knew the tranquil thames in the old time, long ago, must find, in its brawling loudness of to-day, a change which renders sad the heart. i remember it when there were no steam-launches. now, captain jinks, of the _selfish_, too often troubles the water, as he, with his friends, enjoy themselves on the pure river which they pollute with their presence, and disturb with their rowdyism. i am credibly informed that one sunday no less than nine hundred pleasure-craft passed through boulter's lock. to what secret ait can the river nymphs now fly for rest and delicate delight? yes, the dear old river is sadly changed indeed, and our joy in it is lessened and lowered; but its own inherent loveliness is almost unspoiled; and we have to console ourselves by thinking, with coleridge, that- "we receive but what we give, and in our life alone doth nature live." [illustration: maidenhead to windsor.] shaking off dull thoughts, let us stand for a moment on maidenhead bridge, which was built in 1772 by sir robert taylor. maidenhead, or maidenhithe, is now almost the central point of those pleasure-lovers who frequent the thames. looking up to boulter's lock, which suggests very pleasant memories of mr. gregory's charming picture of it, we see on high the white mansion of cliefden, embowered in a wealth of thickly clustering noble woods, which slope downwards from hill crest to river bank, and present a long sky-line composed of every shade of ever-varying greenness. nearer to us, on the right, rise from out the thick leafage the turrets and spires of taplow court. on the left is the ivied bridge house; on the right the old hostelry, the well-known "orkney arms." in the golden days of mr. and mrs. skindle the house was white, but it is now of brand-new flaring red-brick, thickly pointed. before us, where the channel slopes round towards the lock, we see a large ait of alders. gardens, flowers, trees, adorn the land, while the water is crowded with boats and punts. looking towards bray, the view is spoiled by the railway bridge, which is a leading case of engineering _versus_ the picturesque. the railway bridge need not, however, mar our pleasure much, for shall we not soon row under it on our way to windsor? and now our boat awaits us at mr. bond's landing-stage, and we will start on our pleasant little smooth-water voyage. in a few moments we float under that wide-arched railway bridge which had hidden bray from us; and we see on our right hand an old church tower rising apparently from out a cluster of tall, gaunt, windy poplars. we must land at bray. the church has been severely restored, but it presents specimens of the historical architectural sequence of early english, of decorated, and of perpendicular. it contains good brasses (particularly one of sir john foxle and his two wives), which range in date between 1378 and 1594; and it is celebrated for its only too well-known vicar, who enjoys all the popularity which attaches to comic baseness. stone and flint are largely used in this church; but we eagerly pass on from the churchyard to seek the jesus hospital, founded in 1627 by william goddard, as a refuge for forty poor persons. this beneficent refuge is a very picturesque quadrangle of one-storey brick almshouses, and the quadrangle encloses garden plots planted with flowers. it seems to be well maintained and well cared for. but the jesus hospital has an interest which transcends its own picturesqueness and exceeds almost its own value. it is the scene selected by a young painter of genius--frederick walker--as a suggestion for his noble picture, the "harbour of refuge." ruskin says, "a painter designs when he chooses some things, refuses others, and arranges all;" and walker has chosen to do away with the gardens, and to fill up the quadrangle with a lawn, a statue, and a terrace. the old chapel he rightly retains. he has sacrificed fact to the higher truth of ideal art. walker was emphatically not one of those many painters who have mistaken their vocation. he was a true and an original artist. he saw a poetical suggestion in this retreat for poverty and for age; and in the tender sadness of summer evening after sunset he has placed a mower, whose scythe, like that of time, is sweeping down things ripe for death. the night, in which no man can work, is about to fall; and a few figures, chiefly of sad, of aged, worn-out men and women, are waiting until the angel of death shall gather them to deathless peace. the sentiment, the poetry of the picture, are most touching. scene and hour are felicitously selected, and the humanity which belongs to this pictorial drama is finely conceived. world-wearied, life-worn creatures, old, weak, poor, and sad, with the flicker of faint life just lingering tremblingly, are those on whom the painter has laid stress. they stand upon the low, dark verge of life, the twilight of eternal day; and soon, very soon, shall they relax their weak grasp of life, and go hence, and be no more seen. such was the idea that dominated walker, and he has realised his idea. there is infinite pathos in this work of tender melancholy and of exquisite loveliness. i saw the window from which the painter made his study of the place--a study of fact which his genius afterwards so nobly idealised. as we row away from bray, my mind is full of the picture and of its painter; and a reminiscence of my dead friend, the gentle artist, walker, rises in my thought: a reminiscence which will, i hope, fitly find a place here. at the time during which fred walker was staying at cookham i was very frequently rowing on the river. a dear old friend, mr. e. e. stahlschmidt, was my constant companion, and we were much in the habit of using a light outrigged pair-oar, which was a fairly fast, though rather a crank boat, and which could carry a sitter who could or would sit still and steer. we were staying at the "orkney arms" at maidenhead, and fred walker inhabited a cottage at cookham. it was arranged one day that we were to row our boat from maidenhead to cookham, and were there to take walker on board, and then to row him to marlow and back. the day was one at the end of may in 1866. how well i remember that row! it seems to me that the same sun is shining to-day that shone upon that day, so vividly does the fair by-flown time come back to me. we passed by the cliefden woods, by formosa, and through cookham lock, and then rowed down the narrow arm of water which is opposite to hedsor, and joins the main stream a little below cookham bridge. no doubt as to whether walker were ready. the slight, active figure was dancing about with delight as he hailed us. he was full of joy, was quivering with excitement. the day was warm and fine, but the sky was grand with towering cumulus cloud-masses, which might change to nimbus clouds, and then mean rain. we went ashore, and strolled about the pretty, quiet, old village, looking at, amongst other things, the churchyard in which the great painter who was that day so much alive now rests in death. at length we were ready for our voyage, and we entered the boat. walker was steering, i was pulling stroke, and my friend was bow. it happened that while we were stopping at cookham, a randan boat was also waiting there to start. this boat put off just when we did, and when both boats reached the broad, open water, the randan proposed a race to marlow. both my friend and myself would have treated such a proposal for a scratch race with extreme contempt; but not so our coxswain. his keen nature always craved excitement, and he eagerly accepted the randan's challenge. i told him that it was all nonsense, and not worth doing; but race he would. i then warned him that a race to marlow was a long one, and that i should pull a slow stroke, so that he must not be surprised if the other boat got a long way ahead. i knew that my bow could pull steadily any stroke that was set him. we were both rowing a good deal at that time, and were in decent training. the preposterous race commenced; a thing that would have been comic, but for the intense eagerness and feverish excitement of our eminent but nervous little coxswain. his eyes grew large, he breathed short, his face was pale. if something of moment had depended upon the race he could not have been more in earnest. one annoying result of his mental condition was, that he kicked and stamped about, and rocked the boat. i cautioned, and entreated him to sit quietly; but i preferred a request with which he could only with difficulty comply. as i expected, the randan started pulling with all its might; and soon went away from us. poor walker was in despair. he saw the other boat apparently gaining fast, and he was seized with twitchings. in a voice weak with anguish, he implored us to "wire up, you fellows; wire up! oh, you don't know how far they're getting ahead. for heaven's sake, pull all you know!" he was depressed and dismayed, and was really unhappy. i could not talk much, i could only growl out an occasional adjuration to "be quiet!" an injunction with which he complied the better because he thought that we were losing fast. i continued pulling very steadily a long stroke of about twenty-nine, and was well backed up. the other boat still went ahead, and poor despondent walker was almost in tears. [illustration: surley.] a mile or more is traversed, and i begin to fancy that i can hear the rowing of the other boat. presently walker's frantic joy tells us that we are gaining upon them, and he urges us to furious exertions. of his counsels we took no notice, but pulled steadily the old, long stroke. then we began to draw level with the antagonist, and soon i saw a bit of the boat. we never looked up or altered the stroke; but walker chortled aloud, and could not restrain some expressions of exulting and emotional _persiflage_. we tried in vain to dissuade him. he was too excitable for such self-repression. at length i found my oar pulling level with the scull of the randan, and a little later i was up to the bow oar. the randan put on a spurt, but we drew quietly away, and had passed them when the boats were a couple of miles from home. walker's triumph was irrepressible; his laughter was long and loud, and i thought that he would have tumbled overboard. he _would_ mock at the other boat. when we were well clear of the randan, i saw that they were pumped out, and were splashing wildly. no further danger from them. we increased our distance gradually, passed through the lock, and had finished our luncheon at the "compleat anglers" before the defeated randan arrived. during our meal, we were looking at the scene of walker's delicious picture, the "marlow ferry." he was delightedly elated at the result of the little race--kept talking about it with the eagerness of a happy child, and admitted gleefully how efficient the long, quiet stroke was, especially in a hard four-mile pull against stream. he was happy that day. [illustration: boveney lock.] afterwards we walked out along the banks which look on bisham woods. then the born painter forgot the race, and became absorbed in his deep, reverent love of nature. supporting his chin upon his hands, he lay down on the warm, dry turf, and his large eyes dilated as he gazed, with inner rapture, upon that lovely scene, glowing in the light of such a perfect sunny day. he had no gift of expression--except with the brush in his skilful hand. he could never find expression in words. i remember hearing him murmur then, as he gazed long and lovingly upon a calm beauty that he could feel so well, "opalescent!" that was all he said; but his spirit had drunk in the joy, the peace, the glory of the scene and time. he was probably seeing a picture; though he did not lean to painting full sunlight. his cheek even then was hollow; his large eyes were dangerously bright; his whole aspect expressed his ambition, his self-consuming art-soul, his terribly if exquisitely-strung nervous system, and fatally excitable temperament. we did not then foresee that the frail frame, so sensitive and delicate, would fail so sadly and so soon. his was, indeed- "a fiery soul, which, working out its way, fretted the pigmy body to decay, and o'erinformed the tenement of clay." now, by the sweet banks of the fair river that he loved so well, the gentle and gifted painter sleeps his last sleep beneath the shadow of the old cookham church tower. the thames is all the dearer to those who have often seen it with frederick walker. a sacred memory is blended with the river's loveliness. we rowed him back that day to maidenhead, and afterwards to cookham. for some time after he spoke often, and spoke joyously, of the little scratch race which i have now endeavoured, with a sad, yet soft regret, to recall to my own recollection, and to bring to the sympathetic knowledge of my readers. those who knew the man will ever love him; those that did not know him personally may well love the ardent, strenuous painter for the sake of his pure and gentle art. the thames, following sheridan's advice, flows ever between its banks--and then what banks they are! as our boat glides along the sliding stream, we pass by many a fair and stately home of ancient peace; we pass many a smooth lawn and garden gay with flowers; we pass by rushes, willows, aits; we pass noble woods, and full meadows in which the rich grass is studded with white and yellow flowers, while sunlight is softly speckled by the calm shadows of lofty, feathery elms. the tall elms have thick clusters of foliage glowing in sunshine, and beneath these bright leaf-clumps sleep deep hollows of soft shade. yes, our thames is emphatically a summer stream. we row by reeds, the home of swans, the haunt of moor-hens; by islets which bear alders, osiers, weeds, and rushes. reflected in the water is the purple colour of the wild foxglove, while the many bank flowers are interspersed with meadow-sweet, with loose-strife, and with broad dock-leaves. on the shining surface of the bright, calm water float lovely lilies, white or yellow, which are connected by long, wavy stems with roots which hold firmly to the ground at the very bottom of the river. we pass the turbulent mill-stream, and the foam-fretted weir; we see picturesque eel-bucks and shady backwaters. we wind and curve with the ever wayward flood, and we find but few stretches which fail of beauty or are wanting in peace. the thames is the chosen haunt, too, of pleasant painters and of pretty women; and to this choice combination the grateful stream lends a charm as great as that which it receives from such artists and such girls. truly, our thames is almost too fair to be looked upon except on holidays. following the law of natural or elective affinities, fair women are attracted by the fair river. i think that i never was upon the thames without seeing some specimen, or specimens, of female loveliness and grace. pretty girls belong as naturally as the swans do to our thames. it is a singular fact that natural objects of great charm allure to themselves suitable women. art does not, as a rule, draw to itself much feminine youth and charm; but the thames emphatically does so. look at that boat which we have just passed. what loveliness and love in those two young, graceful girls who are being rowed, while one of them--the one in the boating hat--steers. what eyes those were which they rested for a moment upon our passing craft! which do you prefer? the one in the blue serge frock, or the taller one in the white robe? i don't know; i could not decide; but i do know that we shall probably meet with more distracting charmers before our little voyage shall cease. girls often steer very well, and sometimes they row, especially with light sculls, very admirably. i have known pretty young ladies who sculled deliciously, and who lent to the exercise a distinctively feminine skill and grace. the thames is essentially a summer river; always with the reserve of the delight of the sad and splendid hues of autumn in the woods. the aspect under which the river shows to least advantage is that of a bleak, grey day, when a coarse, cold, blusterous wind is blowing loudly. like a pretty woman, the fair thames should never have its surface serenity disfigured by passionate turbulence or wrinkled by debasing anger. a rough, cruel wind disturbs the characteristics, and distorts the appearance of the pure silver stream. the gentle, peaceful river should ever be smiling and be calm. there is less objection to the sullen grandeur of a heavy storm, dark with thunder, squally with rain, while a gust of fierce wind sweeps beneath the sombre cloud-heaps, and lashes up the troubled water. yet the thames should preserve a chaste and delicate quiet. sunny stillness, the majesty of soft repose, are its true characteristics. in brutal, cheerless weather, it looks like a fair face degraded by ignoble pain. its sweet essence should not be outraged by vulgar fury. now, just as we come to monkey island, a hush falls upon the sunshine, a soft shade overspreads the heavens; and a summer shower, dinting the glassy surface of the water with dimpling rain-drops, falls gently, and ceases soon. shine out, fair sun! and so it does again, till joy returns with sunlight and with warmth. "man's delight in god's works" can find rapture in nearly every phase of nature. monkey island is an inn built upon an islet. it comprises a pavilion erected by the third duke of marlborough, in which certain monkeys are cleverly depicted by one clermont. we need not land there to-day. our boat floats ever downward with the stream, and we pass down place, oakley, the fisheries, until we reach surley hall, an inn much frequented by eton boys, who come here for refreshment at that happy age in which it is possible to lunch off olives and toffee. the river, at this part of it, is not distinctively beautiful. soon the channel is bifurcated, one arm, over which is written the ominous warning, "_danger_," leading to the weir, while the other arm conducts to boveney lock. once through this lock, and we are in the region of eton and of windsor. eton chapel is on our left, while before us, growing greater as we near it, windsor castle rises upon the sight in ever grander proportions. eton is the swimming and rowing school, and we are passing the brocas and those memorable playing-fields which have trained so many boys into men of mark and leading. we will halt for just a glimpse of eton, and will stroll through the picturesque quadrangles of noble fifteenth century brickwork; will glance at the stone chapel; at the hall, library, and masters' houses; thinking of henry vi., who, in 1441, founded eton, after having studied the statutes of william of wykeham at winchester. eton is no longer a school for indigent scholars, as it was meant to be, and was, when william of waynflete was its first master. but we cannot linger long at eton, and we shall see again the chapel from the north terrace of windsor castle. let us re-embark. our voyage is nearly over. already the landing-place at windsor; and lo! the great castle towers just above us. windsor castle is the noblest regal pile, the most splendid palace castle in europe; but it is seen to the best advantage when regarded from a distance, and contemplated in its totality. perhaps the grand, irregular castle, which is perched upon a height, looks finest when seen from below; and the towering mass of royal buildings certainly appears at its best when seen from afar. there is no finer view than that from the river. when the castle is seen from within, and when its detail is looked at closely, there is much that is disappointing; and the chief architectural blot is the abominable restoration of sir jeffrey wyattville, who was the architect of george iv. and of william iv. wyattville is credited with some respect for the interior, but his external architecture is wofully bad. he has made the great quadrangle in the upper ward a most dreary thing. his uniform, conventional gothic is mean and ugly in the extreme; and wyattville adopted the hateful system of pointing his stones with black mortar. for an illustration of the bad effect of this evil work, it is sufficient to compare any of wyattville's restored towers with the recently and well-restored clewer or curfew tower, in which white mortar is used, so that the stones are not cut off into squares set in black borders. it were devoutly to be wished that a competent gothic architect should get rid of the traces of wyattville's fatal work. the cost would be great, but no expense could be too heavy for restoring such an historical building to architectural beauty and value. on my visit to windsor--a visit made for the purposes of this article--i had the singular advantage of being conducted over the castle by my friend, mr. r. r. holmes, her majesty's librarian. this courteous and cultured gentleman has in the royal library curious old plans of the castle in various stages of its creation; and no one can speak with more authority about the great palace which mr. holmes loves so well and knows so thoroughly. i cannot too strongly express my gratitude to him for his invaluable assistance, so pleasantly rendered. it is, of course, impossible in these narrow limits to present any complete picture of royal windsor. such a subject cannot be exhausted in such an article. i can only suggest a few points of interest, and merely endeavour to place those readers who may visit the thames in my wake in a position to obtain some hint and glimpse of part of the romance, at least, of our most royal castle. windsor is associated with the records of all the reigns since the conquest. its annals cover the court life of all the centuries since the norman came to rule in england. it is linked with all our history, and old as it is, it is ever young with the glow and poetry of romance. the saxon kings had a palace at old windsor, and edward the confessor kept his court there, but the site of that old royal dwelling cannot now with certainty be determined. william the norman moved to new windsor, but there is nothing visible in the present castle of an earlier date than henry ii. the ancient entrance, with the sheath of its portcullis plainly visible, shows clear traces of henry ii.'s work. [illustration: windsor castle. from romney lock.] the great royal builders at windsor whose works follow them, and are still extant, are henry ii., iii., edward iii., iv., henry vii., viii., and queen elizabeth, who was the foundress of the splendid north terrace. all charles ii.'s work has been swept away by that wyattville who did so much disastrous "restoration" for george iv. and william iv. in windsor was founded by edward iii., 1348, that noble and royal order of the garter which sprang from a king's chivalrous homage to a pure and lovely lady. william of wykeham was, in 1356, surveyor of the king's works, and dwelt in that winchester tower which has been so sorely spoiled by wyattville; and chaucer, also under edward iii., was "clerk of the repairs" at windsor. one loves to fancy the sweet, cheerful old poet riding, on some fair and fresh may morning, through the royal park, while birds were singing and may blooms blossoming, looking lovingly at nature, his lips wreathed with a serene and sunny smile. chaucer would, i think, ride gently on an ambling palfrey in preference to backing a mettled steed. one likes dearly to connect images of chaucer and of shakspeare with windsor park. the st. george's chapel is an ideal chapel for such a palace-castle as windsor. it is at once sumptuous and romantic, picturesque and full of colour. it is a chapel for kings and knights; especially for kings who were also knights and warriors. it is also the royal chapel for the kingly order of the garter. the choir is fitted up with the stalls of the members of the order, and above each stall hang banners, helmets, crests, and swords. the chapel was built by edward iv., and was commenced in 1472, the architects being bishop beauchamp and sir reginald bray. all such old ecclesiastical edifices are sacred to the dead as well as precious to the living. beneath the feet of those who worship there to-day rests the dust of kings; of those who, in by-past times, worshipped also here while they were in the land of the living. the tomb of the founder, edward iv., is here; and the chapel covers the graves of henry vi., henry viii., jane seymour, and of charles i. in 1813 the grave of charles was opened, and the few who looked upon the remains of the beheaded king could easily recognise the face and form of charles stuart. every visitor to windsor is, however, sure to see st. george's chapel; and true it is, of this building, "that things seen are mightier than things heard." we leave our readers to the delight of seeing this poetically regal chapel. john, king of france, taken at crécy, david ii. of scotland, captured at neville's cross, were prisoners of state at windsor, and were probably immured in the king john's tower; but the romance of imprisonment in the castle centres round two other figures, to which it seems worth while to devote some little space. two romances of chivalry and captivity are intimately connected with windsor. one is that of a king, the other that of an earl. the king is james i. of scotland, the earl is surrey. after the murder, by starvation, of his eldest son, the duke of rothsay, robert iii. was minded to save and to educate his second son, james, by sending the youth to france. the scottish ship was captured by english vessels off flamborough head, and the young prince was taken prisoner. this occurred on the 13th of march, 1405. king henry said, "his father was sending him to learn french. by my troth! he might as well have sent him to me. i am myself an excellent french scholar, and will see to his instruction." [illustration: st. george's chapel, windsor.] and so began a gentle and generous captivity, which was certainly of advantage to the poet king. the prince was provided with masters, and had every luxury and indulgence. james was trained in all arts and arms, became a scholar and a cavalier, and benefited by contact with culture and civilisation. while at windsor, love came to james in a shape of singular romance and charm, and he lived actually the adventure which chaucer had devised for his palamon and arcite. the fair emilie was doing observance to may, and so- "she romid up and down, and as she liste she gathrith flouris party white and rede, to make a sotill garlande for her hede; and as an aungel hevynly she song." the "grete tour, that was so thik and strong" was, we hear, "evyne joynaunt to the gardyn wall;" and emilie was walking and singing in the garden, while the imprisoned palamon gazed from his high dungeon window in the tower, "and so befell by aventure or caas, that through a window, thik of many a bar of iron grete, and square as any spar, he cast his eyin on emilia; and therewithall he blent, and cryid a! as though he stongin were unto the herte." then arcite gazes from the same window- "and with that sight her beauty hurt him so, that, if that palamon was wounded sore, arcit was hurt as much as he, or more." so far a royal poet's fancy. now take a kingly fact; the fact being also told in song- "now there was maid fast by the touris wall a gardyn faire, and in the corneris set, ane herbere greene, with wandis long and small railit about, and so with treeis set was all the place, and hawthorne hegis knet. * * * * * * "and therew^t kest i doun myn eye ageyne, quhare as i saw walkyng under the toure, full secretely, new cumyn hir to pleyne, the fairest or the freschest zoung floure that ever i sawe, methot before that houre, for quhick sodayne abate, anon astert, the blude of all my bodie to my hert. "and though i stode abaiset tho a lyte, no wonder was; for quhy? my wittes all were so ouercome wt pleasaunce and delyte, only through letting of myn eyen fall, that sudaynly my hert became hir thrall for ever, of free wyll; for of menace there was no tokyn in hir suete face." then follows a young poet's lovely and rapturous description of the fair vision, who was, indeed, the lady jane, or johanna beaufort, daughter of john, earl of somerset, and granddaughter of john of gaunt. their loves prospered, as they deserved to do, and james married lady jane, at windsor; the hero of agincourt being then our king. james was crowned king of scotland in 1424, and the lovely lady that he loved so well was his queen. in 1437, at the abbey of black friars at perth, james, who strove in vain to rule his turbulent and brutal nobles, was murdered by sir robert graham; what time the heroic catherine douglas tried to bar the door against murder, and had her fair arm broken, while the brave and loving queen was wounded by the assassins. surely this royal love romance may give us sweet and tender fancies as we gaze upon the gardens and the towers of royal windsor. the story is a true thames episode. we may glance for a moment at another noble captive in windsor--at the earl of surrey, likewise a poet; and, indeed, the poet who was the first writer of english blank verse. impetuous of temper, heady of will, the gallant surrey developed a lawless ambition which, on the 21st of january, 1547, led him to the tower block. he was, says mr. robert bell, "formed out of the best elements of the age, and combined more happily, and with a purer lustre than any of his contemporaries, all the attributes of that compound, and, to us, almost fabulous character, in which the noblest qualities of chivalry were blended with the graces of learning and a cultivated taste. it might be said of him that he united in his own person the characteristics of bayard and of petrarch;" and yet all these fine qualities led only to the scaffold. surrey is connected with windsor because he was educated and spent his youth there, together with the duke of richmond, base son of henry viii., who married surrey's sister; and, further, because, in his day of misfortune, he became a sad prisoner in the castle in which he had spent so many joyous youthful days. surrey was contracted when he was sixteen, and was only twenty when he became a father. he married, in 1535, the lady frances vere, daughter of john, earl of oxford; but romance links his name for ever with that of the fair geraldine, who was the lady elizabeth, daughter of gerald fitzgerald, ninth earl of kildare, and of margaret, daughter of thomas gray, marquis of dorset. geraldine, when surrey died at the age of thirty, was but nineteen years of age. it was the fashion of that day for gallants to wear the sleeve of a mistress of the imagination; and surrey's passion for the fair young girl was probably fantastic and partly feigned. the fair child was an adopted ideal of a knightly poet's passion. in the only one of surrey's poems in which he speaks openly of her, he says:- "from tuscane came my lady's worthy race; fair florence was sometime their ancient seat. the western isle whose pleasant shore doth face wild camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat. fostered she was with milk of irish breast: her sire an earl; her dame of prince's blood. from tender years, in britain doth she rest, with kinges child; when she tasteth costly food. hunsdon did first present her to mine eyen; bright is her hue, and geraldine she hight. hampton me taught to wish her first for mine; windsor, alas! doth chase me from her sight. her beauty of kind; her virtues from above; happy is he that can obtain her love!" the lady elizabeth was one of the ladies in attendance on mary tudor, and surrey probably went with the duke of richmond to hunsdon, there to visit the lady mary; and on that visit he first saw geraldine. later, when a captive, surrey sings- "so cruell prison howe could betide, alas, as proude windsor, where i in lust and joye, with a kinges son my chyldysh years did pass, in greater feast than priam's sonnes of troy." the contrast was indeed cruel between windsor as a palace and windsor as a prison. scott, like a true poet, lays hold of the romance of surrey's reputed love for geraldine, and entrusts to "fitztraver of the silver song" that almost matchless ballad which tells how the wise cornelius, across the ocean grim, showed to the gallant surrey the vision of the peerless geraldine. who, asks walter scott- "who has not heard of surrey's fame? his was the hero's soul of fire, and his the bard's immortal name, and his was love, exalted high by all the glow of chivalry." our fancies are stirred, as we gaze on proud windsor, by the thought of surrey. what a view it is from the round and regal tower, over which, when our loved and honoured queen is in state residence, floats our "glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride!" let us mount with our artist to the summit of the keep. the view is wide and winsome. surely earth has not many things to show more fair, though the prospect is distinguished rather for soft beauty and placid loveliness than for grandeur or for wildness. i have stood on the summits of mont blanc, the matterhorn, and of many another alpine peak, and know well that there are outlooks in nature more sublime, more austere, more soul-stirring; but yet this english landscape (which includes twelve fair counties), so peaceful, soft, and smiling, has its own distinctive charm. the bright river, gleaming in sunlight, winds and stretches far through all the calm scene. there stand stately english trees; and the view includes broad green meadows, hedgerows, low, gentle hills in the far purple distance. it is a typical english landscape scene; and then over all there is to-day the splendour of a serene summer sky, and the glory of fantastic, sunlit cloud masses. i took a great interest in finding out the exact sites of the imprisonment of those two noble and romantic captives who suffered imprisonment here. kings john and david were, as we have seen, probably immured in the king john's tower, which is a prison. the round tower, as mr. holmes points out, never was a prison, though a wooden pillar is (if you ask for it) absurdly shown as the one to which prince james was chained. the prince chained! why, his was an honourable and a most gentle captivity. he was rather guest and pupil than prisoner; and mr. holmes leads, with no uncertain step, to a chamber (now used as a bedroom) in the second floor of edward iii.'s tower, which was the room of the prince, and in which is still the window from which the poet-prince looked into the garden--not now existing in its former state--and saw the lady jane. this point may be considered as set at rest: and it is very pleasant to be able to identify james's chamber, to look out of his window, and to see, with the eye of imagination, the fair sight that he saw in the garden beneath. of the place of surrey's captivity no record or tradition remains, but the ambitious earl, who strained after the crown, was surely held in more rigid confinement than was james. surrey was possibly immured in the king john tower. and now we leave the castle; but before we quit windsor we will stroll into the park, and try to summon up some fair fancies connected with shakspeare and with elizabeth. it is a charming legend--even if it be only a legend--which tells us that queen elizabeth (_el iza beata_) when at windsor, commanded shakspeare to write a play in which falstaff would be shown in love--that is, in such "love" as he was capable of--and that the result of the royal order was the _merry wives_, surely the most genial, and the fullest of human humours, of all comedies. it seems certain that the first version of this "most pleasaunt and excellent conceited comedie" was written very rapidly, because the second version is so much longer, and differs so widely from the earlier play. in consequence of the prevalence of the plague in london, the court, in 1593, lay long at windsor, and there can be little doubt that the first version of the play was commissioned and acted at windsor in that year. it is a delightful theme for the imagination to picture a sunny morning on which the royal cavalcade rode through windsor park. essex and southampton were there; and shakspeare, no doubt, rode, for a time at least, by the bridle of great elizabeth. the words then spoken between queen and poet we cannot recall; but as we read the lovable _merry wives_, we enjoy some of the results of the conversation. so genial is the comedy that even sir john's base humours do not excite moral indignation. he fails so hugely. beaten, baffled, and befooled, the merry but honest wives have the laugh of him, and we feel the spirit of the pleasant jest when mrs. page proposes to "laugh this sport o'er by a country fire; sir john and all." we fill in fancy some street in windsor with those quaint old gabled houses, set in fair gardens, in one of which master page, in another master ford, lived; and can reconstruct the "garter" inn;[5] we see the fields near windsor in which the mock duel does not come off, and we can imagine to ourselves the farmhouse near frogmore at which pretty mistress anne page was feasting. we can follow the basket of washing to the "whitsters in datchet mead," and can almost recognise the muddy ditch by the thames into which the unchaste knight was thrown. as regards the question whether the date of the play be the time of the wild prince and poins, or the contemporary day of great elizabeth, one little passage makes the point clear. when falstaff wants to use the chimney as a hiding-place, mrs. page says, that they always use to discharge their birding-pieces up the chimney. now, in the days of henry iv., there were no "birding-pieces," while the part country gentleman, part opulent burgher of elizabeth's time, especially in such a place as windsor, would possess a fowling-piece. the old characters of pistol, bardolph, nym, are only used because they seem to be the natural hangers-on of falstaff; and we may safely assume that we are reading, or seeing, a comedy of manners belonging to shakspeare's own day. did the queen, shakspeare, and the court ride by that oak of herne the hunter, who was "sometime a keeper here in windsor forest"? round that oak, in windsor park, occurred the last revenge of the merry wives, after which foul old sir john is bidden to "serve god, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you." we may enjoy a most delightful time of fair fancies in windsor forest while we think of those "spirits, which by mine art i have from their confines call'd to enact my present fancies;" and the charming crowd of characters in the dear _merry wives_ fade like an insubstantial vision, as we unwillingly leave our ramble in the park, and saunter down, with imaginations sweetly and subtly stirred, to our waiting boat. it is good to leave windsor with minds filled with creations of our shakspeare in his sweetest and his gentlest mood. /h. schütz wilson/. [illustration: procession of the boats, eton.] chapter vii. windsor to hampton court. leaving windsor--eton, its history and its worthies--the college buildings--windsor park--the long walk--the albert bridge--datchet and falstaff--old windsor--"perdita's" grave--the tapestry works--the "bells of ouseley"--riverside inns--the loves of harry and anne boleyn--magna charter island--runnymede--the poet of cooper's hill--fish at bell weir--a neglected dainty--egham and staines--john emery--penton hook--laleham--dr. arnold--chertsey--the lock and bridge--albert smith and his brother--chertsey abbey--black cherry fair--cowley the poet--a scene from "oliver twist"--st. ann's hill--weybridge--oaklands and the grotto--shepperton lock and ferry--halliford--walton--the scold's bridle--sunbury--hampton--moulsey hurst and its sporting associations--hampton court bridge. the course of the beautiful river as it glides onward from windsor to hampton might provoke many a quaint historical conceit, as other rivers have done less aptly. we drift on the tide of thames, as on the tide of time, away from the norman to the plantagenet, from the plantagenet to the tudor; and it is the life of england that we can scan as the waters flow past scenes which, through all the mutations of the ages, through all the seasons' difference, year after year, are ever freshly, strongly, characteristically english. from the conqueror's steep-throned stronghold; past the ait and meadow associated deathlessly with the solemn declaration that "no freeman shall be seized, or imprisoned, or dispossessed, or outlawed, or in any way destroyed"--"nor condemned, nor committed, to prison excepting by the legal judgment of his peers or by the laws of the land;" past more than one memorial of the mild king whose piety and love of learning founded eton college; and still onward, far onward, along the fluvial current of history, till we reach the stately and substantial record of another and a later henry, last of that royal name, and opposite in all respects of character, temperament, and will to the weak and gentle plantagenet. from windsor, then, and from eton's distant spires; from the playing-fields, the bathing-places, the brocas, and firework eyot; from the fisheries, too, which exist on the same spots they occupied eight hundred years ago--for wherever a fishery or a mill is named in domesday book, there it will generally be found, as of yore--we turn reluctantly, and not until a lingering look has been cast back on the old familiar scenes. our way is on the river, or by its side, the towing-path being a track which pedestrians may follow with pleasant ease. but here and there the land may win us astray; and at the very commencement of our jaunt there is more to interest us ashore than afloat. not that the river hereabout lessens in charm. on the contrary, its winding beauty is almost at its height. but that very beauty half depends on prospects which lead our thoughts inland; and inland we must consent, therefore, to be led. eton is a well-worn theme--but can never be outworn! the royal college of the blessed virgin, whose assumption is depicted in the centre of the collegiate seal, was founded in the year 1440, after henry's visit to winchester, whence came eton's first head-master, william of waynflete. "it was high time," says fuller, "some school should be founded, considering how low grammar-learning then ran in the land." the original endowments were for "ten sad priests, four lay clerks, six choristers, twenty-five poor grammar-scholars, and twenty-five poor men to pray for the king." there are now on the foundation a provost, vice-provost, six fellows, three conducts, seventy king's scholars, ten clerks, and twelve choristers. beside these, there are above seven hundred scholars--oppidans--who are not on the foundation. one of the masters of eton college is illustrious through all time in which the english language is studied, as the writer of our earliest comedy, or the earliest which has come down intact to modern days. not later than 1551, as critics and scholars are mostly agreed, did nicholas udall write his "ralph roister-doister," which, in plot and dialogue, is immensely superior to john still's "gammer gurton's needle," supposed to have been written a few years--perhaps as many as fourteen--afterwards. the greatest of literary rarities in the library of eton college is a copy of master nicholas udall's right merry conceit, which is divided, in what would be considered as modern orthodox form, into five acts; is constructed with comic art of uncommon excellence; contains thirteen characters, some of them powerfully and distinctly marked; and exhibits the manners of the middle order of people at that day, the scene being laid in london. all that we can reasonably guess concerning nicholas udall as a teacher of youth is, that he was one to help in setting that early example of severity which was long afterwards followed as a sacred tradition of public-school custom and discipline. perhaps he had, according to custom of his time, a whipping-boy, or puerile scapegoat, to take on his back the sins of happier pupils. but it is more likely that master udall swished without favour all round. thomas tusser, who wrote the didactic poem, "five hundreth points of good husbandrie," was one of udall's scholars, and gives hard report of him as a most exacting master. it is somewhat remarkable that the first two writers of comic drama in the language should both have been schoolmasters. john still, author of the piece of low rustic humour before mentioned, of which the dramatic point is that of the needle itself, found by gammer gurton's man, hodge, in a manner equally startling and climacteric, was master of st. john's and trinity colleges, cambridge, and afterwards chancellor of the university, and bishop of bath and wells. one of the best things in "gammer gurton's needle" is a song, the well-known- "i cannot eat but little meat." professor craik was inclined to opinion that "ralph roister-doister" was the later of the two "farcical comedies," as they would now be called. men of the world, active in social affairs, as well as clerkly and diligent in the conduct of the school, were some of the earlier provosts and masters. roger lupton, whose rebus, the uncouth syllable, lup, surmounting a tun, is carved over the door of the little chantry which contains his tomb, built the great tower and gateway, when he was provost in henry vii.'s time and later. sir thomas smith was a secretary of state and a well-known diplomatist in the reigns of henry viii., edward vi., mary, and elizabeth. sir henry wotton was conspicuous both as a writer and a statesman, having been an ambassador of james i.; nor is it necessary to say that as an angler he was the companion of izaak walton, by whom he was beloved and praised, notably as an "undervaluer of money." francis rouse, speaker of the barebones parliament, saved eton from confiscation, and founded three scholarships. all these men might have been famed in other paths than those of learning had they never seen the college they influenced and benefited. other illustrious provosts and head-masters, though not so versatile as to have influenced worldly affairs and the state of the nation in any direct way, or to have written freely and jovially for the "inglorious stage," have left a mark on their time which is more than merely scholastic. such were sir henry savile, reader to queen elizabeth, and one of the greatest scholars of her learned reign; thomas murray, tutor and secretary to prince charles; dr. steward, clerk of the closet to that prince after his accession to the throne; nicholas monk, brother of the duke of albemarle, and sometime bishop of hereford; richard allestree, canon of christchurch, who built the upper school; and the late dr. hawtrey, famed for his elegant scholarship as well as for his success as head-master. the "ever memorable" john hales (whose name, brilliant at one time as that of a keen theological controversialist, might in this age be forgotten but for milton's well-known sonnet), bishop pearson, bishop fleetwood, earl camden, dean stanhope, sir robert walpole, sir william draper, and archbishop longley were all, as boys, on the foundation of eton college; and other celebrities educated there--some of their names carved on the old wainscoting--were edmund waller, harley, earl of oxford, lord bolingbroke, the great earl of chatham, lord lyttelton, thomas gray, horace walpole, wyndham, fox, canning, henry fielding, admiral lord howe, the marquis wellesley, the duke of wellington, and henry hallam. [illustration: eton, from the playing-fields.] in the notes to collier's map of windsor, published in 1742, an etymology is assigned to eton which is not clearly demonstrated, if, indeed, it be demonstrable. "eton," we read, "is so called from its low situation among the waters; for eton is the same as watertown, but, as they are running waters, and it is a gravelly soil, it is observed that no place is more healthy than this." few buildings, indeed, are more happily situated than this venerable pile of old red-brown brick and caen stone, marked by the characteristic architecture of three centuries. the old part of the college, begun in 1441 and finished in 1523, consists of two quadrangles, in one of which are the chapel and school, with the dormitories of the foundation-scholars, while the other contains the library, provost's house, and lodgings of the fellows. it is, of course, the chapel--a fine example of early perpendicular, resembling in outline king's college chapel, at cambridge--that gives dignity and distinction to all pictures of the place, from whichsoever point you take your view. the spires of this beautiful structure are those which "crown the watery glade," and are conspicuous above the quaint turrets of the surrounding buildings seen from afar. many are the views of eton which are commended, each as being the best, by different persons. the curving railway-run from slough gives a continuous succession of changes not to be despised; but undoubtedly the riverside is best. gray's distant prospect was from the north terrace of windsor castle. mr. david law chose romney island for his standpoint when he made the sketch for one of his finest etchings. but in truth the buildings group well everywhere, as they are seen from a distance; the crowning glory being always the pinnacled chapel. it is scarcely to be doubted that henry vi., who laid the first stone lovingly, and with meek emulation of the noble foundations of william of wykeham, at winchester and oxford, in his mind intended that the structure, perfect as it now appears, should form only the choir of a magnificent collegiate church. to the beautiful building, as we see it, he would have added a nave and aisles, grandly vaulted, as the strength of the buttresses sufficiently indicates the chapel itself was meant to be. but the troublous years that closed his reign prevented the fulfilment of those designs; and it was left for the present century to bring the interior more worthily into accord with so fair an outside. bird's bronze statue of the royal founder, erected by provost godolphin, in 1719, stands in the centre of one of the quadrangles. there is a look of cheerful gravity in the brick fronts of the college buildings. the elaborate quaintness of the chimneys, the sedate solidity, whether of plainness or of ornament, give a pleasant character to these quadrangles, in the larger of which, containing the bronze statue of henry vi., is as picturesque a clock-tower as any architect in soul might wish to see. here, on the opposite side, the hand of sir christopher wren is denoted in the fine arcade supporting the upper school. the second and smaller quadrangle, called the green yard, is surrounded by a cloister, and in it is the entrance to the hall, a curious apartment, with a daïs, and with three fireplaces, which were long panelled in and lost to memory. but we must not lose ourselves too long within the college and its precincts, lest the attractions of the library, the provost's lodgings, the election-hall, and the new buildings erected in the tudor style, make us oblivious to our riverside ramble. it is on the stream itself, and on well-known spots along its banks, that eton manifests her vigorous training in various traditionary ways. the river is constantly covered with boats, and its proximity to the college has given etonians that proficiency in swimming and rowing of which they are justly proud, and which they maintain by practice and prize-giving. chief among the bathing-places of note is athens, with its acropolis, famed for "headers." on the fourth of june, now the speech day, loyally instituted in celebration of the birthday of king george iii., a procession of boats from the brocas to surley hall is the event of the afternoon; and the evening closes with a display of fireworks. there are many old etonians whose memory goes back to the montem, abolished forty years ago. it was a triennial celebration, held on whit tuesday, and has been the subject of many a picturesque description, not the least vivid and truthful of which was a dramatic sketch by maria edgeworth, intended, like other of her charming essays and tales, such, for example, as "barring-out," for the delectation of youth. eton montem partook somewhat too strongly of the old saturnalian character for modern tastes; and it was at the instance of a head-master that the old custom was discontinued, not without aid from government and opposition from young and old etonians. the last montem, in 1846, was conducted with such maimed rites as to be a mere shadow of olden heartiness and gaiety; but in its jolliest days, which were in the reign of "farmer george," there was no doubt something really salient in the mock-ceremony on salt hill. it was "for the honour of the college" that the boys, handsomely and expensively dressed in various fancy costumes, levied contributions on all and sundry passengers along the bath road, past the mound, believed to be an ancient tumulus, which bore the name already mentioned. the money called salt was gathered for the captain or senior boy to defray his expenses at cambridge, whither he was going as king's scholar. when henry vi. resolved on founding a college at eton, he incorporated two small colleges or hostels at cambridge, one of which he had instituted two years before. thus originated king's college, to which, as lambarde says, "eton sendeth forth her ripest fruit." the scholars are required by the statute to be "indigentes," but of course this provision has long been a dead letter. to take farewell of the college of eton is usually to take farewell of the town, in which, as guide-books say, there is little interest; though, forsooth, interest may be wanting where we may find pleasure of the less exciting kind, not soon to die away. at least, there is in eton unaffected substantiality of old-fashioned building, taking the form of its own age, and not stealing outward conceits from any other. some of the houses of professional persons and private inhabitants, tutors and others, opposite the college, with its chestnut-trees, are staid, and even venerable. as dickens said of the old unspoilt pier at broadstairs, they have "no pretensions to architecture," and are "immensely picturesque in consequence." hereabout is the well-stored shop of the librarian and publisher, never lacking custom in term-time. eton college has its literary "organ," and lives in hope of a canning to immortalise pages which meanwhile are not deficient in sense and style, as how, indeed, should they be? in this publication are duly chronicled events which now are scarcely eventful, but which will make history some of these days. the doings in playground and on river, at football and cricket, rowing, swimming, and diving, are here registered, to the satisfaction of "wet bobs" and "dry bobs," as the boys whose varying athletic tastes lead them in different directions are called. there is no house of public entertainment in eton which is distinguished by the modernised term, hotel; but there are some decent inns, the most comfortable of which is reported to be the "christopher." it is a direct continuation of eton into windsor across the bridge connecting the berkshire with the buckinghamshire town, the town being to all intents and purposes one. windsor great park--thus designated in distinction from the home park of 500 acres, which adjoins the castle, and is the enclosure which contained herne's oak--should now be seen. it is separated from the castle precincts by the high road, and by part of windsor. apportioned here and there to farms, it still comprises a clear area little short of 2,000 acres, forest-like in much of its scenery, and abounding in walks and drives, from which a herd of deer is a frequent addition to the regal beauty of the prospect. when, for purpose of ridicule and burlesque, the title duke of shoreditch finds its way into modern literature, it may be called to mind that the first man so dubbed was a londoner named barlow, who, at one of the great archery meetings held by henry viii. so excelled all the buckinghamshire yeoman, that his majesty forthwith gave him, half in pique, half in pleasantry, the mock style and honour. for three miles the great park is traversed by the elm-bordered avenue called the long walk, at the far end of which, set up high on an eminence known as snow hill, stands a colossal equestrian statue in lead, by westmacott, of george iii., in classic costume. the fine perspective, with its countless noble trees, was planned by charles ii., and finished under william iii. only by accident, fortunate or unfortunate we hesitate to say, was it that the quaintly beautiful gate, built at whitehall by holbein, "with bricks of two colours, glazed, and disposed in a tesselated fashion,"[6] and taken down in 1759, did not take the place now occupied by the leaden statue of george iii. the materials of the tudor gate, carefully preserved, were brought hither by the duke of cumberland, with an intention which was frustrated by his mortal sickness. it was as well, after all, that a civic gate was not set up in a sylvan park, however stately. transplanted monuments seldom, if ever, find congenial surroundings. the duke of devonshire, in quite recent years, declined the offer of the fine water-gate of york house, built for duke steenie by inigo jones; and there it stands to this day, elbowed into obscurity by the thames embankment. no cavendish was ever yet so wanting in a sense of the fitness of things as not to feel that a river edifice, designed as a point of landing and embarking, would be out of place as a portal of a mansion in piccadilly. wherever temple bar may be erected, it will be an incongruity and an anachronism, serving only to turn men's minds fretfully to the incongruous pile of maimed heraldry, portrait-sculpture, allegorical confusion, and vulgar commonplace, in stone and bronze, built up by mr. jones--horace, not inigo--in the middle of the road over against the law courts. not as completed according to its original plan does the long walk in windsor great park now appear. it was a walk, and nothing more, for charles ii. was a pedestrian. and as a walk it remained till 1710, at which time the carriage-road down the avenue was constructed, a new footpath having meanwhile been made for queen anne, which to this day retains its old title, the queen's walk. royal residences and olden sites, and monuments relating to royalty, distinguish windsor park and its neighbourhood. [illustration: the albert bridge.] our way now lies past frogmore, and over the river again, by the albert bridge, to southley, where we set our faces up-stream, going back a little on our course to visit datchet. another iron bridge, higher up--named the victoria bridge--would have taken us thither more directly; though we must then have missed the park and its scenic associations. but if it were only to see the datchet of shakespeare, the datchet lane, and datchet mead by which ford's men carried falstaff to the river brink in the buck-basket, and there canted him into the water with the foul linen, we could as well have remained on the berkshire shore. there might, indeed, have been a wooden bridge between windsor and datchet in elizabethan days; but it is most likely that the name of datchet, bridge or no bridge, applied to spots on both sides the river, and that datchet mead was a piece of low land between windsor home park and the river. as such, it is mentioned by mrs. s. c. hall, who agrees with other writers in supposing that falstaff and the foul linen were tilted, according to mistress ford's injunctions, into the muddy ditch among the whitsters, close to thames side. but falstaff, both in his soliloquy at the "garter" inn, and in the account of the affair to "master brook," distinctly says he was thrown into thames, the shelving shore of which river saved him from drowning. the real datchet on the buckinghamshire side could not have been intended by shakespeare, unless, by a poetical licence, he brought datchet over to windsor. the topographers and the shakespearean annotators alike have been content to slur this point, leaving their readers to reconcile the doubts concerning which all modern authorities, or such as ought to be authorities, are silent. the nearest elucidation is yet afar off. we find it in a note by malone on dennis, who had objected to the probability of the circumstance of falstaff's having been carried to datchet mead, "which," says dennis, "is half a mile from windsor." this would refer, certainly, to a mead on the berkshire side, and not in the parish of datchet, in a county separated by the thames. mrs. hall was doubtless right in placing datchet mead between the towing-path and windsor little park; but it is a pity she was not more explicit. the muddy ditch named by mistress ford in the play was probably that which, being covered over in queen anne's time, was used as a drain, and came to be called hog hole. it was destroyed when the embankment was raised to form a foundation for the windsor side of victoria bridge. both from this bridge and from its fellow, lower down, good views are obtained of windsor castle. at datchet, no longer so pretty and picturesque as it was half a century ago, is an old church of early english and decorated styles, in which queen elizabeth's printer, christopher barber, is buried; as also lady katherine berkeley, daughter of lord mountjoy. above datchet, izaak walton used to fish, sometimes with his friend, sir henry wotton, the provost of eton before mentioned. [illustration: old windsor lock.] albert bridge, with its long, flattened, tudor arch, spanning the river at one bound, bears a miniature resemblance to the design of the bridge at westminster, and is light and elegant, though of a modern taste, which lacks the picturesqueness and simplicity of the old objects on the river. the span, however, adds safety to the navigation, especially in these times of steam-launches, the most unpopular and best-hated craft on the thames. like other ills, we have come to tolerate them for a certain one-sided convenience, esteemed by the selfish, the lazy, and the fast. all pleasant quiet on the river, as, indeed, on the shore, is a thing of long ago. idlesse, dreamy solitude, _could_ only be enjoyed by the few, and _can_ never be enjoyed by them. in coupling, or rather in identifying the fast and the lazy, we may, by hasty thinkers, be suspected of a contradiction. there is none in what we have said. the lazy are often restless in their inert desire to be conveyed swiftly from place to place; for they have no energy for idling. to rush, screaming on, with their hands in their pockets, and no motion of their own, is the height of bliss to such people, and this is the enjoyment a steam-launch affords. yet the unpopular vessel has a popularity of its own. riverside folk in the mass, from the duke of westminster to the poorest toiler who profits by the early-closing movement and the bank-holidays, all join in decrying the rowdy intruder--the "'arry" of river craft. but "'arry" is all-pervading, and multiplies himself with astonishing exuberance and rapidity. there is more of him every day; and there are more and more steam-launches, for all the outcry against them. old windsor, whatever may have been the state to which it attained when young or middle-aged, is now only a village, and not, so far as appearances go, a very old one. like the schoolboy's knife, which had first a new blade, then a new spring, then another new blade, and then a new handle, it has been transformed by successive renewings. it is by a new road from new windsor that this old windsor, which is much the newer of the two, is reached. we pass the prince consort's model farm to get at the one bit of antiquity. this is the church. it is very picturesque, and derives a certain venerable suggestiveness from the yews and other old trees surrounding it. but it is not of remarkably early date; and restorations have robbed it of more age than it could well afford to lose. trees are the best friends that old windsor can boast. they keep it warm and green and comely. the by-road leading to the church is not often trodden, except by those who really deserve the name of church-goers. it is not a show-place; that is one thing in its favour. it has a green and tranquil churchyard; that is another. the name best known to people who have read the modern history of old windsor church is a whispered name; the tomb which bears it is a neglected tomb; few go out of their way to pace that little cemetery; fewer still find the grave of mary robinson. hush! it is a name that the kind will be kindest to forget. no loving care kept the tomb from being overgrown with nettles for fifty years; and it is too late now, even were it seemly, to vex the ghost of poor "perdita." that was the lady's romantic designation. she had played the character in shakespeare's _winter's tale_. there was a prince florizel who wore a chestnut wig, a frogged and fur-collared frock-coat, tight breeches, and silk stockings, and cut a very elegant figure on the throne of england--"george the magnificent," he is called by mr. thackeray. he invented a new shoe-buckle. it was five inches broad, covering almost the whole instep, and reaching down to the ground on either side of the foot. "a sweet invention!" exclaims the satirist. and a pretty prince florizel, truly, whose head was so full of such matters as these, and whose heart was so choked with egregious vanity that, having "kissed and fondled poor perdita on monday, he met her on tuesday and did not know her." she sleeps, now, peacefully in the tree-shaded churchyard of old windsor--she and her daughter, maria elizabeth robinson, both of literary fame, the inscriptions tell. what did they write? poetry, was it? there is a tombstone also here to the memory of a shepherd, named thomas pope, who died half a century ago, aged ninety-six, having been "cheerfully laborious to an advanced age." on the same stone is recorded the death of "phoebe, wife of the above," aged ninety years. their fame was not literary, nor their work of the poetical kind. their bodies, nevertheless, are buried in peace, and their names, merged, it may be, in "the long pedigree of toil," live for evermore. but though old windsor is reduced to an insignificant suburb of new windsor, it was the royal dwelling-place when all was forest around, and when the solitary chalk hill, standing up from a tree-covered clay tract on the riverside, was uncrowned by feudal masonry. that was before the norman took hold upon england. at the conquest, old windsor was a manor belonging to the saxon kings, who are conjectured to have had a palace here from a very early period. we may fancy theirs to have been a less splendid court than that of "george the magnificent." when edward the confessor--who afterwards presented the manor to his newly-founded monastery of westminster--ruled england from this spot, a few serfs and swineherds dwelt sparsely in huts among the thick woods. the site of the saxon palace can only be guessed; but antiquaries have surmised that an old farmhouse which stood west of the church, and near the river, surrounded by a moat, probably marked the place. when the conqueror, having obtained the land from the monastery, by fair bargain, as appears, built a fortress on the eminence which we now call castle hill, the palace at old windsor remained a palace. it is probable that the first norman castle on the neighbouring mound was simply a defensive work, with no convenient residence, till henry i. completed additional buildings. thenceforth windsor castle was windsor castle indeed; and little is heard in history of old windsor. the manor passed from hand to hand, each tenant for a time holding from the king by service. one man, with lance and dart, for the royal army, was all required. since the fourteenth century, the holding has been on lease from the crown. tapestry works, which of old were maintained at windsor, and fell into disuse, have in late years been revived. looms were set up in buildings specially adapted to the industry, which was initiated by foreign workmen, the art of tapestry-weaving in england having quite died out. one of the artists engaged in supplying designs was the late mr. e. m. ward, r.a., and the application of the modern tapestries to household decoration was mainly encouraged by messrs. gillow and company, who have employed these hangings with great effect in the royal pavilion, each succeeding year, at the south kensington exhibitions. keen interest in the revival of this artistic and dignified class of manufacture was taken by the late duke of albany, under whose patronage an exhibition in furtherance of the scheme was held in windsor town hall. an early and munificent encourager of the work was mr. christopher sykes, m.p., whose town mansion was richly adorned with the windsor tapestries. no traveller bids farewell to old windsor without paying his respects to one of the best of the riverside taverns, the time-honoured "bells of ouseley." perfectly free, at present, from modern revivalism, and from all manner of conscious style, is this genuine old inn, separated by the high road from the river bank. its quaint bow-windows, one on either side of a porch entered by way of a steep flight of steps--the wholesome dread of unsteady topers--are just of the period and fashion to captivate an artist in search of the picturesque; nor can we look on this unspoilt hostelry without thinking of mr. leslie, mr. boughton, or mr. tissot. in france, a village cabaret or auberge, humbler than this, would yet be far more advanced in the art of public entertainment. "they cook very well at these places," is a remark you frequently hear in normandy, picardy, or champagne, from the lips of culinary judges, versed in all the intricacies of parisian gastronomy; and if the unpretending inn be near a trout-stream, be sure you may have a dish fit for a prince, and within the means of a woodcutter. were some enterprising cook to lease a cosy tavern like the "bells of ouseley," and introduce a really high-class _cuisine_ on a choice but simple scale, the place would be talked about in a month and spoiled in a year, at the end of which time the proprietor might be either a rich man or a bankrupt. let us take our pretty, rustic riverside resort, for rest and refreshment, as we find it. fine cookery would drive out honest companions whom old izaak--who had a face like an elderly pike, but was a right good fellow for all that--would have drawn into profitable talk; for at the "bells of ouseley" you meet anglers and bargemen from whom much is to be learnt, if you go the right way to get hold of them. on the left as you enter is the tap, often crowded; on the right a bar-parlour, in which the company is more select. of old the "bells" had the reputation of being a house of call for "minions of the moon," as falstaff called them, or "knights of the road," to choose a later phrase, such as the authors of "paul clifford" and "rookwood" would have applied to the same order of gentry. but the landlord does not, in these days, give stall and fodder to nags of suspicious character, like bonny black bess. the old stone stable is oftener occupied by steeds that consume neither oats nor hay; and the highwaymen are not such as wear crape over their faces, or carry pistols like demi-culverins, or dance minuets with ladies they have plundered, but are in fact only members of a bicycle club. under that old roof with its odd chimneys, standing against a background of greenery, there are jolly ghosts, you may be sure; for the grimmer goblins that have haunted the "bells" in time when gibbets were plentiful, and when every one of these evil trees bore its rotting fruit, that swung and creaked in the night-wind, were laid long ago in a red sea of steaming punch, by boon companions of those who, as the phrase was, "suffered." the fishing at the "bells" is good. capital chub and dace are taken with the fly, and gudgeon are plentiful as blackberries. [illustration: the "bells of ouseley."] [illustration: magna charta island.] on the bucks shore, above the outfall of the little river colne, which flows into the broader thames, below bell weir lock, is wraysbury, a name which has been conveniently adapted to local phonetics from "wyrardisbury." over the colne there is a suspension-bridge; and the river is crossed by the south-western railway, which has a station here. wraysbury church is distinguishable under its restorations, which appear to have followed in good faith the original design, as a fair example of early english architecture. it preserves one of those rarities of monumental design of which so largely outnumbering a proportion of village churches have been robbed. this is the brass which represents, in the habit of an eton scholar at the beginning of the sixteenth century, john stonor, who is not the only recorded association of this place with the college of the blessed virgin mary. there is ankerwyke house, a modern mansion, embowered in trees, by the riverside. it occupies the site of a benedictine priory, which, in its later days of dissolution, was given as a residence, by edward vi., to a provost of eton, sir thomas smith. this priory, for nuns of the above-named order, was founded in the reign of henry ii., by sir gilbert montfichet. of the old religious buildings hardly a trace remains. ankerwyke house is associated by tradition with the courtship of anne boleyn by henry viii., who used, it is said, to meet her under a yew-tree, which has since grown to the goodly girth of twenty-eight feet. great trees of this kind have an exceedingly venerable look, but as a matter of fact their age seldom comes near comparison with that of the oak; and a yew-tree pretending to the age of three hundred and fifty years and more may be looked upon with doubt, at least as reasonable as the scepticism of a thom or a cornewall lewis, directed to the subject of human longevity. wraysbury is rather a pretty village than otherwise, and we leave it with a wish that it may be spared any loss of its present prettiness for many years to come. an unspoiled path leads to the ferry, by which magna charta island is reached, the lower of two islets in midstream. topography is at loggerheads as to whether, the barons holding the island, this was the place of meeting between them and king john, or the field named runnymede was the spot on which the grant of english freedom was signed. anglo-saxon authorities derive the name from rûn, and say that runnymede means council meadow. so that the island and the field on the surrey shore--for we stepped across the boundary of berks when we bade farewell to old windsor--hold the great historical honour in dispute. we should certainly incline to a decision in favour of the island. it was on the plain level field, such as we now see it, unbroken by hedge or wall, house or barn, that edward the confessor no doubt occasionally held his "witan," during his residence at old windsor. the norman barons would have been likely to choose the island, both on account of its association with those very rights they were met to assert, and because it was at a convenient distance from windsor, sufficiently near for the king, but far enough to prevent any treacherous surprise by his forces. it is, indeed, asserted by early historians that the island opposite the meadow was chosen by the barons, the king having proposed windsor as the place of meeting. local tradition, which may be taken for what it is worth, accords with written history. the charter bears date june 15, 1215; and in that very year john had taken refuge in windsor castle, as a place of security against the growing power of the barons. on magna charta island a gothic cottage has been built by one of the harcourts, lords of the manor, as an altar-house for a large rough stone, which bears an inscription setting forth that king john signed magna charta on that island. tradition or fancy goes a step farther, and represents the stone to have been the royal writing-desk. from runnymede the slopes of cooper's hill rise, on which sir john denham conferred celebrity, if, indeed, cooper's hill did not the rather confer celebrity on him. it is certain that his poem, which disputes the palm of descriptive verse with ben jonson's lines on penshurst, is far better known than anything else he ever wrote. no one thinks of naming denham without quoting those four lines which dryden and pope have lauded, and which remain to the taste of a changed epoch "the exact standard of good writing." many critics, so to speak, have taken off their hats to the quotation, and have printed it usually in admiring italics. addressing thames, the poet says:- "o, could i flow like thee, and make thy stream my great example, as it is my theme! though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full." reflective power, almost equal to wordsworth's, characterised the poetry of denham; but he can hardly be compared to the modern poet in the quality of description. if he has drawn a pretty good likeness of the river, which does, however, occasionally overflow, and at other times is by no means full, surely the hill is unrecognisable in such portraiture as this:- "but his proud head the airy mountain hides among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides a shady mantle clothes; his curled brows frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows, while winds and storms his lofty forehead beat, the common fate of all that's high or great. low at his foot a spacious plain is placed, between the mountain and the stream embraced, which shade and shelter from the hill derives, while the kind river wealth and beauty gives." over denham's gorgeous clouds of fancy, clothing the sides of this thamesian mountain, some pretty villas, with lawns and gardens, are dotted among the trees, with which cooper's hill is beautifully planted. its gentle slopes, green and gradual, scarcely attain steepness at any point; and the wild hyperbole which makes the airy mountain hide his proud head in the clouds is absurdly misleading. the view from its summit is wide and fair; and the silver windings of the river towards windsor castle, which stands up in its pride of strength, are finely shown on the face of the landscape; and if denham lost himself in picturing a hill, he is at home again in his representation of a plain. runnymede, as fair a pasture as it was seven hundred years ago, is still unbroken, still sheltered by the hill and enriched by the river. an army might assemble there, as in the feudal days of old. [illustration: runnymede.] bell weir, and the picnic, as the island a little above runnymede is called, are favourite resorts of holiday-makers, anglers among others; and no more delightful part of the river for rest and recreation, as well as for sport, can be found than in the beautiful reaches which succeed one another as the stream winds, now this way, now that, between banks that never lose their charm of interest and variety. on the picnic, however, picnics are ceasing or have ceased. liberty, so cheerfully accorded, has, with too many picnic-parties, been turned to licence, and permission to use the island for such kind of pleasure-making had at last to be stopped. if the bold briton can be brought to see the gracelessness of accepting a grace, and then abusing it, perhaps there may be a renewal, in time, of the concession. close to the weir, on the surrey side of the river, is an excellent inn, aptly, though it may be tritely, called the "angler's rest." barbel, roach, club, and gudgeon are plentiful round the bell weir; and trout are often taken. thames gudgeon run somewhat small, and anglers who do not combine culinary taste and skill with their proficiency in the craft are apt to regard the little fish as no more than a good sort of live-bait. and this, indeed, he is, especially if you are pike-fishing. arthur smith, the amiable brother of albert, who thought a pike, stuffed and baked, very good eating, knew the partiality of this voracious fish for gudgeon. indeed, master jack, who is both a _gourmand_ and a _gourmet_--the characters being oftener united than is commonly supposed--will pass by any other prey to get at the silver morsel, which has been called by some human epicures the freshwater smelt. so, by-the-by, will a perch, the only fish that can live with pike on terms of armed neutrality or amicable defiance. freshwater smelt, indeed! why, the despised gudgeon, properly cleansed and treated with salt, is, when freshly caught and delicately fried, the smelt's decided superior; and it is perfectly surprising that the former is not more in request--is never asked for, in fact--at london restaurants. yet, in paris, at bignon's, champeaux', the café anglais, the café de la paix, the maison doré, or at the cascade in the bois de boulogne, or at the tête noir at st. cloud, no judicious diner misses _goujon_, when that fish is to be had, as it generally is. why must we wait till we go abroad before we think of asking for gudgeon? why should we pooh-pooh the dainty little fellow? is it because it is so easy to catch him that his very name has passed into a proverb? depend upon it, in spite of the ridicule which follows gudgeon-fishing as the facile entertainment of "a young angler," we make a great mistake, and lose many a dainty dish, in this scornful, or at least jocular, disregard of so sweet and delicate a fish. [illustration: windsor to hampton court.] gudgeons swim in shoals, are always greedy biters, and, in fact, hook themselves with so charming and ready a will, that ladies and boys have no greater trouble than pulling them out of the water as soon as the hook, baited with a red worm, is dropped into it. no other labour, and no skill or activity beyond, is needed. the hook must be small, and the worm must be small also; and the gravelly bottom should be raked, to stir up the aquatic insects and larvæ, and so to summon the confiding fish together. angling and rowing are not the only pursuits on the river or by its banks. the student of natural history and the landscape-painter, by which, in these days, is mostly meant the same, may botanise to their hearts' content; and, if they care more for popular and poetic than for scientific botany, may be glad to find there are still such beings as country folk, and still such names for flowering plants as codlings-and-cream, which the vulgar call _epilobium hirsutum_. call it what you will, this same plant, which is in truth the large-flowered willow-herb, and has a wholesome, but not very distinct or pungent odour, supposed to resemble the scent of apples with cream, as above named, is liked by cattle, and was at one time recommended for cultivation as fodder in wet places where other useful plants will not grow. the true forget-me-not--the _vergiss-mein-nicht_ of the german tale--grows in extraordinary luxuriance and beauty in these fresh grassy places. an amphibious little weed, with red-shaded green leaves floating on the water, and with pink spike-blossoms, called the persicaria, is beautiful and harmless when dancing on the rippled recesses of the river, but a bane to farming when it takes to a life on shore. we are close to egham now, and may either put up at the "angler's rest" or enter the town and seek bed and board at the "catherine wheel." egham is a small town surrounded by some very pretty country, which, having been, bit by bit, blemished by taste, has received the final blow from the conspicuous benevolence of a millionaire. this gentleman has built a gorgeous palace, nay, two gorgeous palaces, for imbeciles of the superior class. the buildings, taken together, may be about as big as windsor castle, and they are as visibly prominent in the landscape, though not precisely with the same effect. a white granite bridge, designed by rennie, and opened in 1832, by william iv. and queen adelaide, connects egham with staines, and in these iron times is a positive relief to the eye afflicted by such viaducts, railway and other, as are rapidly spoiling the thames. altogether there is a comfortable modern look about both places, their comeliness, such as it is, being entirely due to natural surroundings. egham is mainly one long street. the church is a plain structure of the negative style of 1820, the tower being a landmark seen from far. there is likewise a chapel of ease; and there are places of worship for different denominations. what more of egham? strode's almshouses are in its high street, and a cottage hospital is healthily placed on egham hill. the elizabethan house of great fosters is in the neighbourhood. egham has an annual race-meeting, the course being no other than runnymede. staines, new and manufactural as it now appears for the most part--the "linoleum" works having largely contributed to its industrial aspect--is as old as any place in true english history. ancient records give the name as stanes. modernised though it be, staines is by no means bereft of all antiquity. the church is venerable; and near it is winicroft house, a tudor building which some of the good folk, innocent of architecture and chronology, soberly assign to the reign of king john, who sure enough had a palace at staines, somewhere or other, and not impossibly on this particular site. one of the earliest bridges in england, preceding the roman, as may be inferred from the itinerary of antoninus, crossed the river here. when the roman road to the west was made, and a military station formed at staines, it is probable that a stronger bridge was built; and, as most of the roman bridges in england seem to have been of wood, supported by stone piers, the guess that staines, or more properly stanes, took its name from those relics of roman occupancy, is perhaps pardonable. just above the town, at the mouth of one of the entrances of the colne into the thames, where an ait is formed, stands a monument worth careful attention. it is a square stone shaft on a pedestal, which again is raised on a base formed of three gradations. this is the ancient london stone, or boundary stone, as it is alternatively called, for it has served during many ages to mark the beginning of middlesex out of buckinghamshire, and the termination of the city's jurisdiction over the waters of thames. [illustration: london stone.] the conservancy of the river, by long prescription, confirmed by various charters and acts of parliament, was vested in the lord mayor and corporation. apart from the courts, which were held by the lord mayor in person, and with much state, most of the administrative duties have long been performed by a committee of the corporation, aided by four harbour-masters, an engineer, water-bailiff, and subordinate officers. till recent times, the navigation and port of london committee, as it was called, held jurisdiction from staines in middlesex to gantlet in kent, and exerted a strong hand in preventing encroachments on "the bed and soil of the river," or any injury to its banks. the duties also extended to the regulation of the moorings of vessels in the port, the deepening of channels, the erection and maintenance of public stairs, the repair of locks, weirs, and towing-paths, the control of fisheries, and the seizure of unlawful nets. tolls and tonnage-dues contributed to the revenue on which the corporation depended for means of executing all these obligations. they had, as one of their public advocates tersely put it, "a surplus below bridge which they were unable to appropriate, and a deficiency above bridge which they had no power of making good." still, no hesitation or serious shortcoming appeared in their fulfilment of duties. but some years ago, a claim to "the bed and soil of the river" was set up by the crown. thirteen years' litigation ended in a compromise. the city consented to acknowledge the title of the crown, and the crown consented to grant a title to the corporation, stipulating, however, that a government scheme should be embodied in an act of parliament. hence, the thames conservancy act of 1857, which vested the rights and duties in a board composed of the lord mayor, two aldermen, four common councilmen, the deputy-master of the trinity house, two persons chosen by the admiralty, another person chosen by the board of trade, and another by the trinity house, making twelve in all. by a later enactment these rights and duties were abrogated, and now the jurisdiction of the city over the upper thames has altogether ceased. [illustration: staines bridge.] this is certainly not the place for any argument for or against the deprivation of almost regal authority which the city of london has long swayed. but up-river men, especially anglers, have cause to be grateful for the protection afforded them in the past by the conservators. staines deep is a good instance. all the "deeps" on the river are formed for the especial behoof of the angler, who is indebted to their peculiar construction for the abundance of fish that reward his patience, trouble, and skill. a deep is so staked or otherwise protected that no net or coarse process of any description can remove the fish that collect there. old boats are not unfrequently sunk to prevent the use of nets. all the deeps between staines and richmond have been formed on this or some such system at the expense of the london corporation; and at staines the never-failing abundance of large roach is due, no doubt, to the careful plan on which the deep is formed. the accessibility of staines from london makes it exceedingly popular, as is evidenced by the number of boat-houses, and constantly increasing trade of boat-building. the hotels and inns are not spoilt by custom. the little "swan," one of the prettiest of old-fashioned houses on the river, is just below the bridge on the surrey side, and really in egham parish, though boating men generally speak of it as the "swan" at staines. then there is the "pack-horse," on the middlesex shore, with a good landing-stage. the "angel and crown," which is traditionally associated with the emery family, having been kept by one of that name in the days when john emery was the recognised and unapproached stage yorkshireman, is in the high street. he played tyke as probably no other man ever played that character; nor was he less effective in the monstrosities of the stage, caliban being one of his pet parts, and pan another. he had a fair range of shakespearean repertory, being a terribly truthful barnardine, in _measure for measure_, and a capital sir toby belch. in some panegyric memorial verses which appeared soon after his death was the line- "and farmer ashfield with john emery died." this praise was exaggerated and indiscriminate. the present writer was sitting many years ago at the "angel and crown," in a mixed company of oarsmen, anglers, and residents, when he heard the performance of john emery as farmer ashfield called in question. somebody had extolled it for its rich yorkshire dialect. thereupon a grey-headed old man broke in with a quotation from "speed the plough." in the scene supposed to follow a ploughing-match, when sir abel handy's patent invention has been kicked to pieces, and carried off at the heels of the frightened horses, bob handy answers his father's question, "where's my plough?" by turning to the farmer and inquiring the name of the next county. "we ca's it wilzhire, sur," is the reply. the scene, in fact, is laid in hants. the grey-haired man was an old actor, and he finished his pertinent reference to morton's play with the quiet remark that he too remembered emery, and admired him in yorkshire parts, but that farmer ashfield was _not_ a yorkshire part. with a london audience in emery's reign all countrymen were yorkshiremen, just as all foreigners were frenchmen. we must not leave staines, where barge-life and riverside character generally may be studied better than at any other spot by the thames, and the boundary stone without mentioning that this ancient monument bears the traces of its original inscription, dated /a.d./ 1280, "god preserve the city of london." penton hook, on the middlesex side, is a horseshoe-shaped piece of water, where the river shoals out a great deal, so that boats going down the rapid shallow run of half a mile will do well to keep in mid stream, so as to avoid grounding on that shore. if you pronounce penton hook as you see it written, you may chance to miss being understood. penty hook is the common pronunciation, and if without the aspirate, so much the nearer local correctness. penty hook lock has an average fall of two feet and a half. there is a ferry here, by which you may avoid the hook and its long pull. the bend at penty hook is the natural course of the river, and its horseshoe form, enclosing a large meadow, has the lock for a base. for general fishing, penty hook has been famed time out of mind; and, though disappointed men are sometimes heard to lament the growing signs that this fishery has begun to be worked out, every season yields many a well-filled creel. the lock is a good thing for those who voyage for pleasure; not that they go through it, but that it leaves them the undisturbed solitude of the ancient passage, by drawing away the hurriers, who think of nothing but of "getting there," wherever "there" may be. this retired and tranquil bend is the haunt of water-fowl, and is a very wilderness of butterflies. one of the countless tributary streams that feed the thames, the abbey river, babbles of days when the monks of chertsey kept their preserves well filled from these productive fisheries. fine trout are taken here still; the strong barbel gives excellent play; a number-twelve hook, mounted on a single hair, and baited with a gentle, will take roach and dace in any quantity, though a heavy float is necessitated by the force and depth of the stream; he who seeks the big chub should cast his line under any of the overhanging willows; and he who scrapes for gudgeon may choose from twenty pitches, any one of which will give him a day's quick work. down stream now to laleham is a short row, or walk, along the middlesex shore, on which side is the towing-path from staines as far as shepperton. [illustration: laleham ferry.] such charm as may be found in a flat landscape--and it is not small when there are trees and water, red roofs and quaint chimneys, sheep, cows, and an old church--we find at laleham ferry, one of the quietest and prettiest spots on the thames. the nearest railway stations, neither of which is too near, are staines and shepperton. this little village was for nine years of work, study, and wedded happiness, the residence of dr. arnold, the mild but firm erastian in most of his ecclesiastical views, the parental educator, the liberal in politics but not in party, the church reformer who clung to the church not as a priesthood but as a body of believers, the man of thought and man of action. to laleham, thomas arnold went at twenty-four years of age; took pupils, as, since he was twenty, and elected a fellow of oriel college, he had done at oxford; married, and worked on, with the grand idea before him of bringing new life and spirit into our public-school system. it was at the end of his nine years' sojourn at laleham that he took priest's orders, and turned a corner in his life whence his useful fame began. he was appointed to the headmastership of rugby school. in those nine years at laleham, peaceful and happy as they were, sorrows were not "too strictly kept" from arnold's home. four of his family are buried here; his infant child, his mother, his aunt, and his sister. it is no matter of mere opinion or dispute that dr. arnold and rugby are associated as no person and place, no school and master, ever were before or since. illustrious men have indeed raised the high standard of tuition higher than they found it, at other public schools. their names add lustre to a shining roll. but dr. arnold, of rugby, whose constant longing from his youth had been to "try whether our public school system has not in it some noble elements which may produce fruit even to life eternal," justified his belief and his mission so well, that he not only raised rugby school to its highest fame, but introduced a great change and improvement into all school-life in england. he trusted much to his sixth form, his elder boys, whom he inspired with love, veneration, and confidence, so that their recognised authority over the junior pupils was exercised as with a reflected light. he would have no "unpromising subjects," no pupils likely to taint others. "it is not necessary," he said, "that this should be a school of three hundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys; but it is necessary that it should be a school of christian gentlemen." all good hearts in time were bound to the firm, manly, sympathetic master, whose devotion to duty was contagious, and whose unceasing interest in his scholars was repaid by their reverence for him. dr. arnold's writings are earnest, clear, and independent. the six volumes of sermons, chiefly delivered to the rugby boys, should be read by all boys, all parents, and all masters. dean stanley, his pupil and biographer, collected and republished his tracts on social and political subjects; and in the striking picturesqueness of his "roman history," in which he adopts the "ballad-theory" of the prussian historian, niebuhr, he forestalled a mode of animated illustration, and contrast of ancient and modern events, which is so popular in the hands of macaulay and grote. nine years of such a life as arnold's would be enough to confer perpetual dignity on a more important place than laleham, which contains a population of not more than six or seven hundred souls, and is not honoured and spoilt by a "surrounding neighbourhood" of new wealth, refinement, and education. not that the village is more rustic--in the depreciative sense--than a village inhabited by people who "have known some nurture" ought to be. there are a few good old-fashioned houses about it, arnold's being one of them; a solid red-brick house with a large garden. the occupant came to regard the country as "very beautiful." he had always a resource at hand, he tells us, in the bank of the river up to staines; "which, though it be perfectly flat, has yet a great charm from its entire loneliness, there being not a house anywhere near it; and the river here has none of that stir of boats and barges upon it, which makes it in many places as public as the high road." laleham house, the seat of the earl of lucan, is a plain square modern mansion with a tuscan portico. the grounds of forty acres are noted for the noble elms, shrubs, lawns, and flower-gardens. "one spot for flowers, the rest all turf and trees," as leigh hunt sang, though not of so large and fine a domain. [illustration: laleham church.] [illustration: chertsey bridge.] some years ago a galvanised monkish movement, led by an anglican clergyman, who went about town with sandalled feet, a girdle of knotted cord, and a cowl over his tonsured head, made a descent on laleham, where the poor enthusiast tried to found a monastery, with what temporary noise of local wonderment is now a subject of much forgetfulness. the church at laleham is small, old, and patched with modern brickwork; and the church across the river, at chertsey, a mile lower down on the surrey shore, is square-towered, part ancient and part new. nothing very old, or noticeable as old, will be seen if we go inside; but we may do this reverence to modern art if not to antique religion, for there is a memorial bas-relief of simple beauty, carved in a christian spirit by the greek-souled sculptor, flaxman, the subject being the raising of jairus' daughter. cattle are feeding on the grass of chertsey mead, or cooling themselves in the shallow stream. how different are they from the droves of builders and architects who try to improve the banks of the river! the cattle positively decline all effort at picturesqueness; but they are picturesque, which the new houses or villas, and stuck-up towers and turrets, with all their ornamental pretence, decidedly are not. a hundred years ago was built, by james payne, the bridge of stone, with seven arches, the high middle arch being beneath a pointed summit of the parapet. this bridge, though steep, seems right under the lock, which is built of wood, and has a fall that averages three feet. ancient and modern both are the intimate associations of chertsey. among the modern are reminiscences of albert smith, whom even james hannay, a contemner of comic authorship, allowed to be a writer who was easy to read. he rattled on, with too little thought, it may be, but with a shrewd common-sense and an almost feminine justness of view, that won him friends among his enemies, even if a careless witticism now and then made an enemy of a friend. this was never for long; while it is certain that albert smith lived down a great deal of hard and even scornful criticism. he brought round all his old _punch_ companions from whom he had cut adrift; and even the high-toned _examiner_, seldom merciful to "light writers," pronounced one of his books of travel to be, "frank, genial, and manly." he practised in his early career as a dentist, but soon drifted into magazine work, and amused the laughter-loving public with his "adventures of mr. ledbury, and his friend, jack johnson." the man-about-town style of writing was more amusingly and inoffensively exemplified in albert smith than in any of his rivals; for with him it was spontaneous--a hearty emanation from personal habit, which had grown into nature. student-life--medical-student-life, that is to say--in paris and london gave both incident and tone to his tales and sketches--the incident being of a practically jocular kind; and the tone, that of rollicking levity. he went a little out of his way to take up historical romancing in his novel on the subject of the venomous marguerite d'aubray, marchioness of brinvilliers; and douglas jerrold went a good deal out of _his_ way to assail his "former crony" albert's dabbling in "arsenicated literature." more congenial, certainly, to his powers of lively common-place were the stories of "christopher tadpole" and "the scattergood family." he had some dramatic faculty, which took now and then the proper dramatic form of theatric art; and, beside the stage-burlesques collaborated by him with shirley brooks, charles kenny, stoqueler, and others, he wrote a few pieces, whereof one was suggested by the famous chertsey bell, and a romantic legend in connection with that relic of saxon days. albert smith's brother arthur, a man of singular gentleness, was devoted to him, and spared no pains to please and serve him in a multitude of ways, little and great. the affection which existed between the two was never shaded by difference of any kind. here is a little story which now sees, for the first time, the light of print:--when albert smith was giving his long-lived entertainment of "mont blanc," arthur, his right-hand man in the business of management, took a holiday, and, visiting some glass-works in the north, was so struck with the resemblance of certain waste products to icicles, that he brought a number of specimens away with him, had them mounted like pendants, and, on his return to piccadilly, hung them in triumph round the eaves of the little _chalet_ which formed a prominent part of the set scene. albert, who would not have damped his brother's delight for all the world, was "charmed" with the effect, and thanked the good arthur again and again. "i _can't_ tell him," said he, secretly, to the present writer, "that the flowering plants, the alpine heaths, and all, are in full summer-bloom. it would break his heart to be reminded of the little contradiction in the seasons." as the first religious house founded in surrey, the abbey, of which there are now few vestiges, gave chertsey a name of imperishable renown in english annals. we are carried back by the sound to saxon days, to king egbert and the sainted erkenwald, who founded the great monastery at barking as well as that of chertsey. abbot erkenwald received his first charter from frithwald, sub-regulus of surrey, nine years after the foundation of this abbey of cerotæsai, cerotesege, or certesyg, as the name last given appears in "domesday book." the etymology, then, of our familiar chertsey is "cerota's ey," or island. erkenwald's monastery and church were erected on a grassy ait, formed by the thames and the little stream now called the abbey river, or bourne. when was there ever monastery or abbey built in england, france, or other part of christendom, but it was near a river, teeming with fish? in nine out of ten cases, the ground has been an island, whatever it may be now. take westminster, for instance. it is not, you will say, insulated; but it was, and its name was the isle of thorns; and the very first angelical promise in relation to the saxon abbey was made to the fisherman, edric, who was told by a supernatural visitant, sent by st. peter, that a plentiful supply of fish would never fail him so long as he duly carried his tithe to the monks. from that time, quite early in the seventh century, till near the end of the fourteenth, the thames fishermen religiously paid their tithe of salmon to the abbey; and it is a singular fact that the first violation of the custom was by a priest, the vicar of rotherhithe, who denied his tithe until the monks of westminster enforced it by law, protesting that the right had been granted to them by st. peter, when their abbey was founded. as an instance of the primitive state of society, in the england of the middle ages, every bearer of fish to the abbey of westminster sat by prescriptive right at the prior's table that day, and could demand ale and bread at the buttery-hatch to be brought him by the cellarman. fish, not on fast days alone, but as a constant staple of diet, was one of the needs of monastic life. nor did the monks and their lay brothers generally wait for tithings from secular piscatory sources, as the fraternity at westminster seems to have done. mr. dendy sadler has no doubt hit with main truth of history, if with some exuberance of playful humour, the monkish habit of angling. at chertsey the benedictine friars of the tenth century left such evidence of perfection in fish-culture as is pleasingly apparent to every thames angler of the present day; and the salmon-trout nurseries of mr. forbes, on the surrey shore, revive a goodly tradition of the olden time. pike, perch, chub, bream, and barbel abound near chertsey and shepperton, as of yore; but the good monks, let us remember, had the lordly salmon always at hand, as well as the trout, which was too plentiful to suggest any thought of artificial hatching. the once stately abbey, of which all the remains now are the fragments of an arched gateway, part of a wall, and a bit of encaustic tile pavement, occupied an area of four acres, and looked like a town. the danes pillaged and burnt the place two hundred years after its foundation, murdering the abbot, beocca, with all his monks, to the number of ninety. it is scarcely possible, even now, to dig deep on the ground without unearthing bones and fragments of masonry, relics either of the ancient saxon foundation, or of the second and still saxon convent re-established by king edgar, in the tenth century. during successive periods many great men were interred here; but the abbey is chiefly remarkable, as a place of sepulture, for having been the brief resting-place of henry vi., whose remains were brought thither from blackfriars by water. it was on her way "toward chertsey with her holy load" that the lady anne encountered crook-backed richard of gloucester, as the scene in shakespeare's play of _richard iii._ vividly represents. having been interred there with much solemnity, the corse of the murdered king was only suffered to remain undisturbed till the second year of his successor's reign, when richard caused the coffin to be removed to windsor. the weak but well-meaning king, whose piety and love of learning may be said to have been too strong for his mental sinew, held chertsey in high regard and favour, following, indeed, other sovereigns by whom in long succession from saxon times the abbey was often strengthened and endowed. to benefit a religious institution and the town pertaining thereto was formerly one and the same act, a state of things now hardly comprehended in its full significance. it was to the abbot, in kingly piety, that henry vi. granted the right of holding a fair on st. ann's hill, on st. ann's day. the "black cherry fair," as it is called, is now held in the town, and the date is changed from the 26th july to the 6th august. another great fair, for cattle, horses, and poultry, is also held there on the 26th september, in view of michaelmas day, which ancient feast is generally honoured with the goose as a standing dish; for by that time of the year this bird, hatched in the spring, has attained a goodly form and condition, while preserving some of its tender youth. so notably do these considerations affect the fair in september, at chertsey, that it is popularly designated the goose and onion fair, the sale of geese and onions eclipsing all other traffic, not only as regards poultry, but horses and cattle to boot. as before observed, mills and fisheries survive the changes of epochs with extraordinary vitality. we have seen that chertsey is still a head-quarters of angling, as it was a thousand years ago; and the abbey mills flourish in modern fashion to this day. more remarkable far is the survival of the curfew bell; for there are fisheries and mills of ancient origin all over england, but the curfew is heard at few other places than chertsey. here exists a curious old custom of tolling the day of the month, after a brief pause, at the close of the "knell of parting day." in the tower of the rebuilt parish church, with a peal of six bells, is one that is believed to have belonged to the ancient abbey. there is warrant for the tradition which assigns so venerable an age to this bell; for the latin inscription ora : mente : pia : pro : nobis : virgo : maria is in anglo-saxon characters. for a little more than two years, abraham cowley, the poet, intending to husband his small fortune, lived at chertsey, or, rather, continued to exist for a short time. his desire for solitude provoked from johnson, the lover of city life, a biographical sneer. it is true that the first night cowley came to his half-timber house at chertsey--he had desiderated a brick house, by-the-by--he caught a severe cold, and kept his room for ten days; but it is also true that he was an invalid when he came from barn elms, whence he was driven by illness. a series of mishaps befell him, which he recounted in a half ludicrous light, in a letter to his friend sprat; and this letter it is that johnson recommends "to the consideration of all that may hereafter pant for solitude." cowley's house, which he only left in funereal pomp and state to be conveyed by water to westminster abbey, and there buried, is still sometimes called by its old name, porch house, from a porch that once projected into the highway, but was pulled down a hundred years ago. in the garden is a fine group of trees, one of which, a horse-chestnut of great size and beauty, sheltered the poet in the short term of his life at chertsey. a memorable episode of dickens's early work of fiction, "oliver twist," is graphically connected with this agricultural town, the most commercial establishment in which is a brewery. there were no railways to speak of when fagin, the jew that dickens drew, was redrawn by cruikshank, and when bill sikes, and nancy, and toby crackit, and the artful dodger, and charley bates, and the bad people generally, seemed as real as, on the other and supernaturally amiable side, rose maylie and the rest were creatures of angelic imagination. there is nothing more real in this story, nor in all the stories that dickens ever wrote, than the expedition by sikes and oliver, from bethnal green, through finsbury and barbican, to the west-end--past hyde park corner, kensington, hammersmith, chiswick, kew, and brentford--past hampton and halliford, shepperton and sunbury--till chertsey was reached; and, joined now by toby crackit, they made their way through the silent town to the scene of the projected burglary. boating-men know well the landing-stage at the "bridge house," one of those inns where the comfort is not diminished either by negligence or false pretence. this is the recognised "hotel" of chertsey; but the "cricketers," in the bridge road, half a mile from the town, is the favourite resort of anglers. many pleasant walks are still to be found near chertsey, st. ann's hill being within a mile. as the residence of charles james fox, the house, with its gardens, lawns, shady walks, and quaint summer-houses, should be seen by all who have the opportunity of visiting it. the old gate of wrought iron, though not by any means extraordinary, nor indeed nearly so elaborate as some examples of smiths' work still to be seen about old parts of chelsea, chiswick, and roehampton, is characteristic and significant of its period. from this gate to the summit of the hill is a short walk which affords a delightful view on a fine day, extending to windsor on the one side, and to london, a distance of twenty miles, on the other. st. ann's well, on the descent, is a sylvan spot, which might better have been left alone than "improved," as it has been. it once looked like what it probably is, a veritable relic of the chapel which has been swept away like its contemporary foundation, the abbey on the marshy island below. st. ann's hill is a favourite place for picnics, as also for volunteer exercises and reviews. returning towards chertsey bridge, on our downward thames journey, we see the wood-crowned heights of woburn, and presently make or renew acquaintance with the wey, another tributary of the metropolitan river. the wey rises in hampshire, near alton, where good ale used to be brewed, and indeed continues to be brewed still, in spite of the fact that this national beverage, the wine of the country, is getting more and more into the hands of a few noted brewers, and consequently is more and more "all alike," which is a sad sameness to think of! time was when small breweries were oftener attached to inns of good repute, and when to taste the ale was a complimentary obligation. it is no question of curious tasting in these times; for you know pretty well what you are going to get when you ask for "a glass of bitter," which is generally good, but somewhat monotonous. what has become of all the country home-brewed, of the ales of different colleges, for example? "i have a friend who loveth me, and sendeth me ale of trinity," sang barry cornwall. where is now the good ale, and where are the good fellows who sent it? "the wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees is left this vault to brag of." through farnham, godalming, guildford, woking, byfleet, and weybridge, through all that country of heath and health, of pine-trees and rabbit-warrens, of scenery that you feel and breathe as well as see, the hampshire stream flows and grows till it mingles with the waters of thames below chertsey, at a mill in the bend of the stream. it is said that the best hay in england comes from chertsey mead, which also, during a large part of the year, affords right of commonage to neighbouring farmers for their cows; and the milk testifies to the richness of the pasture. it is at weybridge that the wey is joined by the bourne, as also by the basingstoke canal, and the meeting of the three streams is in a pleasant spot. weybridge and oatlands park are places that hold renown in common. round about the neighbourhood are country seats, beautifully situate, and two miles south of the town or village is crockham hill, from which a transcendent prospect of the whole weald of kent, surrey, and sussex is gained, never to be forgotten. by chart, or by westerham common, the way to crockham gap is the loveliest of surrey walks, and indeed the beauty of the district cannot be overpraised. at the domesday survey, "webrige" was a manor held by the abbot of chertsey, and its value was twenty shillings. with other lands, the property pertaining to the ancient abbey, it was annexed by henry viii. to the honour of hampton court. the estate of oatlands was acquired by the king in manner following. he was negotiating its purchase when the owner, one william rede, died, leaving his son john, a child, the heir. a short way was taken by the king to remove all difficulty. he constituted sir thomas cromwell guardian of the boy, and the rest was plain. very speedily the erection of a palace for anne of cleves, the king's intended wife, was commenced, the materials being found in the dismantled monasteries. stone was brought from chertsey and bisham; marble for pavements from abingdon; while the good red bricks which composed the walls were made at woking, which name was spelt by the accountants "okyng," much as it is pronounced at the present day by rustic natives. for his orchards, the king took apple, pear, and cherry trees from the orchards and gardens of chertsey abbey. the interior walls of oatlands palace were hung with the costliest tapestries of france and flanders, the floors being covered with "carpets of turque." but before the casket was ready the jewel had been discarded. anne of cleves, on whom henry bestowed an uncomplimentary epithet, had come, and had proved unacceptable. the bride was divorced, and a new bride was taken in her stead. with the new bride henry required a new palace. oatlands was consigned to the keeping of sir anthony brown; and, save that it was made the occasional residence of the princess mary, we hear very little more of oatlands in king henry's reign. we may fancy it a many-gabled, many-towered, tudor edifice of red brick, with stone quoins and dressings, ornamental chimney-shafts, and handsome bays, like hampton court, in fact, with the same kind of turreted central gate-house in the principal front. there are drawings of it in the bodleian at oxford. the foundations are said to have been traced over fourteen acres. terraces, flower-gardens, orchards, fountains, fishponds, and detached summer-houses adorned the pleasance round the magnificent edifice; and beyond, fenced about by a quickset hawthorn hedge, was the deer park. an example of wasted labour and misapplied ingenuity, the grotto constructed in the eighteenth century by an italian and his two sons for henry clinton, duke of newcastle, may be cited as one of the questionable glories of modern oatlands. the artificers were twenty years at their work, which cost the duke, it is said, £40,000; the sum stated in the early accounts being between £12,000 and £13,000. outside, this egregious sham is built of tufa, which is a volcanic substance, or the calcareous deposit of certain springs. within, the building has three or four chambers connected by low dark passages, on the ground floor, and one large chamber over all, with an elaborate cupola of satin-spar stalactites. all the inner walls are a mosaic of minerals, shells, and spars of various kinds, blending in many devices, and inlaid with endless patience and skill. among the many fine specimens of minerals still left, are quartz, crystals, and ammonites of rare perfection. horace walpole delivered himself of this criticism on the oatlands grotto: "oatlands, that my memory had taken it into its head was the centre of paradise, is not half so elysian as i used to think. the grotto, a magnificent structure of shell-work, is a square, regular, and, which never happened to grotto before, lives up one pair of stairs, and yet only looks on a basin of dirty water." [illustration: shepperton lock.] it is evident that horace walpole spoke of the upper chamber as the grotto itself; and so it was mainly. this _bizarre_ kind of architecture was quite in the taste of george iv., and accordingly, when he was prince of wales, and just after waterloo, he entertained at a supper in this wonderful room the emperor of russia, the king of prussia, and the princes and generals in their train. as being tastefully in accord with a stalactite cavern, lit up by cut-glass chandeliers, the gilt chairs and sofas had satin cushions embroidered by the duchess of york. oatlands underwent many transformations; was destroyed by fire in different ages; and has sprung up again and again, like an exceedingly protean ph[oe]nix. the only vestiges of its ancient grandeur are the massive gateway and some magnificent cedars by the river. it is curious to think of its many transformations, during the dwindling and declining periods of its history. once it was a rambling, mock-battlemented structure, in the taste of strawberry hill gothic. a quasi-italian style has been its later phase, and this remains, in the aspect now presented by the house, which has been converted to the purpose of a residential hotel. oatlands has a longer story than can be told, even in outline, here. after henry viii. abandoned his intention to keep up its royal splendour, it became the temporary abode, at different periods, of edward vi., elizabeth, james i., charles i., and henrietta maria--their youngest son, henry, being born here--queen henrietta's second husband, the earl of st. albans, and then a succession of nobles, under various terms of tenure, till the duke of york purchased the property in 1790, when the rococo edifice on the strawberry hill pattern of modern antiquity made its appearance, and became the bone of contention between two architects, the inglorious though not mute pugin and barry of the time, as we may call them--each claiming the honour of its invention. greville's memoirs give us as much as we want of the private life of his royal highness in his queer castle, or, if further information be desired, some interesting additions may be found in the "life of george brummell, esq., commonly called beau brummell," who passed much of his time there, and whose most constant benefactor, after he had been cut by the prince regent, and other summer-friends, was _sa toute affectionnée amie et servante_, the kind duchess. in justice to one or other of the rival claimants to the glory of architectural design, it may be said that the outside folly of oatlands, as conceived either by holland, the architect of drury lane theatre--his best work--or john carter, more favourably known by his etchings from the gothic, was redeemed by its interior fitness and stately proportion. an example of the effect produced by transplanted architecture is conspicuous on weybridge green. here, a cockney wanderer out of his element of babel life, stands the column celebrated by gay in his "trivia." "where famed st. giles's ancient limits spread, an inrailed column rears its lofty head; here to seven streets seven dials count the day, and from each other catch the circling ray." a rover, indeed, was this monument from seven dials. first it was taken to sayes court, but never erected. wanting a memorial to the duchess of york, the villagers of weybridge picked up the neglected masonry, altered it to suit their purpose, by discarding the dial-faced top and substituting a clumsy crown, and stuck it where it now stands. in the crypt of a small roman catholic chapel, facing a fine group of fir-trees on weybridge common, the body of louis philippe was laid, till the royal remains were taken to france and re-interred in the orleans mausoleum at dreux. [illustration: shepperton.] largely frequented by anglers, weybridge must take care if it desires to retain the favour of boating-men. while the towing-path crosses the boat-yard, and dredging is neglected by those, whoever they may be, on whom the duty rests, it is very difficult to avoid grounding; so that many owners have been taking their boats away, as the constant dragging not only scratches but strains them. shepperton, on the middlesex shore, is a pretty village, small and quiet, with its chief places of residence hidden away behind trees, or peeping out upon the river. it has a railway terminus, on the south western system, and is about an hour, that is, nineteen miles, from waterloo. the deeps afford tolerable fly-fishing in the trout season, and are more frequently fished for jack, perch, roach, and barbel. there are several good swims in pretty equal favour with anglers, to wit the upper deep, the lower deep, and the old deep, east of the creek rails. besides these, the creek itself is often resorted to. the anglers' inns at shepperton are the "anchor" and the "crown." it is an unspoilt thames-side village, this shepperton, in spite of its many pleasure-seeking visitors; a class, to say the sad truth, apt to disclose a selfish indifference to the pleasure of others. if the holiday-maker is to be traced by scientific investigation, the marks to be looked for will be broken bottles, greasy sandwich-papers, and lobster-shell, just as flint tools and weapons denote other and earlier savages who have lived on the earth, and have made it as disagreeable as possible for their fellow-brutes. shepperton lock and ferry are both picturesque in themselves, as well as being foregrounds of scenery that is charming to the eye nurtured by art. truly, landscape-painting has done noble service in fostering the love of nature. though real beauty must be above the skill of man to imitate, it is a curious truth that no age in which that skill has not been exercised has ever left any written records of a feeling for the grandeur of mountains, or the simple loveliness of woods, fields, and brooks. chaucer, you say? why, chaucer pictured everything because he had seen it in pictures; had the very soul of a limner; lived in the sincerest age of art; saw flanders and italy; was familiar with all that was exquisite in the refinement of courts; and, unless his appointment as clerk of the works at st. george's chapel, windsor, was a gross sinecure, knew how a daisy should look in stone as well as in nature's finer fashioning. he who imagines chaucer to have displayed natural observation without cognisance of art has totally misread chaucer's time, rich in actual colour, as in the very dress that distinguished "gentle and simple;" for, as mr. ruskin has said, speaking of "the lovely and fantastic dressing of the thirteenth to the sixteenth centuries" (in the very heart and flower of which period chaucer lived), "no good historical painting ever yet existed, or ever can exist, where the dresses of the people of the time are not beautiful." shepperton, hale, green, and old, in its plentiful trees, mostly elms and horse-chestnuts, has likewise an age in history. it is a noted spot for roman remains; it has a church that was venerable and still retains claims to veneration; and it has a rectory-house older, for the most part, than the parish church to which it belongs. the dwelling in question is of fifteenth century erection, and is principally of timber, the soundest, the strongest, the most enduring--english oak. builders will come back in time to the wisdom of such building, as they are even now aware of the folly which assumes iron to be fireproof. halliford is our next halt, a mile down from shepperton railway station, the nearest to the place. it is quite accessible enough for anglers, whose interest, if not whose taste, leads them to a preference of seclusion to racket and noise. proverbially "jolly," the angler understands jollity in the waltonian sense, as, indeed, the most sensible of us all, anglers or not, understand it. the vulgar adverb, "awfully," does, indeed, too literally qualify at times the modern adjective. halliford bridge was washed away some years ago by the floods; and now the surrey and middlesex shores are connected by a brick and iron structure which is named walton bridge, and which, having been the occasion of war between bumbledom on both sides the river, was painted of two colours, a chromatic difference that greatly increased the normal ugliness of the design. the most plentiful fish at halliford are roach and bream, but there is an abundant variety of others. to distinguish this little place from another halliford, which is a hamlet of sunbury, it is sometimes called lower halliford. the views along and across the river, every way, are charming; and as we look over to oatlands, the surrey hills form a beautiful background; while on one side we have walton and ashley park, and on the other weybridge. the "red lion" is a favourite haunt of anglers, and all who visit the spot by road or river; and other houses of entertainment are the "crown," the "ship," and mrs. searle's. the narrow creek adjacent to the "red lion" is in frequent request as a harbour for punts and small craft in general. a little further and we come to walton, having crossed the river once again into surrey. [illustration: halliford.] walton-on-thames was, in old saxon days, as its name plainly indicates, a walled town. etymology apart, the traces of its having been fortified speak for themselves in the neighbouring remains of important earthworks. it is now a village; and, as a village, large; but it is not quite large enough to be considered a town; and of its walls there are no traces above ground. walton bridge crosses the river just where there was once a ford that, as relics show, was strongly defended. a little above walton is the spot at which cæsar crossed, in the time of his second invasion. it is called cowey stakes, and has afforded matter for many an antiquarian discussion. the "stakes" were driven in front of the bank to repel attempts at landing. some accounts of them state that they were placed upright in two rows, across the shallow bend of the river, so as to support a bridge. walton has an interesting church, very old in some parts, but modern in others, with norman piers, on one of which may be read, deeply cut, the verse ascribed to queen elizabeth, when princess, and when it was sought by mary to entrap her in a heresy regarding the doctrine of transubstantiation. "christ was the worde and spake it; he took the bread and brake it; and what the worde doth make it, that i believe, and take it." among the monuments are works of note by roubiliac and chantrey, the older sculptor excelling in the bold inventiveness and forcible execution of his work, a superb monument to lord shannon. on the left side of the communion table is buried william lilly, the astrologer, that "cunning man, hight sidrophel," as he figures, or is supposed to figure, in "hudibras." another tomb, but it is in the churchyard, not the church, holds the remains of "bright, broken maginn," who sleeps without a memorial. president bradshaw's house, at the back of church street, is divided into a group of wretched tenements, all in a squalid condition; yet in a room on the ground-floor of one of them, covered with dirt and whitewash, is a carved oak chimney-piece, with coupled columns and a cornice, the room itself being panelled, and an elaborately carved beam crossing the ceiling. there is a tradition that charles i.'s death-warrant was signed in this room. one of the curiosities of walton-on-thames, shown at a house next that of rosewell, the boat-builder, is a scold's gag, or bridle, few examples of which instrument yet remain in england. this particular specimen bears an inscription which, though now illegible, has no doubt been accurately quoted as follows:- "chester presents walton with a bridle, to curb women's tongues when they bee idle." chester, according to tradition, was a person who lost an estate through the evil speaking of a loose-tongued gossip, and took this mode of revenging himself on the sex. the bridle is a combination of head-piece and collar, a flat iron projection inside the latter being forced over the tongue, while a slit in the former, which passes over the face and skull, allows the nose to protrude. not far from the church, on the road to the railway station, is ashley park, with its late tudor or early stuart mansion of red brick, containing a great hall, which takes the whole height of the house, and a gallery extending throughout its entire length of a hundred feet. the park, a richly wooded demesne, adjoins oatlands. from st. george's hill, in the vicinity, the magnificent prospect includes seven counties. the stream at walton bridge runs over many shallows, fast on the surrey shore, and it is not easy to sail round the bend. [illustration: sunbury weir.] along a pleasant reach of the river, on the middlesex bank, lies the village of sunbury, with three or four boating and angling inns, which are much frequented by pleasure parties, though it is always a marvel to foreigners that the accommodation at these and other thames-side inns should not be of a higher order. at sunbury are the rearing-ponds of the thames angling preservation society; and the fishing of all kinds is excellent, no part of the river affording better sport with the fly than sunbury weir, which abounds with trout. the "flower pot," the "magpie," and the "castle" are in thames street; and the "weir hotel" is on the surrey side. the stone lock and lock-house are prettily placed amid pretty scenery, and there is a good camping-ground. as it is not often that a church is altered to its improvement, justice demands a recognition of the fact that the church of the virgin mary, by the river-side at sunbury, from having been as ugly a brick building as was ever consecrated to public worship, has been rendered sightly by the insertion of new windows and the introduction of a semicircular chancel, and an elaborate byzantine porch with stone arcades on either side. till changed to the form we now see, the church appeared as it had been rebuilt in the eighteenth century. the ancient church was of saxon foundation, dating from the time of edward the confessor. when the orleans family made their retreat in the neighbourhood of the thames, the duke of nemours assisted at the consecration, by dr. (now cardinal archbishop) manning, of a small roman catholic church a short distance off, prettily constructed of stone, from the drawing of mr. charles buckler. the sailing clubs have made sunbury a rendezvous, and boat-building is a prosperous occupation. [illustration: sunbury church.] [illustration: between hampton and sunbury.] as we near hampton, the historical and the "happy," garrick's villa comes into view. the watery way, down from sunbury, is between banks which are flat and uninteresting, osiers hiding the land from those who voyage in boats. robert adam, who, in conjunction with his brother james, improved the street architecture of london--their fraternal labours being commemorated in the name of that since-spoilt river-terrace, the "adelphi"--built the corinthian front of hampton house, as it was called when garrick bought it, though the mansion has since been renamed after the great actor himself. adam's portico, the salient feature of the house, reaches, with its pediment, above the attic storey. much is said about the building, its contents and its visitors, by horace walpole; for garrick's dinners, his illuminated grounds, and his night-fêtes, attracted company of the first order. on the lawn, near the water's edge, was and is a miniature grecian temple, of octagonal shape, with an ionic porch, the structure being designed for a summer-house, in which for a time was placed roubiliac's statue of shakespeare, to be removed, after garrick's death, to the british museum. garrick planted his domain very tastefully, and the trees that have grown to goodly height and umbrageousness since his day, now invest the spot with a dignified grace. for twenty-five years garrick enjoyed his liberal ease and the pleasures of well-chosen society in this home of comfort and elegance; and his wife, who survived him by forty-three years, living to a great age, continued to dwell here, maintaining everything in the same place as when he was her companion. the forget-me-not, commonest of wild flowers in this neighbourhood, finds surely a congenial soil where david garrick's memory was cherished so fondly and so long. islands in thick succession dot the stream, and when fishing-rods are patiently extended here and there, the picture is at once socially and tranquilly suggestive. opposite the town and church of hampton lies moulsey hurst, between the villages of east and west moulsey. this wide and beautiful meadow, "hard and smooth as velvet," as one of archibald constable's literary correspondents describes it, has been degraded in all ways attributable to civilisation. as a race-course, it is probably the vulgarest in the world; and its history is bound up with the annals of duelling and prize-fighting. a letter, very characteristic of the time, contains the following candid record:--"breakfasted at mr. maule's very early, and went along with him and the bailie to see the great fight between belcher and cribb, at moseley hurst, near hampton. the day was very fine, and we had a charming drive out in our coach-and-four, and beat all the coaches and chaises by the way. we had three hard runs with one post-chaise and four very fine horses, before we could pass it, and drove buggies, horsemen, and all off the road into lanes and doors of houses." among the gentlemen present, as the same frank-spoken witness testifies, were "the duke of kent, mr. wyndham, lord archibald hamilton (a famous hand, i am told), lord kinnaird, mr. t. sheridan, &c. &c., and all the fighting-men in town, of course." these last, we read further, were "the game chicken, woods, tring, pitloon, &c. captain barclay of urie received us, and put us across the river in a boat, and he followed with cribb, whom he backed at all hands. the hon. barclay (berkeley) craven was the judge." this charming chronicler proceeds to tell us that the odds were on belcher, but that the hero in question, after a long fight, "was at length obliged to give in." poor fellow! modern adherents to the theory that fisticuffs had any early origin in great britain may be consoled for the decadence of the "good old national art of self-defence" by the assurance that boxing was a practice which endured little more than a century and a half, if so long, and was learnt from north american savages. its real antiquity is greek, the grounds for believing that the anglo-saxons, and, after them, the plantagenets, favoured this form of pugilism being extremely slender. the english prize-fighters of the eighteenth century encountered one another with broadswords. there are other "arts of self-defence" far better entitled to rank as english than boxing. the quarter-staff is one. [illustration: garrick's villa, hampton.] on the road to moulsey from walton-on-thames stands apps court, or the modern representative of that capital mansion, once inhabited by mrs. or miss catherine barton, who might have been called a "professional beauty" had the phrase, together with photography, been invented in her day. the manor was bequeathed to her for life by charles montague, earl of halifax. she was a reigning "toast," and her name frequently occurs in swift's journal to stella. catherine barton, who was a sort of niece to sir isaac newton, being, in fact, the daughter of his half-sister, has been spoken of as the mistress of lord halifax; though it is now pretty clearly established that she was privately married to him, before his elevation to the peerage. she afterwards married a master of the mint, who succeeded in that office her illustrious uncle. many other persons of note are historically associated with "delightful ab's court," so designated by pope, in his horatian epistle to one of its proprietors, colonel cotterell. the grounds, like most of the thames pleasances, contain some grand timber; oaks and elms being conspicuous objects. a little past moulsey lock is hampton court bridge, a five-arched iron structure, by which we take our way to the palace and its famous grounds. /godfrey turner/. [illustration: the approach to hampton court.] chapter viii. hampton court to richmond. hampton court--thames ditton: the "swan"--the church--surbiton--kingston: the coronation stone--teddington--twickenham--eel pie island--petersham--richmond park--approach to richmond. hampton court is not the stateliest pile upon the banks of thames. it is less splendid than windsor, less historic than the tower; yet it possesses a meed of human interest unique in english palaces. windsor has its memories of the births and deaths of kings; of proud embassies from popes and kaisers while yet the censer was swinging through all england; of sweet brides wedded to the misery which is always lurking behind a throne. the tower is the most historic building which the world still looks upon--the very kernel of england's history, even as the chapter house of westminster is the birthplace of her liberties; in the darkness and silence of its dungeons was matured that intolerance of despotism, that resolve for freedom which began early to mould the modern england; it is a fortress of unending tragedies. yet hampton court, which is newer than either and less historic than either, enjoys a popularity and exercises a charm far beyond that of the two feudal fortresses. the explanation of this which fashions itself when one is in romantic mood, is that the popular imagination is touched by the sidereal rise, the brief glory, and the sudden fall of cardinal wolsey--a fall which even the gift of the stately palace itself could not avert. but the footprints of wolsey at hampton court are hard to trace; and it is probable that to the bank holiday masses, and to the crowds which stream through its galleries every fine saturday and sunday in summer, the most abounding charm of the place is that which nature, with some assistance from art, has provided. the terraces, the gardens, the maze, the trim vistas cut through long lines of trees, the dutch primness and precision of the grounds, and above all the thousand acres of bushey park, with its renowned avenue bursting with the tinted blossom which in summer perfumes the air like "an odour sweet of cedar log and sandal wood," are the true delights of hampton court. the old tudor palace is a significant landmark of the river-side, for it indicates the spot where suburban london may be said to begin. london has a long arm, and the voyager on the silent highway from its source on towards the sea finds, as he nears hampton court, unmistakable signs that he is reaching the fringe of a giant population. there is a greater frequency of white villas, glistening in the sunlight, shaded and cooled by the ample foliage which is rarely so green and prolific as on the banks of the southern thames, the water gently lapping the edges of the shaven lawns. the river is dotted with boats, where before the dinghy and the outrigger had been but occasional; the towing-path is more populated; and--it is a melancholy story to tell--the water begins perceptibly to lose its limpidity. the pollution of the great rivers of the world seems to be one of the ultimate aims of civilisation. is the scheldt pure--the weird mysterious scheldt of the "flying dutchman"--the storied rhine, the classic tiber, the "blue" danube? its immense navigation and the multitudes on its banks put the thames into worse case than them all; but we trust the time is coming when we shall be more mindful of nature's lovely heritage, and that if we may never again see salmon taken at london bridge, neither shall we see banks of festering mud on the very limits of the tide. hampton court has been frequently described as the english versailles, and there is much reason in the comparison. alike in history and in human interest, however, hampton court is far more attractive than the splendidly frigid palace of louis quatorze. it is true that it has few pretensions to magnificence; but it is a compound of history, and the history of people rather than of events. the shades of wolsey and charles i. eternally haunt the portals through which so many historic figures have passed. but the ghost of the magnificent cardinal finds everything unfamiliar. even the great hall, so often ascribed to him, was not built until after his death; sir christopher wren's new west front is all strange to him; only in a little wing here and there can he recognise the handicraft of his own architect. maybe the capacious cellar, with its wine-casks stuffed with broad pieces of gold, which, if we are to believe tradition the cardinal used for a treasury, is still untouched; but where are the five "fair courts" round which the palace was grouped by its builder? had hampton court remained to our day precisely as it left the hands of the tudor artificers, it would have been a priceless relic of the architecture and the methods of life affected by an english prince of the church in the early years of the sixteenth century. but wren has done his incongruous and nash his clumsy work upon what henry allowed to remain of the cardinal's design, and hampton court, as we know it, has, architecturally speaking, a blind side and a smiling side. there is no doubt a certain stateliness about the east front and the fountain court; but it is a heavy and monumental stateliness which ill accords with the really picturesque portions of the old palace. classical symmetry and palladian regularity are sadly misplaced when joined to tudor red brick. the style which wren chose for his additions requires greater space for its effective display than he had at disposal; consequently, the buildings round the fountain court suffer from the contracted area of the quadrangle. english brickwork was never better than in the early part of the sixteenth century, and in the buildings erected by wolsey and henry viii. at hampton court we have this tudor brickwork at its best. the cardinal's buildings have upon the outer walls the geometrical patterns which were not uncommon at the time, formed by the insertion of those stout blue bricks which are so potent to resist damp. of the strictly modern additions and re-buildings, the work of the last hundred and fifty years, it were better to say nothing more than that they, lamentably, still exist. [illustration: entrance porch.] it is difficult to obtain a comprehensive view of the palace save from the river. thence, however, the glimpses of the pile are very varied, the view of the western front being especially charming. the multitude of towers and mullions diversifies the _façade_, very greatly to the disadvantage of wren's monotonous eastern front; while the interlaced and arabesqued chimneys, the graceful clock-tower, and the high-pitched roof of the great hall break the sky-line with a cunning which, although apparently undesigned, is as effective as it well could be. there is something peculiarly appropriate in approaching hampton court from the thames, for in the day of its pride, when the cardinal and his thousand retainers abode there, when henry retired to it with one or other of his wives, or when his dour daughter mary passed there her honeymoon with the darkling philip, snatching a brief leisure from his "acts of faith" in spain and the netherlands, the river was the silent highway upon which all the world travelled, whether from the tower or from westminster. but the approach from bushey park, although its historical savour is small, is more attractive almost than that from the water. i never traverse the chestnut avenue without regretting that the venerable towers and turrets of the palace do not close in the vista. such an avenue ought, for the sake of picturesque completeness, to have for objective an ancient country house, gabled, ruddy, and peopled with historic shades. the diana water is very pretty in its way; but it is not the most effective climax. there are some beautiful avenues in the little park of hampton court itself; but there is a dutch flavour about them which causes them to look less natural and spontaneous than the chestnut avenue, which is really only the central of a series of nine, four on each side. bushey park, like all other parks, is pretty, but flat; it happily still contains a good head of fallow deer. for nearly fifty years--since the palace was thrown open to the public--bushey has been a spot of inexhaustible delight to myriads of londoners, the great majority of whom choose the route through the park to hampton court. the novice in woodcraft might imagine that many of the trees had attained a good old age; but so far as those in the nine avenues are concerned, all were planted by william iii., the tutelary genius of latter-day hampton court, and outside the avenues the timber is neither luxuriant nor remarkable. by far the most interesting portion of either the new or the old palace is the great hall, which, save that it has a new floor and that the painted glass in the windows is modern, is little altered since henry viii. built it. this magnificent apartment ranks with westminster hall and the hall of christ church, oxford, as one of the finest open-timbered interiors in europe. what relation it bears to wolsey's hall, the site of which it is believed to occupy, we cannot tell, since no picture of the cardinal's banqueting-chamber has been preserved. but "the lord thomas wulsey, cardinal, legat de latere, archbishop of yorke, and chancellor of englande," had a nice taste in architecture; and it is tolerably safe to suppose that, beautiful though henry's hall be, the cardinal's was better. why the king saw fit to destroy what wolsey had built there is no evidence to show; probably he was desirous that his own name rather than that of his upstart chancellor should be permanently associated with the place, and the lavishness with which his cypher, together with the rose and portcullis and other heraldic devices of the tudors, are scattered about the palace, favours the idea. it is a little remarkable that the hall, with the adjoining withdrawing-room, should be disconnected from the other buildings, and that it should not be possible to reach it without passing into the open air. the best view of the hall is obtained, not from the sombre entrance beneath the minstrel's gallery, but from the daïs at the upper end, where the high table for noble and princely guests was wont to stand. its proportions are majestic--106 feet by 40, with a height of 60 feet. the open-timbered roof is elaborately carved and arcaded, and springs, as though naturally, from massive corbels between the windows. at the extremities, where the corbels join the roof timberings, are the graceful pendants characteristic of the tudor time. the windows blaze with painted glass, all a mass of heraldry and kingly pedigree, while beneath the eye finds rest in the more subdued tones of king hal's tapestries of incidents in the life of abraham. who designed this arras and where it was woven are questions which have never been settled; but there is abundant internal evidence that it is either early flemish or german work. in the gloomy vestibule beneath the gallery is a series of allegorical tapestries, the most curious of them representing the seven deadly sins in such guise as would suggest that the artist took the idea from the procession to the "sinful house of pride" in the "faërie queen." spenser makes gluttony ride upon "a filthy swine"; in this tapestry it bestrides a goat. all this arras is in beautiful preservation, particularly that which deals with the life of abraham, in which the high lights are worked in gold. [illustration: the first quadrangle. / fountain court.] the painted windows of the great hall deserve something more than a passing mention. six alternate windows are filled with the arms and descents of the wives of henry viii.; and it is worth noting, as some indication of the commonness of a plantagenet ancestry, that each of these ladies was descended from edward i. the probabilities are, indeed, that even now a large proportion of the english people, above the lower middle class, have in their veins the blood of longshanks. the seven intermediate windows are emblazoned with the badges of henry viii.--the lion, the portcullis, the fleur-de-lis, the rose, the red dragon of york, and the white greyhound of lancaster. upon each are his cyphers and the mottoes "dieu et mon droit," and "dne. salvum fac reg." the great eastern and western windows are likewise full of badges, quarterings, and impalements. at the upper end of the south side of the hall is yet another window more beautiful from its pendant fan-tracery than any of the others, and emblazoned with the arms and cyphers of henry and jane seymour, and the arms and cardinal's hat of wolsey. the daïs characteristic of old time, when distinctions of rank were very palpable, still remains; but the beautiful old flooring of these painted tiles so much used by tudor builders has gone, although there is reason to suppose that it still existed eighty years ago. a finer apartment for a regal banquet or a stately pageant could hardly be conceived. one would like to believe the legend of shakespeare representing, in this very hall, before elizabeth and her somewhat flighty court, the story of the fall of wolsey; but there is not a tittle of real evidence in its favour. the withdrawing room, or presence chamber, as it is sometimes called, entered from the great hall, is a large, oblong apartment which has apparently been little touched since tudor times. it has a fine painted oriel, a moulded plaster ceiling, and an ancient oak chimney-piece, into which is let a portrait of the unlucky presiding genius of the place. this chimney-piece is a modern importation from an old house at hampton wick. the roughly-plastered walls are covered with tapestries of a wildly allegorical character, considerably older than those in the great hall, and less carefully preserved. above them are carlo cignani's cartoons for the frescoes in the ducal palace at parma. beyond the great hall, the apartments which are shown to the public have little architectural or personal interest. the rooms in which henry, elizabeth, and charles i. lived are all in the tudor portion of the palace; the series which has been converted into one great picture gallery is in wren's building, and runs round the fountain court and along the eastern front. what this front lacks architecturally it gains to some extent scenically, since it overlooks the geometrical flower-beds, the straight avenues, the long and narrow dutch canals, beloved of the stadtholder, the like of which one may still see in the gardens of old world _casteelen_ in holland. some of the avenues, seen from these upper windows, are very charming and effective, notably that which is closed in by the red mass of kingston church. this is not the place to discuss the pictures with which the palace abounds. i shall not perhaps be committing treason if i suggest that they are remarkable more for their quantity than for their quality. there is a sprinkling of pictures of which any gallery might be proud, and some of the portraits, of no artistic importance, are valuable by reason of their personality. kneller's "hampton court beauties" have acquired a factitious fame, for whatever may have been the charms of the originals, they are assuredly not very obvious here. poor, indiscreet queen mary got herself well hated by the other ladies of the court whom she considered insufficiently attractive to be numbered among the elect. perhaps the most famous of all the pictures at hampton court is vandyke's equestrian portrait of charles i., of which there is a replica at windsor. many of the paintings are true memorials of the old palace, and formerly hung in the ancient state apartments. they have the savour of old associations which the rooms in which they are hung lack--memories of times when life was more fitful, more spectacular, and, as it seems to us in this distant age, more romantic than it had become when dutch william sowed _je maintiendrai_ about the old place, as henry had scattered his roses and greyhounds and fleurs-de-lis, and all the other heraldic bravery of a century when heraldry was a fine art. hampton court is rich in personal history, and many a romantic shade must haunt its great hall, there to recall the vanished banquet, when the wine-cup gleamed so red, and bright eyes danced more intoxicatingly than any vintage of spain or france. many, too, there be that must still weep out their historic sorrows, and the visionary axe must flash before many a ghostly eye. here lived anne boleyn and catherine howard, as well as bluebeard's more fortunate wives. edward vi. was born, and jane seymour died here. elizabeth kept her christmases merrily indeed at hampton court; tradition says that she was here dining off a goose when the news came of the defeat of the armada. it was a favourite residence of charles i., who passed here some of his happiest and most miserable moments, and hence he fled to carisbrooke. both cromwell and charles ii., who once played a renowned game of hide-and-seek, were fond of the water-side palace; william iii. had a passion for it, and in its park met with his fatal accident. the first two georges stayed here occasionally, but since 1760 it has not been a royal residence. william iv. and his unimportant queen liked the neighbourhood, and spent much time in the heavy but doubtless comfortable red-brick house at the teddington entrance to bushey park. so long as it endures, hampton court will be one of the most interesting of english houses. attractive in every aspect, in some it is unique, and if it had no other claim to distinction it would always be remarkable as perhaps the very first country house built in england without a moat and drawbridge. [illustration: in the reach below hampton court.] the park of hampton court is small compared with the vast chase, covering thirteen parishes, of which henry made it the nucleus. it is somewhat flat, but is well timbered, and beautifies the towing-path all the way to kingston. of the palace from the river i have already spoken. it is in view for a considerable distance towards thames ditton; but the glimpse is not so striking as that obtained by the oarsman who shoots suddenly beneath hampton bridge and sees the grand old pile full in front of him. between hampton court and kingston the river is at its most charming hereabouts. flowing between deep banks, over which the rushes and osiers bend, in summer it is studded to just beyond thames ditton with the cool bohemian house-boat, a veritable desired haven to the heated oarsman. the coquettish window-curtains, the mass of flowers on the flat roof, the whisk of dainty muslin, all go to form one of the prettiest of thames pictures. the middlesex shore is fringed with luxuriant hedgerows, quick with life and bursting with blossom, so wide and tunnelled by the boughs of trees that one of mr. stevenson's nursery heroes might lose himself amid the interlacements, while imagining that he was stalking the red man in his native forests. on the surrey side the meadows come down to the water's edge, fringed with rushes and alders. soon above the trees peeps out the quaint wooden spire of thames ditton church, topping a squat tower of the type beloved of the olden church builders of the thames valley. at the river's brink, and under the shadow of the church, is the famous "swan," dear to the museful angler who delights not in crowds, and loves to make for a charming and unobtrusive stretch of river. with a kindly care for the welfare of the traveller, and not unmindful of other considerations, some olden landlord of the "swan" procured the establishment of the ferry at his very doors. the "swan" was an important hostelry in the days when thames ditton was more in fashion than it happily is now; and it still divides the honours of the spot with boyle farm on the opposite side of the road. dark brown of hue, and not unpicturesque of contour, boyle farm stands amid effective masses of foliage, its sloping lawn dipping down to the channel formed by a miniature eyot which screens it somewhat from view. the ample cedars on the lawn contrast well with the older portions of the house which face the water. this pretty spot obtained its name from that miss boyle who became in her own right baroness de ros, and is mentioned in one of horace walpole's letters as having "carved three tablets in marble with boys, designed by herself ... for a chimney-piece, and she is painting panels in grotesque for the library." by her marriage with lord henry fitzgerald, lady de ros became sister-in-law to that ill-starred pair, lord edward fitzgerald and "pamela." time was when boyle farm rivalled strawberry hill as a centre of gaiety, and its famous "dandies' fête," given in 1827 by five young sprigs of nobility at a cost of £2,500, was long a dazzling wonderment to those who are tickled by such things. this was one of the hereditaments which fell into dispute upon the death, without a will, of the first lord st. leonards. to the angler it may be that the comfortable old inn is more interesting than boyle farm with its walpolean memories. many is the wit and the man of letters who, after a day of more or less make-believe angling, has refreshed himself at the "swan." theodore hook delighted in thames ditton, and wrote some stanzas in its praise in a punt one day in 1834; it was natural that with so keen a lover of good living the "swan" should come in for eulogy. [illustration: the "swan," thames ditton.] in the churchyard of thames ditton rests "pamela" beneath a stone which records her original interment in the cemetery of montmartre, and her re-burial here. into the stone is let a portion of the marble slab, shattered by a german shell during the siege, which marked her resting-place in paris. close by is the grave of the first lord st. leonards. the tiny church possesses little architectural interest; but it contains a number of small but curious brasses, which have been removed from their original positions in the floor, and fixed upon the walls, a proceeding which, although it has divorced the memorials from the dust they commemorate, has no doubt tended to the preservation of interesting inscriptions, such as have, in too many cases, been destroyed. a brass which possesses a curious interest is that of erasmus ford, "sone and heyre of walter fforde, some tyme tresorer to kynge edward iv., and julyan, the wife." this worthy couple had a full quiver in all conscience, for the brass bears representations of six sons and twelve daughters. erasmus died in 1533, and his wife six years later. an even more portentous family was given to william notte, who died in 1576, and elizabeth his wife--nineteen, all told. it is hard to imagine such a posterity dying out; yet notte is assuredly an uncommon name. few facts in human history are more astonishing than the rapidity with which names become extinct. century after century the same names occur upon tombstones and in parish registers, and then there comes a blank which time, instead of filling up as before, only accentuates. [illustration: thames ditton church.] coming from london, thames ditton is the first point at which, in summer, the house-boat, elsewhere ubiquitous, is met with. the charm of the lagoon-like life which the house-boat affords has not lacked eulogists; but who shall justly describe the calm delights of dusk upon the river? it is as undefinable as happiness. the red gleam of sunset is splendidly spectacular; the gloom of dusk upon the water is weird, and a world of mystery seems to reside beyond. the plash of oars continues until the last speck of light has been folded into night; the boats shoot out from the encompassing darkness, ripple past, and enter the farther shadows. strange fancies enter the imaginative mind, and these gliding boats seem like phantom craft shooting from shadow-land to shadow-land. sometimes there comes a hissing launch, its lights flashing meteorically across the stream, and throwing their beams in among the rushes and osiers like sudden electric jets, or the fitful gleam of a will-o'-the-wisp. the awakening on the river has something of the idyllic, especially on a sunday morning, and if the moorings be cast within earshot of church bells. ditton is a prime point for the disportment of small craft from kingston and surbiton, and on fine saturdays and sundays the river hereabouts is crowded. all this movement is of course unfavourable for the punt-angler, unless he be astir early or on a day when the water is more or less deserted. in winter, however, when boating possesses charms only for the hardiest of enthusiasts, a good creel can be made within a stone's throw of the "swan." [illustration: hampton court to richmond.] between thames ditton and surbiton the river banks possess nothing of especial interest. the broad reach is, however, exceedingly pretty. on the middlesex shore is a more than usually picturesque towing-path, broad and grassy, backed by the full hedgerow which bounds the park of hampton court. on the surrey side the reeds and alders are profuse, and edge the water almost without break. the river front of surbiton wears a decidedly foreign air, with its tall white houses, and winding walks and shrubberies along the bank. this esplanade, starting from the water-works, extends for some distance towards kingston, and is an excellent hint to the local authorities of other water-side suburbs. surbiton is an interesting spot to rowing men, for it is the head-quarters both of the well-known kingston rowing club and of the thames sailing club. other interest it does not possess, and everything in and about it is painfully modern. but it is a pretty spot, and being within easy access of london is full of attraction to those who toil and spin daily within sound of the boom of great paul. anything that surbiton lacks in antiquity its ancient and dignified parent, kingston, can supply. kingston bridge lies pretty well a mile farther down stream, almost at the opposite extremity of the town. the view from the facing bank still has something of the foreign air of surbiton; but the aspect is netherlandish rather than french, which the other is. the square red tower of the church, the congeries of tiled roofs, and the quaint little summer arbours in the sloping garden of the river-side hotel, contribute greatly to this effect. the not unhandsome stone bridge, the twin-brother of that at richmond, which connects hampton wick with kingston, is a modern successor of a long ancestry of bridges, the earliest of which dated from saxon times. civil war, rather than time, seems to have made an end of all the previous bridges save that which immediately gave place to the present. for centuries london bridge was the only other permanent means of crossing the thames; consequently, when there occurred one of the frequent commotions in which our ancestors delighted, there was a good deal of competition between the two sides to get kingston bridge destroyed first, and so prevent communication between middlesex and surrey. in the strifes of the roses it fared ill, and during sir thomas wyatt's rebellion it was broken down to prevent the passage of the insurgents. since then, nearly three centuries and a half ago, the bridge has been more tenderly treated. [illustration: kingston, from the river.] [illustration: the market-place, kingston.] kingston is a very interesting old town, and was an important place, and the scene of the coronation of saxon kings a thousand years ago. it is remarkable as being the last municipal borough on the river, with the exception of the city of london itself. all the other places have to put up with local boards or vestries, or other undignified mushroomy governing bodies. kingston possesses the real antique thing--mayor, aldermen, town councillors, mace, and all the other symbols of municipal importance, and is duly and rightly proud thereof. few english towns can boast of such antiquity, and of fewer still can it be said that they have been boroughs since the days of john lackland. it seems always to have been a loyal town--the result, perhaps, of its ancient regal associations--and much money appears to have been spent by the olden burghers for bell-ringing and other diversions when confusion had overtaken the king's enemies. when the earl of northumberland was taken, for instance, the kingston ringers benefited to the extent of twenty pence--a clear exemplification of the saying that one half of the world lives upon the misfortunes of the other half. when prince charles returned from his spanish expedition in 1624, the joy of the townsmen was so demonstrative that they must needs spend three and fourpence upon the clangour of joy-bells. doubtless the young prince, who was much at hampton court, was well known in the town, and when, after his accession, his troubles pressed thick upon him, the townsmen were loyal to the core. the actual hostilities of the great rebellion began and ended at kingston, singularly enough. there the first, armed force assembled; there, near surbiton common, buckingham and holland made the last stand for the crown, in which fight lord francis villiers, who is buried in henry vii.'s chapel at westminster, was slain. [illustration: the coronation stone at kingston.] charles i. and cromwell, however, are mere personages of yesterday in the history of kingston. ten hundred and fifty years ago it was the seat of egbert's brilliant witenagemot, a couple of generations before ever a king was crowned here. these coronation memories, however, are kingston's great pride, and almost the only passages in her history of which any material memorial still remains. this memorial is, of course, the famous coronation stone, an irregular mass worn smooth and shiny by a thousand years of rain and friction. it stands finally now in the market-place, railed off in the reverent fashion common to chairs of state by a massive _grille_ which tends greatly, no doubt, to its conservation. how many of our kings before the conquest were crowned at kingston, and that their consecration really took place upon this particular stone, tradition affords the only evidence. the genuineness of the stone is well enough authenticated for the ordinary believer who does not care to make himself miserable by a course of universal scepticism; but i believe there have been antiquaries (of course they were not born at kingston) who have ventured to suggest that the evidence is insufficient. tradition says that seven saxon kings were certainly crowned here, and that probably others were. here are the names of the seven, with the dates of their coronation, copied from the pedestal of the stone, with faithful adherence to the spelling affected by mr. freeman:--eadweard, 901; adelstan, 924; eadmund, 943; eadred, 946; eadwig, 955; eadward, 975; ædelred, 978. kingston is a bright, cheerful little town, and the inhabitants seem to bear up well beneath the infliction of their terrible town hall, of which the sole tolerable points are some very good oaken carvings and some quaint armorial glass, all removed from the old town hall when it was demolished. before the iconoclasts of cromwellian days wreaked their evil will upon it, the parish church of kingston must have been internally very interesting. there is reason to suppose that it was rich in brasses; but all that now remains of them are the blanks in the floor left by their removal. there are a few fine monuments, and one ancient brass of considerable interest is to be seen still. it commemorates joan, the wife of robert skern, and her husband. the lady was a daughter of edward iii. and the frail alice perrers. after the coronation stone and the church, the only other "sight" of kingston is the norman chapel of st. helen, for many years only a ruin, which is believed to be the successor of a still older building in which "saint" dunstan is reported to have crowned king ethelred. the crooked streets of this old town, which disputes with winchester the glory of having been the ancient capital of england, are made picturesque by many fine old red-brick houses of jacobean and georgian date. a generation ago there were standing a number of even older houses irregularly gabled, half-timbered, and barge-boarded; but they have either been demolished or re-fronted. some of the shops, with painfully modern fronts, have low panelled interiors and carved staircases. [illustration: the royal barge.] [illustration: "the anglers," teddington.] at kingston the towing-path changes to the surrey shore, and the river takes a bold sweep towards teddington. between kingston bridge and teddington lock the path is by no means picturesque; but the wooded beauty of the opposite bank diverts attention from the more homely shore. right away to teddington, and indeed beyond, is an almost uninterrupted succession of lawns and shrubberies and cool-timbered pleasure-grounds, surrounding pretty riparian villas. life in summer in these cool veranda-girt pleasure-houses is idyllic. there you may enjoy tennis and boating, fishing and sailing, and drink your fill of admiration of the gaily-cushioned craft as they skim past with their lightsome burden of coquettish muslins and gossamers. nor is this river-strand to be despised when the winds of "chill october" have stripped the trees and left but bare branches, which look mournful and desolate to those who know only the thames of sunshine and boating flannels. the stream runs brown, brimming, and turbid, as it swirls along laden with a burden of russet leaves. the angler, happily, can follow his museful sport in all seasons, and to him, as to other contemplative men, the river has attractions in autumn not smaller than those of summer, though different. the best english weather is a fine autumn, good alike for work and play, and the second half of autumn is a by no means inauspicious time for the thames angler, for the river has ceased to be crowded with small craft, and the lumpy water suits better the fish then in season than if it were clear and limpid. a day's angling upon the bosom, or a long stroll by the banks of thames, has many charms upon a sober october day; and a late autumnal sunset, with its glow fading from across the water and deepening into grey behind the bare poles of the trees, is a thing all of loveliness. such a sunset, with the soft mist which clouds the banks directly afterwards, is well seen along this reach between kingston and teddington, where the thickly-wooded shores shut in the mist, and where the night seems to issue from the weird recesses of the woodland. [illustration: strawberry hill.] teddington is but a couple of miles, as the river flows, from kingston, and for the last half mile of the distance the murmur, one might almost say sometimes the roar, of the weir is audible. this same weir is the prime delight of the angler upon the more cockneyfied portion of the river, and many is the patient piscator who perches himself thereon betimes, and sits at the receipt of finny custom until the gathering dusk renders the enterprise no longer profitable. the old-fashioned carp, that mysterious, long-lived fish which was once, like the peacock, an old english delicacy with which monastic fishponds swarmed, runs to a great size about teddington weir, while dace are almost as plentiful as minnows in a brook. adjoining the weir is the lock, the first in the ascent and the last in the descent of the river. the lock and weir mark, to all intents and purposes, the spot, between sixty or seventy miles from the sea, at which the thames ceases to be tidal. henceforth the pilgrim, following the river on its way to the ocean, will see at low water, particularly between here and kew bridge, more mud-banks than he cares to count. at such times, too, the sense of smell will, at all events in hot weather, be found to have taken so keen a development that even chloride of lime would be accounted an odour sweeter than that given forth by the nude expanse of festering mud. at teddington as yet there is happily little annoyance of this kind. to see the little of interest the village affords it is necessary to land at the ferry opposite the "anglers," an old-fashioned inn which has long been popular with fishermen. at teddington, be it remembered, is kept jealously locked up, in the custody of mr. j. a. messenger, the royal bargemaster, the state barge which has descended to her majesty from early jacobean times. in form it is graceful and elegant, and in the centre is a covered pavilion for shelter from the sun and rain. it is profusely gilded, and lavishly carved with mermaids and dolphins, while near the figure-head are emblazoned the coronet and plumes of the princes of wales, and the badge of the garter. when he was at hampton court charles i. delighted to spend an hour or two on summer evenings in this barge feeding the swans upon the river. it has not been used since 1849, when her majesty rowed in state to open the coal exchange; but the public had an opportunity of seeing it in 1883, when it was shown at the fisheries exhibition. the village of teddington lies away from the river, and stretches on westward to the gates of bushey park. at the head of the main street stands the parish church, a not unpicturesque amalgam of the new and the old. its architectural interest is small, and the interior is whitewashed, but it contains the tombs of two or three notable people. of these, "peg" woffington, the actress, is perhaps the best remembered. there is a marble monument to her memory which records that, "near this monument lies the body of margaret woffington, spinster, born october 18th, 1720, who departed this life march 28th, 1760, aged thirty-nine years." she was buried in the grave of her infant nephew, master horace cholmondeley, who had died seven years previously. at the end of her wayward career poor peg could not have found a more peaceful resting-place. the oldest monument in the church is to sir orlando bridgeman, who died in 1674. this descendant and ancestor of a long line of orlandos was lord of the manor and a legal luminary. he was charles i.'s commissioner for the treaty of uxbridge; and under charles ii. was chief justice of the common pleas and lord keeper of the great seal. when the church was being overhauled in 1833 the bridgeman vault was opened, and sir orlando's body was found lying in a lidless coffin. so skilfully had the embalmer done his work that the remains were perfect, even the pointed jacobean beard being untouched. an express was sent off to fetch the then earl of bradford, sir orlando's descendant, who thus had the strange privilege of looking upon the features of a progenitor who had been dead 159 years. there are two old and uninteresting brasses, and a tablet to the memory of john walter, the founder of the _times_, who died at teddington. the churchyard is beautifully kept, full of trees and shrubs and climbing plants, which latter have grown luxuriantly over some of the older tombs. here lie buried paul whitehead, the poet, minus his heart, deposited in the despencer mausoleum at high wycombe, whence it was most reprehensibly stolen; richard bentley, who shares with walpole the guilt of designing strawberry hill; and "plain parson hale," the friend of pope, who was for more than fifty years the incumbent of the parish. [illustration: pope's villa, twickenham.] from teddington lock until close to richmond the stream is undeniably less picturesque than in the reaches described earlier in this chapter. the river is less full of water, and when the tide is out the unsightly and unsavoury mud-banks are always in view. the towing-path becomes stony and arid; the hedgerows filled with poppies cease, and a very matter-of-fact embankment on the surrey shore has to be reckoned with. yet the reach between the lock and eel pie island has always been popular, and often in the summer one may see here all sorts and conditions of notabilities disporting themselves at a little water-party. the spot is comparatively near to london, and your amateur boatman, with true wisdom, prefers not to get between two locks. we are coming now to classic ground, where wit and letters, fashion and frivolity, long have reigned. there is not another village in england with literary associations so numerous and august as twickenham. pope and walpole are the presiding genii--neither of them, perhaps, the most genial of genii; but the fairy-like element is supplied by the hosts of feminine friends with whom the two bachelors were wont to philander. whether as a letter-writer or as an architect, walpole was vastly diverting; and it is a pity that so little of his brown stucco abode can be seen from the river. strawberry hill is the kind of place a mad architect might build in a delirium. we have a side not unlike the west front of westminster hall might have been had it been built of lath and plaster; then comes the keep of a norman castle, flanked by a renaissance _tourelle_ from chambord; the whole crowned with crow-stepped flemish gables from antwerp, and the twisted and fluted chimneys of a tudor farmhouse. then there are wings which aim at imitating these imitations; these, it is fair to say, are due to walpole's successors. but howsoever astounding the exterior of strawberry hill, the interior is far more remarkable. within, as without, the place bears every mark of having been built by a man who learned his architecture as he proceeded. walpole leaped gaily over an anachronism, and saw nothing unorthodox in copying a mediæval tomb and fashioning it into a chimney-piece, nor in taking the choir stalls of old st. paul's as the model for the bookcases in his library. the internal arrangements of strawberry hill are as wonderful as the events recounted in that very gothic story the "castle of otranto." it is a mighty maze without a plan. a long, narrow corridor, leading apparently to nothing, debouches upon a door which, when opened, discloses a large and splendid apartment. it is, indeed, a house of after-thoughts; but, whatever be its crudeness, it is not devoid of value as an early forerunner of the real gothic revival. pseudo-gothic of this pattern was almost as popular towards the end of the eighteenth century as houses built in the guise of greek temples. happily, most of the examples have fallen down, but a few, such as that terrible "restoration" of windsor castle, still remain. in literary and personal memories strawberry hill is far richer than many houses of greater antiquity and of real historical interest. horace walpole gathered all "the town" around him in these "enamelled meadows with filigree hedges;" and few are the great names of the last century and a quarter which have not some connection with "the castle," as its builder loved to call it. all the world's familiarity with this _chic_ abode of walpoles, damers, and waldegraves excuses me from dwelling lengthily upon its peculiar but undoubted charm. frances, countess waldegrave, made it almost as fashionable as it had been in walpolean times; and although the bulk of the contents of the house were sold after her death, it is pleasant to know that baron de stern, who became the proprietor in 1883, purchased much of the furniture, and that, to some extent at least, the historic continuity of olden associations has not been broken. [illustration: twickenham ferry.] a little nearer to richmond, and so happily placed that it commands the river from below richmond hill to teddington lock, is the modern and very _bizarre_ successor of pope's villa. only a specialist in architectural mania, or a member of the société des incoherents, could attempt a description of this astonishing building. it is said to have been erected by a tea merchant, and it certainly looks very much like a cross between a chinese pagoda and a house of cards. its lawns and shrubberies are very pretty, and after all there is something to be said for having all the river-side monstrosities gathered into one parish. the house does not occupy the exact site of the original pope's villa which, thanks to a too common lack of sentiment, was demolished long ago. the famous grotto, one of the works of embellishment of the "little crooked thing that asks questions," still remains, but in a damp and mouldy condition, and despoiled of all that rendered it interesting. pope had no great love for gimcrackeries, and we can in some measure imagine the tenor of the lines in which he would have immortalised the tea merchant could he have foreseen the change a century would bring about. the associations of pope's villa and gardens are primarily literary, even as those of strawberry hill, at a later day, were fashionable, frivolous, and dilettante. in pope's time twickenham was the centre of literary interest in england, and if the jove who dwelt in this olympus was querulous and stinging, his genius went a long way towards making lustrous an age in which taste and manners slept. taste, at least, was still slumbering when lady howe considered herself justified in demolishing one of the most famous abodes that have ever been connected with our literary history. it is in the neighbourhood of pope's villa that the injury which has been done to the thames by the mass of sewage sludge that has been so recklessly poured into it of late years first becomes noticeable. although the effects of the tide are not much felt above richmond bridge, the condition of the river hereabouts at low water is lamentable. a broad edging of slimy ooze stretches for some distance from the bank on either side, and when the weather is really hot, and there is a drought of any considerable duration, as happened in the summer of 1884, the odour is hardly that of frankincense. the thames conservancy embankment between twickenham and richmond will no doubt improve matters somewhat; but it is, to say the least, melancholy that it should have become necessary to so disfigure the surrey shore. nor does the presence of unwieldy dredges in these reaches enhance the picturesqueness of the stream, while the new towing-path made with dried mud from the river-bed is an agency of martyrdom. behind eel pie island--famous in the annals of angling and sweet in the memory of generations of picnickers--is seen the red tower of twickenham parish church, architecturally much more interesting than the majority of thames valley churches. the ancient building fell down in 1713, and the fact that sir godfrey kneller, who was at that time one of the churchwardens, had a hand in its rebuilding, albeit he was not the actual architect, may account for the excellence of the workmanship. the brickwork is almost as good as some of the best tudor achievements in that line. some famous and many interesting people lie buried here and in the churchyard. pope's own tomb is hidden beneath the seats; but the marble monument which he erected to the memory of his father and mother, and in anticipatory commemoration of himself, is still to be seen on the east wall. in that part of the inscription which refers to himself pope left blanks for his age and the date of his death; but such is the carelessness which prevails in such matters that these _lacunæ_ have never been filled up. kneller, the courtly painter of so many beauteous coquettes, is also buried in the church. here, too, sleeps admiral byron, the author of the once popular "narrative of the loss of the _wager_," irreverently described by his grandson as "my granddad's narrative." kitty clive, the charming actress who lived at little strawberry hill, and for whom walpole had a platonic attachment, is buried in the chancel. naturally, in a classic village where many tremendous personages have dwelt, twickenham is full of fine and interesting old houses, mainly of that square red-brick order of architecture which, if not precisely picturesque, is suggestive of comfort and homeliness. the old houses at twickenham are of the sort in which thackeray's people lived--still redolent of the charming but indescribable odour of the days of good, harmless queen anne. perhaps the most interesting of them all is york house, immediately opposite eel pie island, in which anne herself and her sister mary were born. lord chancellor clarendon, anne's somewhat plebeian grandsire, lived there, and it is one of the five or six houses in which he is said to have written that monstrous dull book, the "history of the rebellion." for several years after their clandestine marriage the duke of york--he who when king made so pitiful an ending of it--lived with anne hyde in this house, although it was undoubtedly called york long before then. in the second half of last century, prince stahremberg, viennese envoy extraordinary, lived here, and achieved such fame as can therefrom result by a long succession of private theatricals in which a bevy of lovely and high-born dames took part. orleans house likewise has royal associations, but of a somewhat melancholy kind, as memories of exile usually must be. [illustration: richmond: the meadows and the park.] twickenham might pleasantly detain us for a whole chapter; but the wooded slopes of richmond rise beyond, and tempt us on to "ham's umbrageous walks," and the green meadows of petersham. the river between eel pie island and richmond bridge has a charm all its own, which owes much to the associations of the shores between which it flows. the meadows on the surrey shore are sweet to look upon from the water; but until ham is approached there is greater interest and variety upon the middlesex bank. ham, with its famous "walks," lies low, and little of it can be seen from a boat. from the towing-path, however, there is to be had a very pleasant glimpse of ham house, shaded, and, indeed, almost hidden, by splendid elms, some of which, against the pale which divides the grounds from the public path, throw in summer a cool and welcome shadow across the glaring footway. there is something solemnly picturesque about ham house, as, indeed, there nearly always is about an old red-brick house closely surrounded by graceful, darkling elms. ham is, in fact, so hemmed in by foliage that it but narrowly escapes being gloomy. horace walpole, who was nothing if not cheerful, declaimed terribly against its dreariness; and to queen charlotte it appeared "truly melancholy." it is shut in and almost surrounded by high walls; but a good view of the front may be obtained from the towing-path through the handsome iron gates in the centre of a dwarf wall. these gates are said not to have been opened for many years, and the house itself has the appearance of being rarely lived in. ham is a good example of very early jacobean architecture. it has a longish front with a slightly projecting wing at each extremity, and is approached by avenues on almost every side. few country houses in the neighbourhood of london are more interesting either historically or architecturally. neither within nor without has any restoration been attempted, and there has been only such renovation as was imperatively necessary to prevent decay. it was built, it is said, for henry prince of wales, elder brother of charles i., who died a mere youth. the actual builder of the house was sir thomas vavasour, king james's marshal of the household, and the belief that it was extended for the prince of wales is strengthened by the _vivat rex_, which, together with the date, 1610, is carved over the principal entrance. since 1651 it has belonged to the earls of dysart. the first earl of dysart was, in hibernian phrase, a countess, elizabeth, daughter of william murray, one of the owners of ham, and the wife of sir lionel tollemache. after sir lionel's death, the countess married john, earl of lauderdale, who, within three years of his marriage, was created baron petersham, earl of guildford, marquis of march, and duke of lauderdale. john maitland, the "l" of the cabal ministry, and his duchess, were two of the most infamous creatures of the restoration. the duchess was bad because it was her nature to be so; her second husband, whose relations with her before marriage and in the lifetime of their respective first partners had been at the least compromising, was too weak and too easily swayed to withstand his wife's imperious ways. she openly sold the places in the duke's gift, and it was the opinion of burnet that she "would have stuck at nothing by which she might compass her ends." the "cabal" constantly held their councils at ham house, the duchess of lauderdale often being present to sharpen their flagging wits, exhausted by the concoction of shameful schemes for replenishing their own and their master's exchequers. the house was magnificently decorated and furnished out of the spoils of politics, and internally it remains very much as the duchess left it--full of pictures, portraits, tapestries, rich cabinets of ivory and cedar. in one of these cabinets is preserved a crystal locket containing a lock of hair from the ill-fated head of elizabeth's earl of essex. it had been proposed to assign ham house as the residence of james ii. after his enforced abdication; but that courageous person found it expedient to take himself off, and to weep on a kindlier shore. [illustration: richmond: the terrace from the river.] it is not alone in summer, when the trees are thick with foliage, and the sun shines cheerily in at the windows, chasing away the memory of lauderdale, arlington, ashley, and their fellows, that ham house presents a striking appearance. it is the very type of house to make a winter picture, and there is nothing more characteristic of an english winter scene than this historic pile, looked upon from the river-side. the gaunt, bare elms, black against the dull sky, save where the snow has left some traces on less sheltered boughs, the frosted turf, the great iron gates and their tall piers, topped with an edging of snow which has gathered in the corners of the ironwork, a white drift banked up against the rusty hinges and the rarely-drawn bolt, glistening fleecy masses lodged above the door and on every projecting frame and cornice, a long roof hidden in snow, particles of which adhere even to the chimney-stacks--all this makes a picture which should be painted. the village of ham, with its classic "walks," is haunted by the towering shades of pope and swift, and the gentle ghosts of thomson and gay, an appropriate connecting-link between twickenham and richmond. of petersham, which adjoins ham common, little or nothing can be seen from the river. it has a church which, although architecturally uninteresting, is crowded with old monuments, and with famous and notorious dust. the duchess of lauderdale herself was both married and buried here; but she has no monument. george vancouver, the circumnavigator and the godfather of vancouver island, lies here; so do the misses agnes and mary berry--walpole's "favourite berrys." not the least distinguished of men who have been buried at petersham within recent years is mortimer collins, who is still missed from among the ranks of lighter english writers. past ham the gleaming river winds through the petersham meadows, with their wooded background of richmond park, and the broken, furzy ground near the "star and garter." here the thames becomes as lovely as it is between hampton court and kingston. the banks are profusely timbered, and a bushy little eyot in the centre of the stream adds to the charm of the view. where the towing-path for a time ends, near kew foot lane, there begins on each shore an irregular line of water-side villas buried in lilac and laburnum, surrounded by smooth lawns with edgings of geometrical flower-beds, those on the middlesex side still in twickenham, which extends quite up to richmond bridge. on the richmond, or rather the petersham shore, tower high up on the verdant bluff the towers and pinnacles of the "star and garter," looking in the distance not unlike a french villa on the heights of st. cloud. beyond is richmond hill, with its leafy terrace, adding much to the foreign impress of the scene. the boldness with which "thy hill, delightful sheen," rises up almost sheer from the water, recalls some more glorified namur. there is a brightness and a vivacity about this little suburb of st. james's which are rare to find in this stolid island. it is a hard climb up the lovely lane from the river-side to the portals of the "star and garter," and the gates of richmond park. it is a sweet and toothsome spot this site of the "star and garter," which recalls cycles of flirtations and memories of iced champagne. "a little dinner at richmond" is a heading very familiar to the persevering novel reader, and the scene of these pleasant symposia is of course always this aristocratic hotel at the top of the hill. the delights of richmond park, on the opposite side of the road, are of another order. here we have a vast pleasure-ground, the nearest of its kind to london save epping forest. if anything, it is lovelier than epping, since it has been better cared for, and there has been none of that reckless destruction which has so much marred the forest glades of essex. close by the richmond gate is one of the sweetest bits in this thickly-wooded domain--the old deer park. a steep slope, green and timbered, divides this from the higher and more public portions of the park. in this undulating preserve, dotted with stately oaks, is kept a large herd of fallow-deer, tame almost to temerity. the old deer park has some retired nooks and lonely glades in which one may surprise the dreamy deer sheltering themselves upon a glaring day beneath the wide branches of the ancient oaks, up to the barrel in fern and bracken and bramble. scattered here and there are plantations new and old, full of larch and fir as of more stately forest trees, in which abound game of all sorts, but more especially the hopping rabbit and the skimming hare. the gates of the park open upon the very extremity of the hill, close to mansfield house, now an hotel, but formerly a residence of the lord chancellor of that name, who once had a redoubtable encounter with the mob, and to wick house, where sometime lived sir joshua reynolds. immediately beyond is the terrace, an umbrageous promenade, dear in morning hours to nurses and their lively charges, and later in the day somewhat of a rotten row or a ladies' furlong. from his seat beneath the trees the gazer looks down away to the west upon one of the most lovely sights that earth affords. between edgings of quivering green, of lighter and of deeper hues, winds a glistening silver ribbon, in and out among villas and townlets, always narrowing, and when the limit of vision is reached, it seems to the straining eye as though meadow and woodland met and stayed all further passage. from this eminence the country lies mapped out as though seen from a balloon; and far away beyond all trace of the river there closes in a dark and swaying mass of foliage, like to one dense land of trees. a thin line of brilliant blossom marks in early summer the chestnut avenue in bushey park; and were it not that here and there the sun catches a high church tower, a gilded vane, or mayhap a turret of feudal windsor, it would seem from here above that this wide and lovely stretch of country was still a vast untrodden forest. so great is the height that even immediately below the long, comfortable pleasure-boats loom tiny as toys, while the steamers, happily rarer in these waters than they are lower down, become almost picturesque in the distance. all this gleaming valley, stretching across to the west, is the way we have come; these are the woodlands past which we have rowed, and beneath whose shadow we have rested; those the bends and reaches where we have done some honest, straightforward pulling; those the shaded lawns where we have longed for tennis, the rather for the sakes of the muslin goddesses we furtively watched than for pure love of that olympian game. that which remains of our course shoots us past the skirts of richmond town, the river bank coloured and diversified with houses old and brown, and houses new and white, with here and there yet other lawns. one more embowered eyot comes round which the waters, parting, gently swirl. here lie anchored a lazy barge or two, and as we plash past them into mid-stream again we are full in face of richmond bridge, grey, many-arched, and slightly bowed. beyond the bridge there rises a chain of swelling uplands, all massy with foliage, and dotted with the red and white of lotus-eating villas. /j. penderel-brodhurst/. [illustration: richmond bridge.] chapter ix. richmond to battersea. the river at richmond--a spot for a holiday--the old palace of sheen--the trumpeters' house--old sad memories--richmond green--the church--kean's grave--water supply--the bridge--the nunnery of sion and convent of sheen--sir william temple--kew observatory, isleworth--sion house and its history--kew palace and the georges--kew gardens--kew green--brentford--mortlake--barnes--chiswick--the boat-race--hammersmith--putney--barn elms--putney and fulham--the bishops of london--hurlingham--the approach to a great city. it would be easy to find spots on the thames where the natural features--the wood-clad slope, the grassy sward, and the gliding stream--were associated in equal beauty, but it would be difficult to meet with any more picturesque combination of these with the dwellings of men than may be seen on the river reach just below richmond bridge. the light-grey arches, through which the thames flows ripplingly, are backed by the groves of richmond hill. on the one hand are the shady gardens and villas that now thickly stud the meadow plain of twickenham; on the other, the houses of the town, after thronging down to the waterside at the entrance of the bridge, give place to statelier mansions with ample pleasure-grounds. it was doubtless a more imposing sight when the façade of the old palace of sheen, which these mansions have replaced, overlooked the margin of the thames; but it can have hardly been more picturesque than now. the low iron railing allows the eye to wander from the path by the riverside to the green pastures and lawns overshadowed by fine trees, to the old-fashioned façade of the "trumpeters' house," while the more ambitious semi-classical design of asgill house on the one hand, and of queensberry house on the other, in closer proximity to the river, give an irregularity to the grouping, and perhaps accord better with the neighbouring town than the unbroken front of the tudor palace is likely to have done. in its days, also, there were no bridges, and though the railway viaduct below might well be spared, the stone bridge must have improved a view of this kind. at any rate, this reach of the thames is classic in art and literature; it has engaged the pencil of turner, and is full of memories of pope and gay and thomson. the space between the two bridges seems to invite the traveller to linger. fresh, perchance, from the streets of london, the odours of the underground railway still in his nostrils, the vapour of its smoky streets still lingering in his lungs, a little heated, it may be, and still mindful of towns in his walk from the railway station through richmond streets to the bridge, he walks rapidly for a brief space along the towing-path, and then perforce halts in another and a new land. if, fortunately, he has chosen a day still early in the summer, before the average londoner has quite realised that it is time to begin to take "an outing;" if he has arrived on the spot at an hour when the rowdy element, still, unhappily, too prominent among the dwellers in our metropolis, has not yet broken the peace of the thames by those simian howlings or that loud-voiced blasphemy, which is deemed expressive of pleasure, then he will find it hard to detach himself from this reach of the river, and will imitate the elders of richmond, two or three of whom he will generally find sunning or shading themselves on the benches near the waterside. is it not enough to watch the trees almost dipping their branches in the stream, to find excitement in the hovering of a fly over its surface, in the splash of a fish, or even in the tiny swirls of the stream itself? in this dreamy calm which steals so quickly over us we watch the hovering butterfly or the flitting dragon-fly, the little dramas of animal life, their comedy or their tragedy, with an interest that causes the graver issues which we left behind barely an hour ago to fade from the mind. what more do we need after the noise of the streets than this perfect calm of the air, undisturbed save by the faint rustle of the breeze among the leaves, or the twittering note of a bird? what more, after the dusty pavements, than these glimpses of green lawn, of summer flowers in garden-beds or pendant from wall and trellis; of shadowy walks under green trees of britain or darkling cedars from lebanon? as we dream, memories rise of a dead-and-gone past--of many an episode of english history which is connected with this little reach of our river, perhaps the most classic ground on the thames outside the precincts of the metropolis. kings and queens, many a lord and lady of high degree, many a man on whom genius has conferred a place in history which birth alone cannot give, have loved to linger along this bit of thames-side, or to float idly on its stream. "their mirth is sped; their gravest theme sleeps with the things that cease to be; their longest life, a morning gleam; a bubble bursting on the stream, then swept to time's unfathomed sea."--/kenyon./ but let us awaken from our reveries to dwell more particularly upon the memories called up by the thames below richmond bridge. once on a time the pride of richmond and the glory of this part of the river was its royal palace--a favourite residence of several of the kings of england. there is some uncertainty as to when the manor of sheen--for that was its earlier name--came into the hands of the crown; but the first royal owner of the entire estate appears to have been edward iii. he also is said to have been the builder of the palace, although there must have been a residence on its site in the days of both his father and grandfather. here, in fact, his long reign came to its melancholy end. within the walls of sheen he lay, robbed and deserted by courtiers and favourites, tended only by a "poor priest in the house," who found the dying monarch absolutely alone, and spoke words of exhortation and hope to soothe the parting struggle. his body was conveyed from sheen by his four sons and other lords, and solemnly interred within westminster abbey. his grandson and successor lived here for a time, but on the death of his queen, anne of bohemia, within its walls, took such a hatred to the palace "that he, besides cursing the place where she died, did also for anger throwe down the buildings, unto where former kings being wearie of the citie, were wont for pleasure to resort." henry v. rebuilt the palace, erecting a "delightful mansion of curious and costly workmanship." it was a favourite residence of edward iv., and was held in equal regard by henry vii. in his days, however, it suffered twice from fires, the first one destroying a considerable portion of the older buildings. henry rebuilt the injured part, and altered the name from sheen to richmond. it is also interesting to learn that architects made mistakes or builders scamped their work even in the courts of tudor kings, and at peril, as one would have thought, of their ears, if not of their necks; for shortly after the second fire a new gallery, on which the king and his son prince arthur had been walking a short time previously, fell down, fortunately without injuring any one. richmond palace was the scene of many of the principal festivities in this king's reign; much also of his accumulated treasure was hoarded within its walls. his successor, the much-married monarch, came frequently here in the earlier days of his reign, but the palace fell out of favour in the later, and was the country residence of his divorced wife, anne of cleves. elizabeth, however, greatly liked it, and her last days were spent under its roof. she came from chelsea to richmond, in the month of january, sickening of the disease that caused her end, and overcome with melancholy for the death of essex. she refused to take food or medicine or rest; she would not go to bed, but sat on cushions piled on the floor; a melancholy picture of distress, but with the old spirit left, as when she flashed out upon cecil for having inadvertently used the words "she _must_ go to bed." [illustration: between richmond and kew.] the palace was an occasional abode of james, her successor, and his queen, and the residence of their eldest son, the accomplished prince henry, "england's darling." here he died, amid universal lamentation, and his brother succeeded to the expectation of a crown, and the ultimate doom of the headsman's axe. prince henry would hardly have pulled down "bishops and bells," but his brother secured their downfall and his own by trying unduly to exalt them. prince charles, after an interval of some three years, took up his abode at the palace, and richmond once more awoke, for the new prince of wales scattered his money--or rather the nation's money--royally while he played the fool with "steenie," duke of buckingham. after he assumed the crown his visits here became less frequent, and after his execution it was ordered by act of parliament that the valuable contents of the palace should be sold. though inhabited from time to time after the restoration, it never returned to its former greatness. much of the building was destroyed before the end of the seventeenth century, and now only a few fragments remain. old pictures and documents enable us to form a good idea of its ancient splendour, and a right noble and picturesque structure it must have been. on the north side it looked on to richmond green, where now may be seen the remnant of its ancient gatehouse; on the south-west it came down to the margin of the thames. a narrow lane, leading from the green to the riverside, and emerging opposite to the noble old elm which forms so marked a feature in the view from the river, passes across the site of the court of the ancient palace, and, doubtless, over the foundations of its principal buildings. roughly speaking, the site of the river façade is now occupied by the three mansions already mentioned, which themselves, as we shall show, are not without a history. the principal of these lies far back from the river; a lovely garden, shaded with trees, intervenes. judging from the drawings, the buildings of the palace approached near to the waterside, and the space between had rather a barren and desolate look, as though it were left in the rough as a mere foreshore. now the gardens make the passer-by long to trespass. the owners, however, beneficently (or is it to secure a good view of the river?) keep their boundary fences low. building on the site of the old palace seems to have begun quite early in the last century. the heavy, but stately red-brick house, with a stone portico, which we have already mentioned, was erected by a mr. richard hill, brother of mrs. masham, the well-known favourite of queen anne. it bears the name of the trumpeters' house, from two statues of figures blowing trumpets, which once adorned the façade. the more modern mansion, nearer to both the bridge and the river, stands on the site of the villa occupied by a noted character in the last century, the duke of queensbury--commonly known as old q.--one of the least virtuous and respectable members of the aristocracy in a not too virtuous age. there is a characteristic story quoted by an historian of richmond which carries its own moral. wilberforce, when a young man, was invited to dine at the richmond mansion. "the dinner was sumptuous, the views from the villa quite enchanting, and the thames in all its glory; but the duke looked on with indifference. 'what is there,' he said, 'to make so much of in the thames? i am quite weary of it: there it goes, flow, flow, flow, always the same.'" in his old age he deserted richmond, having taken offence, it is said, at the inhabitants. there is an open space between the towing-path and the railings of the ducal villa that the duke enclosed and converted to his own use, trusting that fear of his rank, desire to retain his custom, and gratitude for his benefactions--for he was no niggard--would combine to secure the acquiescence of the inhabitants. but these motives proved insufficient; the town commenced an action, which was, of course, successful, and the duke, deeming its inhabitants ingrates, withdrew to london. there he found occupation in such pleasures as money and rank could purchase--and these could bring more a century since than now. when he became too infirm to move about, he sat on his balcony under a parasol, to ogle the pretty women as they passed by, and died with his bed-quilt strewn with _billets-doux_, which his enfeebled hands could not open--_vanitas vanitatum_. no spot on the thames, save hampton court, is so rich in historic memories as this delightful bit of the river below richmond bridge. in the still evening air, as the glow is fading from the west, as the riverside becomes deserted, and the toilers and pleasurers have alike gone home, the ghosts of old times come back, and the actualities of the nineteenth century fade away into the shadows of the past. tender and pleasant memories would be most in harmony with the scene, and these are by no means absent; the sounds of music and dance are not wanting from the stately walls which our fancy conjures up, nor from the gilded boats which seem to float along the stream. yet still the more prominent are sad, lurid evenings, presaging coming storm--edward dying in solitude and dishonour, to leave his kingdom to a feeble fool; elizabeth, in her overshadowed youth, quitting the palace _tanquam ovis_--to quote her own words; and again, when the brightness of life had passed, dying slowly there, her last hours darkened by many sorrows, not the least being the thought of the unworthy pedant who would take up her sceptre; the parting agony of his eldest son, making way for one whose very virtues were his bane, and whose memory was only redeemed by the mistaken necessity of his execution. these are thoughts tragic enough to darken the recollections of the palace of richmond, and cast some shadow on a scene which is one of the fairest in the neighbourhood of the metropolis. we must not, however, pass on from this spot without turning aside from the river to give one glance at richmond green, on which the northern front of the palace formerly looked. it is a noble expanse of grass, surrounded by trees, some, probably, survivors of the old elms which bordered it in the days when the parliamentary commissioners made their visitation; others of more recent planting. here, where once jousts and tournaments were held--sometimes with fatal result--the lads play at cricket, and the old folk saunter under the shadows of the branches. the enclosing road is bordered with houses of every date, from queen anne to queen victoria, and among some of the former stands the chief remnant of the palace of the tudors. it is the gateway of henry vii.'s structure, a plain four-centred, depressed arch, over which is a mouldering stone still bearing the royal arms. the adjoining house, though modernised, is a part of the ancient façade, and contains a fine old staircase; and the buildings running backward on one side of the courtyard still retain in their walls pieces of the ancient brickwork; and some of their rooms are of interest. one, indeed, is commonly pointed out as that in which queen elizabeth died; but the tradition is unworthy of credence. the modern "queen annist" will take much pleasure in the contemplation of maid of honour row, a line of houses erected early in the last century. on the stage of the theatre which stands by the green the best actors of london often appeared, and it is noted as the place where edmund kean, stricken by fatal illness while playing the part of othello, sank into the arms of his son charles, who was acting iago. he died shortly afterwards in a small room in an adjoining house, and is buried in the churchyard. richmond church is not without interest, though it is without beauty. there is a much-battered low stone tower, and a body, which dates chiefly from the last century, built of brick, in what may be called the hanoverian style. it is, however, in good repair, and in excellent order within, and is, at any rate, of more interest than many feeble modern imitations of mediæval work. several men of note have been buried within its walls, or in its churchyard. among them is the noted gilbert wakefield, sometime vicar of richmond, one of the victims of the reactionary terror inspired by the french revolution. james thomson, the poet, also lies within the walls. besides these are members of the fitzwilliam family, who had their residence near the green, among them being the earl who enriched the university of cambridge with a fine collection of paintings and drawings. lady di beauclerk, the friend of dr. johnson, with dr. moore, the author, father of the hero of corunna; mrs. barbara holland, also among the well-nigh forgotten names of literature; and many actors besides edmund kean have been laid to rest in the precincts of richmond old church. the increase of the town has caused the building of two other churches, and the institution of a cemetery. richmond, though so near abundance of water, has sometimes been in danger, like the ancient mariner, of being without a drop to drink. to use the thames is, of course, impossible, the present age objecting to dilute sewage; and the supply from other sources has not always been sufficient. a few years ago an attempt was made to obtain a supply from the porous beds which, in most parts of england, succeed to the stiff blue clay underlying the chalk. the result was more interesting to geologists than satisfactory to the ratepayers. as is the case beneath london, this porous stratum was found to be wanting, an upland mass of more ancient rock having evidently interrupted the sea beneath the whole area now occupied by the london district, and the boring tools pierced for nearly seventy yards through more ancient beds, till at last the unprofitable task had to be abandoned. [illustration: sion house.] the stone bridge, which we have already mentioned, is a comparatively modern institution. the act for its erection was obtained in the year 1773, and prior to that the thames had to be crossed in a boat. local chronicles tell us that there was much disputation and some heart-burnings before the site was determined. the design is good, and the light grey of the stone contrasts well with the verdure of the trees and the darkling water of the thames. the railway bridge--an iron structure--is a doubtful addition to the scenery of the river; like many another institution of modern times, a railway is of unquestionable utility, but the less we see of it the better. however, we may honestly say of this that it might easily be a greater eyesore. beyond it houses of a substantial character, and their pleasant gardens, continue to border the left bank of the river, but on the right bank the scene quickly changes, and we could fancy ourselves dozens of miles away from the metropolis. the slope of the elevated plateau, which forms so marked a feature from richmond bridge, and is climbed in part by the town, has now trended inland. the thames has struck out for the middle of the shallow valley, along which its present course meanders, and is bordered now on either side by an alluvial plain. this, on the right bank--the inner side of the curve formed by the stream--is occupied by the extensive property belonging to the crown of england, of which the more northern portion--that known as kew gardens--is the more familiar to the london public. we come first to the more secluded part--the old deer park, a great expanse of meadow-land, dotted, often thickly, by groups of fine trees. this was an appendage of the ancient palace of richmond, or sheen, of which mention has already been made. it is separated from the towing-path and causeway, which runs along the riverside, by a shallow ditch or canal, speckled, in the early summer-tide, with the flowers of the water ranunculus. from the stream, or, better still, from this causeway, we enjoy the beauty of the great grassy plain, and its scent as it withers in due season into hay, beneath the heat of the summer sun, and the ever-new grouping of the trees, which thus obviate the possible monotony of meadow scenery. the only building that for some time arrests the eye--if we except a pair of small stone obelisks--is the white house occupied by the kew observatory--a not unpleasing structure, which we shall presently notice more in detail. not far from this, and at the same time no great distance from the old palace of sheen, was the carthusian convent, founded some four and a half centuries since by henry v. as report has it, the king was much disquieted in his conscience as to the mode in which his father had gained the crown by the deposition and death of richard ii., and as a peace-offering founded, in the year 1414, the convent of sheen and the nunnery of sion, on the opposite side of the thames. it was incorporated under the name of the house of jesus at sheen, and the rules ordered that when the devotions at the one convent ceased those at the other should begin. these foundations are recorded in the speech assigned by shakespeare to henry prior to the battle of agincourt:- "i have built two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests still sing for richard's soul." royally endowed, and pleasantly situated, the monastery of sheen is not without its place in history. the prior of sheen was powerful enough to avert for a time, by his intercession, the due penalty of death from the pretender perkin warbeck, who escaped from the tower and sought refuge within the walls of the monastery. but a second attempt to break prison brought him to the scaffold. to sheen the body of james iv. of scotland was brought from the field of flodden for burial, a purpose which seems to have been unfulfilled, for the corpse, wrapt in lead, was seen lying in a lumber-room some years after the suppression of the monastery. hard by its walls the noted dean colet, founder of st. paul's school, built himself a small house, to which, for a time, the great cardinal wolsey retreated after his disgrace. after the suppression of the monastery its buildings became the possession of more than one noble family in succession. according to spelman, a curse was upon it, for in less than a century and a half it went to nine owners, never once descending from father to son. it witnessed the marriage of sir robert dudley and amy robsart, and the childhood of lady jane grey. in the reign of mary the monks came back for a brief season, but they had again to cross the seas when elizabeth reigned. after many changes, demolitions, and additions, a part of the monastery, or a residence upon a portion of its site, was occupied by sir william temple, the well-known statesman, and its gardens became the scene of his experiments to discover "how a succession of cherries may be compassed from may to michaelmas, and how the riches of sheen vines may be improved by half-a-dozen sorts which are not known here." [illustration: the river at kew.] evelyn, who incidentally notices that the abbey precincts had become divided between "several pretty villas and fine gardens of the most excellent fruits," remarks on the excellence of sir w. temple's orangery, and the perfect training of the wall-fruit trees in his garden. here the retired statesman, away from the hurly-burly of politics, meditated on horticulture and indited epistles, while king james was vainly grasping at a tyranny, and the prince of orange was marching eastward from torbay. when that prince became king he visited temple at sheen, but after this time the latter chiefly resided at moor park; so that it is with this place rather than sheen that the memory of his young secretary, afterwards the noted dean of st. patrick, is associated. all traces of the ancient monastery have now disappeared, the last remains having been destroyed about the year 1769. the "kew observatory," which we have already noticed, stands isolated among the broad meadows, away from dust and noise, and from the reverberation of traffic. it was built for george iii. by sir william chambers, "for the purpose of studying astronomical science with special reference to the transit of venus." but after a time its activity declined, and for many years "kew may be said to have quietly glided into a long winter of hibernation, being under the careful guardianship of a curator and reader." attention was once directed towards it in a painful way, a double murder having been committed by the janitor, a man named little, previously much respected in the neighbourhood, who was arrested in the house of his victims and duly executed in the year 1795. the observatory was suppressed by sir robert peel, and the building offered to the royal society. that body, however, refused to undertake the charge, as it did not possess any funds applicable for the purpose, but by means of the subscriptions of various men of science, and a grant from the british association, an observatory for meteorological and electrical observations was established under the charge of a committee, at which much important work was done. in the year 1871 the grant of the british association was withdrawn, and a sum of £10,000 was placed in the hands of the royal society by mr. gassiot, for the maintenance of magnetic observations at kew. it is now under the charge of a committee termed the meteorological council, and is the central establishment for observations relating to meteorology. here instruments relating to this science are tested and marked, and a large amount of most valuable work is executed. after the little town of isleworth--which lies on a concave bend of the river, under the lee of some low islands--has been passed, the thames is bordered on either side by a park, and, for the last time on its course to london, almost shakes itself free of the grasp of the builder. on the one hand the royal gardens at kew succeed to the old deer park; on the other lies the ample domain of the duke of northumberland, whose large but ugly house becomes a conspicuous--a too conspicuous--feature in the landscape. we may turn aside for a moment from the property of the crown to notice that of the house of percy, once hardly less potent. sion house, which is separated from the river by a level expanse of meadow, interrupted only by one low mound, which supports some fine old cedars, occupies the site of the second chantry founded by henry v., as a peace-offering for the sins of his father. the dedication-stone was laid by the king in the year 1416. it was a convent for both sexes, though the nuns predominated, these being sixty in number, while the brethren were only twenty-five. but they were entirely separated, a thick screen dividing them even in the chapel, where, indeed, both sexes were seldom present at the same time, so that all occasion of scandal was carefully avoided. the convent was endowed with the manor of isleworth, and at a later time received many grants of property which had belonged to the alien priories. finding the original buildings too small, the society obtained licence to raise themselves a new convent, on the site now occupied by the duke's mansion, which is rather to the east of that on which the king built. life glided by smoothly and uneventfully for the inmates; they became rich, and lived easily, but harmlessly, until the crash of the reformation came. for some reason or other they had incurred the special displeasure of the king, and were accused of harbouring his enemies, and being in collusion with the holy maid of kent. one of the monks, together with the vicar of isleworth, was executed at tyburn. the lands were distributed, but the house and the adjoining property were retained by the crown, the nuns retreating to flanders. for a brief space, indeed, in the reign of queen mary, they returned to their old home, but on her death again became exiles. the society still continued to exist, though for a while its members suffered great poverty; but at last they settled "in a new sion on the banks of the tagus, at lisbon, in the year 1594. here they still remain, after the lapse of nearly three centuries, restricting their membership entirely to english sisters, and still retaining the keys of their old home, in the hope, never yet abandoned by them, of eventually returning to it." it is said that some half century or more ago, when they were visited at lisbon by the then duke of northumberland, they told his grace the story of having carried their keys with them through all their changes of fortune and abode, and that they were still in hopes of seeing their english home again. "but," quietly remarked his grace, "the locks have been altered since those keys were in use"--a reply which, whether intended or not, had much significance in it. there are many good people in the world who cling tenaciously to the keys which were fabricated by the worthies of olden time, forgetful that the locks have been altered, so that their binding and loosing power is gone. doubtless the nuns made their own comments when in later years a gruesome story came from england to them in their new home across the sea. the coffin of henry viii., on its journey towards windsor, was laid for a night within the convent walls; there the bloated corpse within burst, and the blood dropped on the pavement, so that it was licked up by the dogs, as that of the king of israel in the streets of samaria. a few months later the convent was granted to the lord protector somerset, who began the building of the present mansion, and when he fell on the scaffold, it was given to dudley, duke of northumberland. there was a curse upon it. lord guildford dudley had it for his home, and from its door he led the lady jane, his wife, to the tower, to claim the throne of england, and receive at last the stroke of the headsman's axe. elizabeth granted it to henry percy, earl of northumberland, but he was no exception to the ill-luck of his house, for he was afterwards convicted of being an accomplice in the gunpowder plot, disgraced, heavily fined, and imprisoned in the tower. his son, the tenth earl, repaired the house, and from beneath its roof the children of the ill-fated king charles were conducted to st. james's palace to bid their father a last farewell. one of them--charles ii.--held his court here during the great plague, and royalty has more than once in later times been a guest within the walls of sion house. the mansion retains the general outline of the lord protector's building, though it has been modernised, and probably made uglier. it is a bleak-looking structure, faced with grey stone, quadrangular in plan, as we note in passing, with embattled square towers at the corner. the principal façade is relieved by an arched terrace, and over the central bay now stands the lion with outstretched tail, once so conspicuous on northumberland house in the strand. the gardens and grounds, laid out in the style of the last century, are fine, the plant-houses being especially noted--in fact, they "may be said to be no mean rivals to kew." but to these we must return, for the open meads of the old deer park have now been replaced by the groves of kew. first come the wilder portion of the royal gardens, devoted more especially to forest trees, scenes of sylvan beauty and quiet solitude, as few of the visitors find their way hither, but remain in the more highly cultivated portion, among the plant-houses and the gay parterres, in the neighbourhood of the richmond road. yet a more delightful spot for a ramble cannot easily be found; the great trees, feathering down to the sward, cast cool shadows in the summer heat; the long pool here glitters in the light, here lies still and dark beneath overhanging foliage. in due season many a flowering shrub adds a new and more striking diversity to the varied tints of verdure, and the water-lilies expand their cups of gold and silver among their broad floating leaves; the fowl float idly by; the birds twitter among the branches; among the scents of springing grass and of opening flowers, amid the flickering lights and shadows, and the peace of the forest, the roar of london streets dies away from the wearied ears, and the smoke of the town is forgotten in the savour of the pure air. from the river bank we obtain glimpses from time to time of the glittering roof of the great palm-house, of the various buildings devoted to botanical science, and of the tall pagoda. the history of these gardens, now so great a boon to the dwellers in london, must be briefly sketched, for they are inseparable from the royal river; and the site of the palace, for a time a favourite residence of kings and princes of england, is but a short distance from its bank, although the walled enclosure prevents so free a view of this as of the other parts of the gardens. the building which now bears the name of "the palace" was, in the earlier part of the last century, called the old dutch house. it is a red-brick structure, heavy in style, but not unpleasing, dating from the reign of james i., and probably built by sir hugh portman, a wealthy merchant. kew house, or "the palace," as it was often called, stood a little more than a hundred yards away, and was obtained on a lease by caroline, wife of george ii., and afterwards purchased by queen charlotte. it became the country residence of frederick, prince of wales, and after his death was inhabited by his widow. here was spent much of the early life of the young prince, afterwards george iii. brought up in the strictest seclusion, jealously guarded by his mother and her favourite, lord bute, he received an education which cramped his faculties and in many respects disqualified him for his future lot. "the king lamented, not without pathos, in his after-life that his education had been neglected. he was a dull lad, brought up by narrow-minded people ... like other dull men the king was all his life suspicious of superior people. he did not like fox, he did not like reynolds, he did not like nelson, chatham, burke; he was testy at the idea of all innovations, and suspicious of all innovators. he loved mediocrities." here, then, the young princes and princesses, after the death of their weakly and insignificant father, grew up under the guardianship of their stern and unloving mother, assisted, as every one will remember, by lord bute, who, at one time, had a fair claim to the title of the most unpopular man in england. it was with him that prince george was riding when the note was put into his hand which apprised him that an end had come to his grandfather's pleasuring, and that he was king, and at kew palace he remained till the following morning. during the first twenty or thirty years of his reign at least three or four months of every year were spent at kew, where, as has been said, he "played darby and joan" with queen charlotte, and the young princes and princesses amused themselves like other children in the gardens. the great contrast between the mode of life of this and the preceding reigns was not altogether to the liking of the people; the rarity with which the king appeared in public, or entertained the members of the "upper ten," the infrequency of state ceremonials, gave some colour to the accusation that he affected an oriental seclusion, and was aiming at establishing a despotism. it had also, in all probability, another ill effect, that the king and queen lost their social influence over the aristocracy, and by standing aside from their position of the leaders did not exert upon its members that influence which would naturally have resulted from the purity and simplicity of their own lives. certainly, society at large continued hardly less corrupt under the young king, whose reputation was spotless, than it had been when his grandfather kept court with walmoden and yarmouth. it was in kew palace also that the unfortunate king was secluded during the first attack of that mental disorder which afterwards permanently darkened his life. the original kew house was eventually pulled down by george iii., who commenced the building of a much larger palace in its neighbourhood. this, which, so far as we can judge from prints, promised to be as ugly as are most structures of that period, was an incomplete shell when the king died, and was happily destroyed by his successor. the dutch house, however, which was inhabited by the old king, and in a room of which queen charlotte died, still remains, though now almost unfurnished and unused. here, also, in the drawing-room, were celebrated the marriages of two royal dukes, clarence and kent, the latter the father of the present queen. [illustration: the pagoda in kew gardens.] one other memory also lingers about the precincts of kew. on the lawn, perhaps a furlong from the old palace, we may notice a sun-dial. this marks the site of a little observatory, wherein, in the year 1725, before the house became a royal residence, james bradley made the first observations which led to his two important discoveries, that of the aberration of light and of the nutation of the earth's axis. this sun-dial, together with a memorial tablet, was erected by william iv. [illustration: kew bridge.] tempting as the "royal gardens" appear from the river, the promise is more than fulfilled on closer inspection. places devoted to the pursuit of science are apt, in their studious severity, to be somewhat repellent to the uninitiated; and even a botanic garden, beautiful as some of its contents must always be, is occasionally no exception to the rule. but this is not the case at kew. there, indeed, work is not sacrificed to pleasure. its arrangements are scientific and precise enough to satisfy the most exacting. its museums and laboratories afford opportunity for the severest study; but yet, in many parts of the garden, nature is so happily blended with art, apparent freedom of growth and association with scientific order and exactness, that as we wander over its lawns, or linger beneath the shadow of its stately trees, we can abandon ourselves simply to the beauties of nature, and "consider the lilies of the field" without counting their stamens or their pistils. the glasshouses, open during certain hours of the day, are often bright with exotic flowers; in the great tank the huge lily from south american rivers opens its blossoms among pond-flowers from sunnier regions than our own. the palm-house enables the home-staying briton to form some conception of the verdure of a tropical forest. for those who love the formal style of gardening, trim parterres bright with many colours, there is satisfaction on the terraces by the side of the ornamental water, while those who prefer a wilder growth need only wander away towards the outskirts of the garden. on the rockery, which, in its present form, is one of the later additions to the gardens, many an alpine flower will be seen flourishing in the valley of the thames as vigorously as on the crags of the pennine or lepontine alps; while in the new picture gallery--the gift of miss north--the singular skill and enterprise of the donor enables us to wander among the floral beauties of every land, and to put a girdle of flowers around the earth in much less than forty minutes. but to see kew gardens in their glory we should visit them when the rhododendron and its kindred flowers are in bloom. the shrubbery of azaleas is bright with every shade of saffron, and is dappled tenderly with clusters of white and of pink. the great bushes of rhododendron are all aglow with colour, and down the long walk is a many-tinted vista of blossoming shrubs. [illustration: cambridge cottage, kew.] formerly, the pleasaunces at kew abounded in the absurd anachronisms which, in the days of our great-grandfathers, were supposed to enhance the beauties of a garden--sham ruins, stucco temples, and the like. there was even a merlin's cave; perhaps, at times, a magician also was on view. these monstrosities have, happily, for the most part, crumbled away, or have been more promptly destroyed; fragments of them have gone to build the rockeries, and served thus some useful purpose in a district where stone is far to find. the chinese pagoda almost alone survives, conspicuous owing to its height from many points in all the country round, and of this all that we can say is that it is a pagoda upon whose architectural merits we must leave the chinese to pass a judgment--remarking, meanwhile, that it harms the landscape no more than a water-tower, and considerably less than a factory chimney. gliding along the river, past the enclosing wall of the palace, we are confronted on the opposite shore by the houses of brentford. these we will leave for a moment to finish our say concerning kew, whose handsome many-arched bridge of grey stone, not unlike that of richmond, is now coming into view. this bridge was built about the year 1783, replacing an earlier structure. a short distance from it on the surrey shore, abutting on to one side of the gardens, in the immediate vicinity of the royal palace, is the more ancient part of the village of kew. here is the green, so pleasant a feature in many of these suburban townlets. on one side stands the church, with its little graveyard--the "chapel of st. anne," and once a true queen anne structure, for the ground was granted by that sovereign, and the church completed in the year 1714. it has, however, undergone many alterations, especially about the year 1838, when it was enlarged at the expense of king william iv., and another "restoration" has lately been completed, during which a chancel has been appended, and the roof of the nave raised. at the same time a mortuary chapel was added, in which is laid the body of the late duke of cambridge. he died at cambridge cottage, an unpretending mansion looking on to the green, which remained the property of his widow until her death in 1889. other persons of note in their day rest in this little god's acre. aiton, the gardener; bauer, the microscopist; kirby, the architect; meyer and zoffany, the artists; and, greater far than they, gainsborough, whom to name is enough, was, by his own desire, buried under a plain tomb in kew churchyard. here also is buried sir william hooker, late director of kew gardens, to whose repute as a botanist must be added that of developing the resources of the institution, and by his influence obtaining from successive governments the means of founding a great national museum of botany. he was succeeded by his son, sir joseph dalton hooker, the present director, by whom the work thus inaugurated has been no less ably carried on. we must now turn back to brentford, where the little brent, which has made its way from the uplands of hendon, falls into the thames. its aspect from the river, perhaps owing to the contrast which the opposite bank has so long presented, is not attractive. brentford is a very ancient settlement. some have thought that this spot was the scene of cæsar's passage of the thames; certainly it was the chief town of the middle saxons. were there not also two kings of brentford? but when did they live? on this, history is silent; but the tradition is an old one. the town has always had a rather unsavoury reputation; "it is referred to by thomson, gay, goldsmith, and others, chiefly on account of its dirt." indeed, the remarks on it might be thus summed up:--there are three kings at cologne, and two at brentford, and in the matter of odours the towns are proportional. some of the views in the neighbourhood of kew bridge are very pretty; the houses by the riverside often group picturesquely; the stream is diversified by one or two wooded islands; barges floating down the thames, or moored against its banks, combine well in foreground and middle distance; but after this there comes an uninteresting interval. the right bank is occupied largely by market gardens, the land lies low, and in places has an unkempt aspect; the passenger by the towing-path sees heaps suggestive of refuse to other senses than that of sight, but as mortlake is neared the prospect again brightens on the right bank of the river, though the left remains rather monotonous. some attractive houses stand by the waterside. there is the well-known "ship" inn, and the odour which is sometimes wafted from the shore, though due to art rather than to nature, is more pleasant than that of most chemical processes, for it is suggestive of good english beer. mortlake has lost its tapestry works and its potteries, but it has retained its brewery. once every year mortlake is numbered among the famous places of england, for here is a limit, generally the winning-post, of the aquatic derby--the oxford and cambridge boat-race. this we shall presently mention a little more fully. enough now to cast a glance at the townlet itself, which, like all places near london, is developing, and becoming more townlike. [illustration: high water at mortlake.] the name of mortlake appears in english records at a very early date, as it was an important manor belonging to the archbishopric of canterbury. the manor itself appears to have included much more than the present parish, but the house was in the village. it was a not unfrequent residence of the archbishops down to the time of cranmer, by whom the lands were alienated in exchange to the king. only the tower of the church is old, and this is not particularly interesting; the remainder is hanoverian, and suitable to its period. here are entombed dee and partridge, the astrologers; philip francis, the supposed author of "junius"; and john bernard, sir robert walpole's "only incorruptible member of parliament"; while in the neighbourhood lived colston, the philanthropist; jesse, the naturalist, and henry taylor, author of "philip van artevelde"--a fair share of celebrities for a quiet little suburban town. just beyond mortlake is the village of barnes, with the bridge of the south-western railway spanning the thames. the houses and gardens by the riverside give a bright and homelike aspect to the scene. the church incorporates fragments of an ancient building, and the rectory has been occupied by more than one clergyman of mark. inland, stretching back across the peninsula, and thus offering a short cut from putney, well known to the frequenters of boat-races, lies barnes common--a breezy spot, bright in summer with blossoming furze, which happily is still sacred from the builder, and untouched by the landscape gardener. [illustration: hogarth's tomb at chiswick.] from kew bridge down to putney bridge father thames follows a course even more serpentine than usual. its double loop forms an almost regular s, the axis of each fold lying nearly north and south. the general direction of its flow also has changed, from a northerly to an easterly course; thus, at mortlake, we are again brought by the river into the vicinity, comparatively speaking, of richmond park, on its northern side; while, on the left bank, chiswick may almost be said to make two appearances on the riverside. the older part, however, of this place lies below mortlake. it still retains traces of its ancient picturesqueness, when chiswick house was a favourite residence of the dukes of devonshire, and its fêtes among the chief events of a london season. chiswick is, however, greatly changed since then--still more from the days when it was the home of hogarth, whose tomb is in the churchyard. new houses have sprung up, the iron-roofed sheds of a ship-building establishment--devoted especially to the construction of torpedoes--uglify, if the word be permitted, the margin of the thames, and the incessant clang of hammers disturbs the peace of the stream. henceforth, we find ourselves within the grasp of the metropolis. once or twice, it is true, the river seems to slip away again into the freedom of the fields, but it is only for a brief space; it is soon prisoned again between the walls of the workshop, or doomed to remain in sight of the unsightly performances of the nineteenth-century builder. [illustration: the university boat-race.] between putney and mortlake, a distance of about four miles, is the course of the annual inter-university boat-race--the water derby, as it is sometimes called--which, for a brief season, diverts busy london from its daily routine, engrossing almost universal attention, and even imparting to the streets and shop-windows a tinge of blue; for, as all the world knows, dark-blue and light-blue are the respective colours of oxford and of cambridge. from the humblest to the highest in the land, from the crossing-sweeper to the bond street exquisite, from the flower-girl to the peeress, each one wears the colour of his or her favourite university; though some, it must be admitted, prudently purchase reversible ribbons, and, after the race, take care to make a change, if needful, and duly sport the winning colour. never does the blue-ribbon army seem to have enlisted so many recruits as during the few days prior to palm sunday, the race being, by a custom which may be regarded as established, rowed on the saturday preceding this festival. some time, however, elapsed after the first contest took place before either time or place were finally settled. the oxonians had a preference for the beginning of the summer vacation, a time which was not acceptable to the cantabs; some, also, of the earlier races were rowed on other parts of the thames--as at henley, or between westminster and putney. owing to difficulties in coming to an agreement on these points, as well as from other causes, the contest at first was of an intermittent character. the first race, rowed over a much shorter course at henley, and won by oxford, was in 1829. between this date and 1845 there were only five races, all rowed from westminster to putney, and four of these were won by cambridge. the first race over the present course was in 1845, and in the next year outriggers were used for the first time, all the earlier races taking place in what are now contemptuously called tubs. the race has come off regularly each year since 1856, and its direction has been, in almost every case, from putney to mortlake. oxford has scored several more triumphs, on the whole, than cambridge. the most exciting episode ever witnessed was in 1859, when the cambridge boat sank near barnes bridge. the crew of that year was an exceptionally powerful one, and was looked upon as safe to win. but the builder of their "eight" had supplied them with a boat which was hardly up to their weight--at any rate, for a river liable, like the thames, to be rough and lumpy on occasion. the ill-luck of cambridge is almost proverbial; the water was as choppy as it could well be, and the water slowly swamped the cambridge boat. those who watched the race will remember how its crew struggled gallantly on, falling gradually behind their rivals; rowing magnificently, though their boat seemed held back by some invisible force, till at last it filled with water and sank under them as they bent to the stroke. fortunately--though in those days there was little restriction on the number of steamers that were allowed to follow the race, and no means of preventing them from pressing on the losing boat in their struggle for the better point of view--no life was lost, and no one was even hurt. now that danger--and, owing to the characteristic english recklessness and selfishness, it was rapidly becoming a very serious one--has been averted; for only four steamers are permitted to follow the competitors, these being respectively for the umpire, the press, and the members of each university. [illustration: richmond to battersea.] another source of danger has been removed of late years. in the earlier times of the race the old hammersmith suspension bridge became a favourite station for spectators of the humbler rank, as it commanded a good view in both directions; and, though it was not quite half way on the course, by the time it was reached by the boats the race was often practically decided. indeed, it was a saying, rarely falsified, that the race would be won by the boat which passed under the bridge clear of its opponent. on this bridge crowds continued to gather even when it had been condemned as unsafe; after a certain hour vehicles were stopped, and the concourse thickened; adventurous boys managed to mount the chains, to be pulled down at first, ignominiously, by the police; but at last now one, now another, as the throng gathered, contrived to elude the guardians of the law, and soon scrambled up to secure heights. the roadway became a black mass, a string of blackbeetles seemed to have taken possession of the chains, and the bridge carried a load of human beings that probably the engineer who constructed it never for a moment contemplated. there was the additional and yet graver danger from the shifting of the pressure as the crowd attempted to follow the boats when they shot beneath, or as the possible result of a panic; so that at last the bridge had to be closed alike to foot-passengers and to carriages for most of the day. the old wooden bridge at putney used also to be crowded--as the new one still is, by those who prefer to see the start; barnes railway bridge has another contingent brought hither by trains, and in many places the riverside is thronged. barges are moored in the stream, stands are erected in gardens by its side; the towing-path on the surrey side is black with people. when the boats are off a string of vehicles may be seen tearing at full speed across barnes common. these contain enthusiasts, who, after having witnessed the start at putney, take the short cut across the peninsula in hopes of seeing the finish at mortlake. a hoarse roar goes up from the crowd as the two boats, looking strangely small in the wide open space of water, are espied coming round the bend of the river; so light are they that the crews seem almost to sit upon the water. their oar-blades flash in the sun. they dart past, perhaps in conflict, perhaps the one a length or two ahead of the other; the steamers follow close upon them, sending up a surging wave on either bank, whose arrival at the shore is signalised by conspicuous commotion among the spectators at the river brink, as the chilly water unexpectedly sweeps around their ankles; the boats pass out of sight round another corner; the race will be over in a moment, and when the news comes the brief excitement of the day is ended. the crowd now may be reckoned by hundreds of thousands. the railways are gorged, and as the time of the race approaches, every street leading to the course is thronged by carriages and pedestrians. even so far away as the end of westbourne terrace, the throng on the bayswater road and its steady westward progress would attract the notice of the most casual observer. yet this intense excitement, this concentration of popular interest on the two universities, is of much later date than the establishment of the race itself. a quarter of a century since, the attendance was by no means great; now, long as is the course, and many as are the stations which divide the attractions, only a wet day or a very early hour (the time of the race depends on the tide) keeps the concourse within any moderate limits. hammersmith, now united to london, offers few inducements to the tourist "in search of the picturesque," though, of course, it is hard to find any riverside place where some nook or corner may not offer a sketch to the artist. its old suspension bridge--so noted a point, as stated above, in the history of boat-races--has now been succeeded by a more substantial structure, opened in 1887. [illustration: old hammersmith bridge.] the reach of the river from hammersmith to putney is comparatively quiet, and the marshy condition of the left bank has compelled the builder to keep at a distance; so that though lines of houses may be seen inland, they are parted from the water by extensive osier beds. we turn our backs disgustedly on the cement works, and glance forward to the more open country beyond, where are houses scantily scattered among trees, and the "old crab tree" inn. on the right bank a considerable tract of meadow-land still remains unenclosed, on which occasionally there is some fair hedgerow timber, and from which, in summer, the pleasant scent of new-mown grass is wafted; willows rustle by the towing-path, and the white poplar sheds its downy seeds beneath our feet. bushes grow freely on the river bank, and now and then, for a moment, hide the water. for the last time, if no snorting steamer or screaming steam-launch, laden with holiday-makers, chance to be in sight, or, still worse, in hearing, the thames for a moment resumes something of its former peaceful aspect, although the fact that the tidal character of the river has now become conspicuous makes it needful to consult the almanack before paying it a visit--at least, for those who desire to appreciate the real beauty of the scene. the most tempting spot is reached as we begin to approach putney, where we obtain from the path a view of an old-fashioned brick mansion, standing among lawns and fields which are shadowed by some noble elms. this mansion bears the appropriate name of barn elms, which, as it has been remarked, seems to indicate that the trees have always been a distinctive feature of the grounds. it has long been a place of some note. sir francis walsingham, minister of elizabeth, formerly lived here, and more than once entertained his queen--too often, it is said, for the prosperity of his purse. cowley, the poet, also was for a time an inmate of barn elms, and both decorous evelyn and frolicsome pepys came here a-pleasuring. in an adjacent building lived old jacob tonson, noted among the bibliophiles of the reign of queen anne; and here were the head-quarters of the noted kitcat club. in a large room erected by him was placed the famous collection of portraits of its members, painted by the hand of sir godfrey kneller, which, from their being all three-quarter length, have given their name to portraits of this kind. the club-room, which was separated from the mansion by a garden, after falling into a dilapidated condition, was pulled down in the early part of the present century. [illustration: old putney bridge and fulham church.] somewhere among these trees was fought the notorious duel between two fine gentlemen of the age of the restoration--the duke of buckingham and the earl of shrewsbury--when, as it is said, the wife of the latter, disguised as a page-boy, stood by, holding the horse of her paramour. the earl received a fatal wound, and the lady went home to the duke's house. it is needless to say that the court was not particularly scandalised, or the duke "sent to coventry," on account of this affair. barn elms is now the home of the ranelagh club. nearly opposite, in the immediate neighbourhood of the river, is craven cottage, a quasi-rustic retreat, which in its day has been frequented by various personages of note. it was built originally for the countess of craven, afterwards margravine of anspach; but subsequently has been considerably altered. here afterwards lived sir e. bulwer-lytton, and entertained louis napoleon, after his escape from ham; at a later period it was the residence of an aristocratic money-lender. barn elms passed, we approach the twin villages--though the term is no longer applicable, for they are now suburbs of london--of putney and of fulham, one on either side of the stream. much alike in their churches, they still differ, and once differed yet more, in other characteristics. for many years putney has been a centre of london aquatics, which have set their mark on the riverside. except for the broader stream, an oxonian or a cantab might fancy himself at certain spots by cam or isis. there are the boat-houses on the same nondescript pattern, the sheds sheltering eights and fours and "funnies"--or whatever name be used to designate the cranky one-man racing boats--the usual flags indicating the head-quarters of the different rowing clubs, the usual specimens of the amphibious race that is peculiar to the riverside where oarsmen most do congregate; in short, the waterside at putney is a rather odd, not wholly unpicturesque, and somewhat unique bit of thames scenery. the old wooden bridge, supported on piles, which formerly united putney and fulham was a very picturesque and decidedly inconvenient, not to say dangerous, structure. as there has already been occasion to indicate, it has now been superseded by a new one of stone, built a few yards higher up the stream. the noise of mimic strife on the river, or at worst a holiday-maker's brawl, is all that disturbs the peace of putney in the present day, but in olden time the town was for a time the head-quarters of an army. in the year 1642 forts were built both here and at fulham to protect a bridge of boats which was thrown across the thames; and again, in 1647, cromwell encamped at putney for some time. the memory of another cromwell, only less noted, is connected yet more closely with the place, for here was born thomas cromwell, minister of henry viii. the old wooden bridge also must have been traversed many a time by one of our most noted men of letters; in putney, gibbon, the historian, was not only born, but also received his earlier education. the ground somewhat rises from the water, on the surrey side, towards putney heath, but on the fulham side it lies low. from the stream above the bridge will be seen the trees of the domain belonging to the bishops of london; its ample precincts are enclosed by a moat, even on the riverside, a raised causeway dividing it from the thames. very little of the manor-house, or "palace," is visible from the water, as its buildings are not lofty, and it is surrounded by trees. the manor has been the property of the bishopric from a very early date; even at the time of the norman survey "in foleham the bishop of london held forty hides." the palace is a rambling brick structure, more like a college than a mansion, reminding us of some of the colleges at cambridge. no part is of very great antiquity; the older forms a quadrangle, and was erected by bishop fitzjames, in the reign of henry vii. some of the earlier buildings were pulled down about the year 1715, as the palace had become in part ruinous, and was found to be needlessly large. this was done by the advice of commissioners, among whom were vanbrugh and christopher wren. the hall belongs to the older part of the palace; the chapel is new; the library was built in all probability by bishop sheldon, and contains a collection of books, to which bishop porteus was the first and an important donor. considerable additions, increasing the comfort rather than the beauty of the house, were made in the earlier part of the present century. the library is a valuable one, and there is a fine collection of portraits of former occupants of the see, interesting to the students alike of history and of english fashions and faces--the last subject, dealing in what we may term the natural history of the englishman, being remarkably well illustrated by the long series of men of one profession, and approximately of one period of life. except for its rather objectionable situation, lying so near the level of the thames, fulham palace must be a most attractive residence. the grounds occupy about thirty-seven acres, and the shrubberies have long been noted, some of the rarer trees being of unusual size and beauty. special attention was paid to the horticulture of fulham so long since as the days of bishop grindall; and bishop compton added to its attractions by planting a large number of rare shrubs and trees--or what were in his day rare--chiefly from north america. the church, as has been said, resembles that of putney, but is the more handsome building, standing in a spacious and well-kept churchyard. as might be anticipated from its proximity to the home of the bishop of the diocese, it has been carefully restored, and, though without any architectural features of special interest, is a very fair specimen of a parish church. it has evidently been much improved since the year 1816, when, in a well-known work on the "beauties of england and wales," it is described as "a respectable structure, destitute of uniformity," and the tower is said to be "defaced" by incongruous modern battlements, and by "a mean octagonal spire of wood, surmounted by a flagstaff and vane." many of the bishops of london--especially of those since the restoration--are entombed either in the church or the churchyard--mostly in the latter. the latest to be laid there was the last occupant of the see, the amiable and judicious bishop jackson, who officiated in the church on the final sunday of his life, and while walking thither suffered from a premonitory seizure of the disease which so speedily proved fatal. some of the monuments within the church are worth a passing notice, though the more striking are seventeenth or eighteenth century work. the grave of lowth will attract the eyes of those who honour learning. there is a not unpleasing mural monument in memory of miss katharine hart, who "lived vertuouslye, and dyed godlie ye 23rd daie of octo., 1605;" but most amusing--if we may use such an epithet--is a large monument under the tower to a certain "nobilissimus heros johannes mordaunt," created viscount aviland by charles ii. of this worthy there is a statue, and the artist has contrived to infuse into the pose and the face such an air of infinite superiority that it must have been quite a condescension on the part of his lordship to breathe the common air. the market gardens of fulham, formerly so noted, are, to a large extent, covered by buildings; the once quiet village has practically become incorporated with london. below putney bridge we never cease to be reminded that we are now on the very margin of the metropolis; that its growth is rapid, and its boundaries accordingly are ragged and unattractive. immediately below the bridge on the right bank is a fine-looking terrace, and on the left some pleasant houses and gardens, survivals of more ancient days, when putney and fulham were country villages, and the fisheries of the latter were leased for an annual rent of "three salmon;" it is only seventy years since they were spoken of as a "source of local profit." beyond these riverside residences lies hurlingham, notorious for its pigeon-shooting. on the opposite shore we presently pass the houses of wandsworth, whereof the brewery is the most prominent, if not the most attractive object. but as we come to battersea reach the signs of industry and commerce thicken around us; works of various kinds line the banks; the surrey shore, once the more lovely, is now being covered thick with unattractive buildings. on the middlesex side some traces of older days still occasionally linger--boulders of more solid rock incorporated in the clay of modern masonry--but farewell to the characteristic scenery of the river thames, farewell to all natural beauty; its waters have now become a great highway of commerce. they have no rest by day, and not always by night, from the fussy steamer and the laden barge; they are turbid with mud, inodorous also, sometimes, with the foulness and garbage of a huge town. the history of the thames is the history of many a river of england, and may be summed up in charles kingsley's words:- "clear and cool, clear and cool, by laughing shallow and dreaming pool; cool and clear, cool and clear, by shining shingle and foaming wear; under the crag where the ouzel sings, and the ivied wall where the church-bell rings; undefiled, for the undefiled, play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. "dank and foul, dank and foul, by the smoky town in its murky cowl; foul and dank, foul and dank, by wharf and sewer and slimy bank; darker and darker the further i go, baser and baser the richer i grow; who dare sport with the sin-defiled? shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child." /t. g. bonney/. chapter x. battersea to london bridge. the scene changes--a city river--battersea--chelsea--the old church--sir t. more and sir hans sloane--cheyne walk--don saltero's coffee-house and thomas carlyle--the botanical gardens--chelsea hospital--the pensioners--battersea park--the suspension bridge--vauxhall--lambeth--the church and palace--westminster palace and the abbey--its foundation and history--westminster hall--westminster bridge--the victoria embankment--york gate--waterloo bridge and somerset house--the temple--blackfriars bridge--st. paul's--southwark bridge--the old theatres--cannon street bridge--london bridge and its traffic. it is at battersea and chelsea that the thames first acquires unmistakably the character of a metropolitan stream. hamlets there are, higher up, which announce the proximity of a great capital; but here is the capital itself, though only the rudimentary beginnings, or, to speak more correctly, the scattered ends. looking down the channel from this point of view, we see on both sides abundant evidence of crowded life--of industry on the one bank, and of wealth on the other. the omnibus of the river--the penny steamboat--plies to and fro on its frequent errands. on shore, the vehicles of london bring something of its noise. yet there is plenty of quiet in both these old-fashioned suburbs; and, although innovation has been at work here as elsewhere, nooks may be found, both in battersea and chelsea, which have all the character of a sleepy old county town. battersea, in particular, is the most straggling oddity in the neighbourhood of london--a grave, slow, otiose place, lulled with the lapping of waves, soothed with the murmur of trees in unsuspected gardens, troubled but little with the clamour of passing trains, and dreaming, perhaps, of eighteenth-century days, when there were mansions in the land, and my lord bolingbroke had his family seat near the church. the river here makes a somewhat abrupt curve, and gives a dubious outline to the whole locality. small inlets run up between old walls, dark with the sludge of many years; and the streets and buildings have had to accommodate themselves to the caprices of the stream. hence it is that, when walking about battersea, you speedily lose your bearings, and, after following a devious lane which you suppose to be parallel with the river, suddenly find yourself on a bit of shingly strand, with a barge on the limits of the tide, and a general appearance as if the end of all things had been reached. [illustration: old battersea bridge, 1890.] battersea, then, is as "nook-shotten" a place as is the "isle of albion" itself, according to shakespeare. gardens as old as the time of queen anne hide coyly behind walls that permit only the tops of the trees to be discerned. houses, of the sedate red-and-brown brick that our ancestors loved, stand at oblique angles to the roadways, each with the silent history of vanished generations entombed beneath its ponderous, red-tiled roof. ancient taverns or inns (call them not public-houses, still less hotels or gin-palaces)--goodly hostelries of the past, broad-frontaged, deep-windowed, large-chimneyed, many-gabled--invite the most temperate passer-by to refresh himself in the cavernous gloom of the bar. the old parish church--not so old as one could wish, but having a georgian character that is beginning to acquire the interest of all departed modes--occupies a sort of peninsula on the river, the ripple of which speaks closely in the ears of dead parishioners. on the whole, battersea has known better days. it is now chiefly given up to factories, to the humble dwellings of factory people, and to the houses and shops of the lower middle class. but, in the national society's training college, it has a noble old mansion, standing in well-timbered grounds; and the free school of sir walter st. john (grandfather of queen anne's famous minister) is also interesting. the school was founded in 1700, but the building is of the modern tudor style. to a casual visitor, however, the most noticeable thing about the suburb is the river itself, with its belongings;--the straggling banks; the rickety water-side structures; the boat-builders' yards; the heavy, black barges hauled on to the foreshore, undergoing repair, or being lazily broken up; the larger vessels, with sails of that rusty orange hue which tells of sun and breeze; and the prevalent smell of pitch, mingled with watery ooze. chelsea is becoming fashionable along the river frontage; but, although the stately red-brick mansions recently erected on the embankment are sumptuous and noble, the chief interest of the locality is in the older parts. advancing in the direction of town, historic chelsea begins about the spot represented in our view of cheyne walk. the fine old house at the corner of beaufort street is an excellent specimen of the kind of suburban dwelling our forefathers used to build, when, the land being far less valuable than now, they spread out broadly and roomily, and were not constrained to pile storey upon storey, until the roofs seemed desirous of making acquaintance with the clouds. it is at this point that the chelsea embankment commences--a splendid promenade between avenues of plane-trees, which every season will make more umbrageous. several years ago, before the late sir joseph bazalgette began to reclaim the river-bank, there was no more picturesque spot in chelsea, of the dirty, out-at-elbows order, than the bit extending eastward from battersea bridge to the old church. its fantastic irregularity of roof and gable, its dormer windows, its beetling chimney-stacks, its red and brown, its look of somnolent old age and grave experience, had something of a dutch character; but it was certainly not dutch in point of cleanliness. picturesque it is still; but the embankment has swept away that side of the street which was towards the river, while the ragged tenements on the other side await the hands of the destroyer. [illustration: cheyne walk.] old chelsea church is familiar to every londoner who goes up the river in a steamboat or a wherry. its massive square tower, its red-tiled roofs, its external monuments in the bit of green churchyard, the dusky glow of its old brick, and its general aspect of having been entirely neglected by the restorers, attract attention, and to a great extent reward it. the edifice cannot be reckoned among the most beautiful specimens of ecclesiastical architecture in london; yet its appearance is venerable and interesting, and its associations might furnish matter for a whole chapter, or even for a book. the chancel is said to have been rebuilt in the early part of the sixteenth century, and the chapel at the east end of the south aisle was erected by sir thomas more. the date of this chapel is about 1520; the tower of the church belongs to the reign of charles ii.; and the building generally stands on the site of one which antiquarians refer to the beginning of the fourteenth century, and of which some portions still remain. the body of more (minus the head) is stated by aubrey to have been interred in "chelsey church, neer the middle of the south wall;" but this is doubtful. at the place indicated, however--which is about the spot where he used to sit among the choir, and where he erected a tomb for himself during his lifetime--a tablet of black marble yet appears to his memory. more is the presiding deity of chelsea. his house was not far from the church, in a north-westerly direction; and here he was visited by holbein, who painted his portrait, and by henry viii., who on one occasion walked with him in the garden for the space of an hour, "holding his arm about his neck," as his son-in-law roper relates--the same neck which he afterwards caused to be divided by the headsman's axe. many persons of eminence, especially in connection with literature and science, lie buried in chelsea old church, or in the adjoining graveyard; and the passer-by almost brushes against the urn, entwined with serpents, which marks the resting-place of sir hans sloane. at the north side of the church is the grave of john anthony cavallier, the leader of the camisards, a body of protestants in the cevennes, who, about the beginning of the eighteenth century, carried on a religious war in which louis xiv. lost ten thousand of his best troops. cavallier ultimately escaped to england, entered the british service, was for a time lieutenant-governor of jersey, and died at chelsea in 1740. it was towards the close of the seventeenth century that chelsea first became socially famous as a pleasant outlet from london; and some of the existing houses belong to that period. a few years later--in the reign of anne--it was a place of great resort. hither came the cits by boat, to stare at the curiosities of "don saltero's" coffee-house in cheyne walk, or to visit the chelsea china works, established in justice walk by a foreigner, the products of which manufactory (now discontinued a hundred years or thereabouts), still haunt the old shops of the suburb, and command good prices. here also people flocked to eat buns at the "old chelsea bun-house," which retained a distinguished reputation until its long existence ceased in 1839. swift mentions these celebrated dainties in the "journal to stella," and seems to have had a relish for them, together with a fondness for chelsea generally, the distance of which from town he measured not only in miles, but in steps. cheyne walk is the most characteristic portion of the suburb. many of the houses are ancient; some are extremely attractive, with their substantial look of old-world liberality and thoroughness, their massive piers and wrought-iron gates, their stone globes and sculptured ornaments, their shadowy trees and draping creepers. the two most interesting of these houses, by reason of the modern associations which mingle with their antiquity, are that formerly occupied by the late dante gabriel rossetti--truly a house of dream and vision--and that where "george eliot" died, after a brief residence. but the greatest memorial figure in modern chelsea is that of thomas carlyle, who lived for nearly fifty years in great cheyne row, and died there in 1881. the embankment has altered the character of cheyne walk, which looks scarcely so old-fashioned as it did in other days, when the river came up almost to the roadway, and boatmen lounged about on a scrap of beach, ready to take you to putney or hammersmith, if you disdained the steamer. there is a scene in one of miss thackeray's novels, which portrays, with exquisite delicacy of touch and colouring, the cheyne walk of a somewhat recent, yet a bygone, epoch. still, the alterations have given an added dignity to the place, and a beauty which forbids us to regret the past. the real injury to the old row has proceeded from the bad taste of some of its inhabitants, who have faced and coloured a few of the houses in a way entirely out of keeping with the general character of the neighbourhood. making our way down the river, we come to the botanical gardens, belonging to the apothecaries' company of london, where all manner of simples have been cultivated since the year 1673. the ground was first enclosed in 1686, and some of the old walls remained until the alterations consequent on the making of the embankment. an ancient look still hangs about the prim walks and orderly beds, where one seems to sniff the aromatics of departed generations. old houses cluster round, and peer with blinking windows into the old nursery of herbs. in the centre is a statue by rysbrack of sir hans sloane, set up in 1733, in consideration of benefits conferred on the gardens by the great physician; and near the southern boundary is a rugged cedar, planted, together with another, in 1685. more interesting to the general public is chelsea hospital, the grounds of which should be reckoned among the parks of london. the chelsea pensioner, with his scarlet gabardine, flaming along the ways like a travelling fire, is a figure so peculiar to this neighbourhood that one scarcely ever sees it anywhere else. the retired soldier has a noble dwelling-house in the massive yet comely structure which sir christopher wren reared for him. there is no finer specimen of brick architecture, with stone for the decorations, than the edifice which nell gwynne is said, by a doubtful tradition, to have assisted in founding. one might even detect a professional analogy in the style of building. the wings stretch out like troops in column; the main body is the army in mass, compact, steadfast, and impenetrable. but the battered old men have done with fighting now; they have come here to nurse their wounds and aches, and the prevailing sentiment is, as it should be, a blessed and a soothing calm. within those iron gates, having the grounds and the river on one side, and the quiet old queen's road on the other, it is almost like a sanctuary. the sunlight falls asleep in the quadrangles and passages. caught between wall and wall, detained by trees, reflected from numerous angles, it seems to double back upon itself, and fill the air with somnolent heat and glow. here is a true place of rest; on the edge of the great city, yet sequestered; substantial, ceremonious, prescriptive; shadowed with greenery, bright with flowers and lawns, lulled with the memory of ancient days, the tender comradeship of the past. is it not right that all wayorn men should taste a little of the lotos-eater's life ere they depart?- "'courage!' he said, and pointed towards the land; 'this mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.' in the afternoon they came unto a land in which it seemed always afternoon."[7] round the precincts of chelsea hospital it seems as if it were always sunday. though frequented by chelsea people, the grounds of the hospital are but little known to the rest of london. yet the east side is bordered by an avenue of pollarded dutch elms worth going to see--an avenue dusky at mid-day, and, after dark, wanting only a ghost to make it perfect. immediately beyond is all that remains of ranelagh gardens--the rival of vauxhall in the middle of last century, when the rotunda was the most fashionable lounge in london--now a miniature park, with trees, greensward, and flower-beds, and a large space set apart for the old pensioners, where they cultivate small plots of garden, and will sell you a nosegay of humble but odorous blooms for a few pence. it is pleasant, in the decaying light of a summer evening, to see the veterans tending their plants, watering or weeding, making up bunches of red and blue and yellow blossoms, and recollecting in their age that adam was a gardener, not a soldier. several of these men have faced the storm of battle, and left behind them arms or legs. now they wait upon the gentle ways of nature, before the setting of the sun. with the hospital grounds on one side, and battersea park on the other (the latter winning increased favour every year by its fine effects of wood and water), we come to the chelsea suspension bridge, near neighbour of battersea bridge, which in 1890 superseded the older structure shown in our illustration on page 259, and now a thing of the past. the railway bridge from victoria, a little beyond, is a pleasing specimen of its order. railway viaducts are often abominations. that they _can_ be otherwise is shown by some few instances. the railway bridge at knaresborough, in yorkshire, is really beautiful. but then it is of stone, not of iron. iron bridges--excepting those slung on chains--can scarcely escape the reproach of ugliness. vulcan himself must have forged the original, and infused into it something of his own deformity. but we have passed out of the stone into the iron age; the engineers have us in hand; and we must submit to a good deal of unloveliness for the sake of utility and cheapness. stone bridges are works of architecture and art; wooden bridges have a certain rustic prettiness in the country; but the iron bridge of the railway harmonises with nothing. it so happens that just as we reach the victoria bridge we enter one of the most uninteresting parts of the river. with pimlico on the one side, and the outskirts of new battersea on the other, the eye and the mind are equally baulked of any agreeable subjects of contemplation. as regards associations, pimlico is perhaps the most barren district in all london; and the part facing the thames is a mere succession of commonplaces. we even hail millbank prison as a relief--though it would be difficult to imagine anything more dreary than that stern, gaunt structure, with a thousand heart-aches behind its walls. vauxhall, immediately opposite the great prison which bentham designed as a model penitentiary, at a time when such experiments were in vogue, has some attractive memories, if only on account of the famous gardens, which the members of the youthful generation know not, but which their elders bear in genial memory; and when we get to lambeth, of which vauxhall is only a precinct, we are on memorial ground indeed. lambeth is so large a place (its circumference is said to be about sixteen miles) that in 1846 it was subdivided into four parishes; but the most interesting part is that which borders on the river. a certain indescribable quaintness--a dusky hue of tradition and romance--hangs about the neighbourhood. the very name is of unknown etymology, and has a sort of hebrew sound, though it is probably anglo-saxon in some corrupted form. in earlier times, the suburb, as we read in an old account, was celebrated for "astrologers and almanack-makers"--much the same kind of people in days when men believed in the influences of the stars. francis moore ("old moore," whose prophetic almanack still finds readers) was a dweller in lambeth; and so, likewise, was simon forman, who was connected with the mysterious murder of sir thomas overbury in 1613. lambeth, moreover, has an ancient reputation for unusual crimes. in 1041--a sufficiently remote date for that fascinating twilight in which it is not easy to discriminate between fact and fiction--the danish king, hardicanute, died suddenly in lambeth, at a banquet given on account of some great lord's marriage. by many it was supposed that he had been poisoned; but it is perhaps more probable that he succumbed to a stroke of apoplexy or paralysis, induced by excessive gluttony. less open to question is the narrative of a stupendous crime committed in 1531 by a cook in the service of dr. fisher, bishop of rochester, who had a palace near the archiepiscopal residence. according to holinshed, the cook threw some poison into a vessel of yeast, and thus not merely destroyed seventeen persons belonging to the family, but also killed some poor people who were fed at the gate. the conclusion of this horrible story is worthy of the beginning. the offender was boiled to death in smithfield, in pursuance of a law made for that very case, but repealed in 1547. there may, however, be some doubt as to the proportions of the crime. stow says that, out of seventeen persons poisoned, only two died. [illustration: vauxhall bridge, from nine elms pier.] many parts of lambeth still preserve a grave, quiet, thoughtful aspect, as of a locality which has had many experiences of life, and can talk to itself of ancient and shadowy days. elias ashmole, the founder of the ashmolean museum at oxford, who is associated with the neighbourhood, and the tradescants, father and son, whose collection of curiosities was at south lambeth, have, so to speak, thrown a hue of antiquarianism over the whole place; while the venerable palace of the archbishops of canterbury gives an ecclesiastical character to the river-side. in the church very little ancient work remains, but its foundation dates back several centuries, and it has some noticeable tombs and monuments, together with the celebrated window displaying the figure of a pedlar, with his pack, his staff, and his dog. the legend connected with this pictorial representation is to the effect that some well-to-do chapman endowed the parish with an acre and nineteen poles of land (now known as "pedlar's acre"), on condition that his portrait, and that of his dog, should be perpetually preserved in painted glass in one of the windows of the church. nothing, however, is known with any certainty of this ancient benefactor, and it has been suggested that the picture is nothing more than the rebus of some person whose name was chapman, and who thus symbolically revealed himself, after a fashion very common with our ancestors. the most striking incident connected with the church belongs to the revolutionary times of 1688. we can hardly pass its walls without the mind's eye conjuring up the shivering figure of mary of modena, the second wife of james ii., who, on a cold, rainy december night, took shelter beneath the porch, with her infant son in her arms, while she waited for a coach to convey her to gravesend, where she was to embark for france. the infant--then only a few months old--was the future chevalier st. george, better known to english readers as the old pretender. thus the opening of his life was romantic, his early manhood was romantic, and the long remainder of his days was an ignoble commonplace. the appearance of lambeth palace, whether from the river or the shore, is extremely picturesque, and london has hardly a more charming corner than that formed by the archbishop's residence and the adjacent church. the gate-house of the palace stands broad and square, looking up the stream, its brickwork sober with the rich red-brown of age. the grey stone-tints of the church afford a delicate contrast; and between the two are the grass and flowers of the graveyard. behind the palace rise the trees of the archiepiscopal gardens; and the margin of the river--formerly rugged and neglected enough--is now dignified by the albert embankment. the effect of the latter, as well as of the spacious buildings of st. thomas's hospital a little further on, is perhaps a little too modern for its surroundings; but, in the presence of lambeth palace, the past is sure to overcome the present. a large portion of english history lurks behind those ancient walls; the shades of kings and prelates haunt its chambers, its corridors, and its gardens; and the sighs of miserable prisoners might be heard within the lollards' tower, if the memory of bygone sufferings could find audible expression. it is believed by antiquarians that the archbishops of canterbury had a house on this spot in the latter part of the eleventh century; but it was not until about a century later that archbishop baldwin exchanged some other lands for this particular manor, which had previously belonged to the see of rochester. the palace dates from that period, but of course very little of the original structure now exists. if any twelfth-century work remains, it is in the chapel; the rest belongs to subsequent ages, and exhibits the influence of various styles. the lollards' tower was erected in the early part of the fifteenth century by archbishop chicheley, for the confinement (as most writers suppose) of a set of heretics who were among the forerunners of protestantism. the dark and contracted cell at the top of the winding staircase inside the tower, with iron rings yet clinging to the walls, and the names of victims still visible in the blackened oak, is a grim memorial of the middle ages, not to be paralleled in london, except within the enclosure of the tower. it is a sermon in stone and timber, preaching toleration with mute yet eloquent lips. some modern authorities, however, deny that lollards were ever imprisoned there; and the structure is now (officially) called the water tower; but the top room has obviously been used as a dungeon. undoubtedly, the most conspicuous figure in connection with lambeth palace is that of laud. we can hardly think of the building without thinking of him. he was translated to the province of canterbury in september, 1633; his execution was in january, 1645; but the last four years of his life were passed in prison, so that his occupation of the archiepiscopal residence extended over little more than seven years. into those years, however, were crowded the events and the struggles of a lifetime. the romanising tendencies of laud gave offence to the growing puritanism of the middle classes, and at length he was almost a captive in his own palace, besieged by angry crowds, who would doubtless have paid little respect either to his office or his person could they have laid hands on him. he records in his diary, under date may 11th, 1640, that a furious rabble, incited by a paper posted up at the old exchange two days before, attacked his house by night, and prolonged their violence for at least two hours. after that, he "fortified" the place as well as he could; but the popular resentment increased, and, in 1642 and the following year, lambeth palace was roughly handled by parties of soldiery. during the commonwealth, the building was used as a prison, and the great hall was nearly destroyed. the latter was restored by juxon, and is supposed to represent the original with tolerable fidelity. but it is of laud we think, and not of juxon, as we move from room to room; for laud represents an era in the english church. looking across the thames, from lambeth palace, we get the best view of the houses of parliament, which gain rather than lose by the absorption of detail into the general mass. we have now passed the dull and shabby part of the river, and are surrounded by grand and august memories. the stream itself is a highway of empire; the shores are peopled with stately, with noble, or with interesting shapes. the suburbs are behind us; the ancient city of westminster rises with its towers and steeples on the left bank. along this channel have passed the briton in his coracle, the roman in his war-ship, the anglo-saxon and the dane in their galleys, the norman, the plantagenet, the tudor, and the stuart, in their resplendent barges. youth, beauty, and gallantry, genius and learning, the courtier and the soldier, the prelate and the poet, the merchant and the 'prentice, have taken their pleasure on these waters through a succession of ages which form no mean portion of the world's history. patriots and traitors have gone this way to their death in the sullen tower. kings and princesses have proceeded by this silver path, amidst the flaunting of streamers and the music of clarions, to bridal pomp or festal banquet. the pride of mayors, of aldermen, of sheriffs, has glassed itself in these waves. here, in the days of henry ii., the adventurous young men of london played at water-quintain, to the infinite delight of the spectators; here, somewhere between westminster and london bridge, king richard ii. met the poet gower, and commanded him to write a book for his special reading--whence arose the "confessio amantis;" and here taylor, the water poet, once saw the muses sitting in a rank, who gave him a draught of helicon, which had the unfortunate effect (not unknown in other instances) of emptying his purse. [illustration: lambeth palace and church.] westminster is to the full as historical as london itself, from which, be it remembered, it is even now entirely separate, as a city with rights of its own. it might even be described as more truly the capital than london; for the parliament, the government offices, and the law courts are situated within its bounds, and the chief palace of the kings and queens of england, from edward the confessor to elizabeth, was at westminster. it is curious to reflect how very unsubstantial is the claim of london, in the strictest sense of the term, to be considered the national metropolis. of roman britain, york was the capital--the eboracum of hadrian, of septimius severus, and of constantine. winchester, as the principal city of wessex, which subdued the other kingdoms of the heptarchy, became the seat of government for all england in the early days of the united monarchy. then westminster succeeded, and it is hard to say where london comes in. the very name of this city of royalty and statecraft has a grandeur about it with which its appearance corresponds. westminster abbey, westminster hall, and the houses of parliament are three structures not easily to be surpassed for majesty of association and picturesque dignity of aspect. it was a wise decision by which the gothic style was selected for the new buildings rendered necessary by the disastrous fire of 1834. anything else would have broken the continuity of the national life, and been altogether at issue with surrounding objects. sir charles barry has provided london with one of its most distinctive features, and his two great towers must henceforth be landmarks of the surrounding country, even more than the dome of st. paul's, though that, too, will always remain one of the great memorial characteristics of the vast metropolis. [illustration: the victoria tower.] where one has so noble an edifice, it seems ungracious to repine; yet the loss of the older building was a misfortune for which nothing can compensate. it was nearly the only remaining portion of the palace of westminster originally founded by edward the confessor, and retained by our kings until henry viii. removed his palace to whitehall. st. stephen's chapel, the cloisters, the painted chamber, the star chamber, the armada hangings--all these were destroyed by the great conflagration arising from the overheating of a stove in which some official had been too assiduously burning the tally-sticks whereon the exchequer accounts were kept until the latter part of last century. the house of commons sat within the walls of st. stephen's chapel, rebuilt in the reign of edward iii., and converted to the use of the national representatives in that of edward vi. either at that or some later period, the external walls were wainscoted; a new floor was laid above the level of the old pavement, and a new ceiling shut out the fine timber roof. the chapel, therefore, still remained, but it was almost completely hidden from view. in 1800, however, previously to the addition of the irish members to those of england and scotland, it was found necessary to enlarge the chamber, and, on the wainscoting being taken down, the walls erected by edward iii. shone out in all their splendour of architecture, sculpture, painting, and gilding; the whole looking as brilliant and vivid as if it had just left the hands of the workers. the alterations involved the destruction of these beautiful specimens of mediæval art; but drawings were made of most. still, a good deal of the original palace and chapel was left, though sadly defaced by modern perversions, often in the most execrable taste. the fire carried still further what other influences had begun; and, at the present day, all that is preserved of the palatial structure which successive kings re-edified and adorned are westminster hall and the crypt of st. stephen's chapel. with its hall and its abbey, westminster can never cease to be interesting, attractive, and picturesque. here, if anywhere, we are in the very heart of english history, and can, at our bidding, summon a long procession of sovereigns, prelates, statesmen, soldiers, wits, and scholars. standing before the abbey, with the river close at hand, we think of those ancient days when all the adjacent ground was a marsh, so environed with water, and beset with brambles, as to acquire the name of thorney island: a wild, bleak, barren spot, almost at the very gates of london, yet apart from it; inhabited only by poor and outcast people, or perchance by banditti, who levied contributions on the rich nobles and merchants, and then escaped to their fastnesses among the thickets of the fenny isle. then--somewhere about 616--came sebert, king of the east saxons, who, according to tradition, founded the benedictine monastery of which the abbey is a noble relic. west minster--the minster west of st. paul's, originally called east minster, according to some accounts--took its rise from that time, and speedily became a place of great importance. the brambles disappeared; the land was drained; the creeks and ditches of the thames were made to retire into their natural channel; walls and pinnacles arose out of the wet and dreary soil; and the chant of the benedictines was heard along the river-banks, and in the neighbouring fields. after a while, houses grew up around the monastery, and population was attracted to a spot which the monarchy and the church were beginning to favour. the religious foundation was enlarged by king edgar, and afterwards by edward the confessor; and from the time of the latter to that of queen victoria, all our kings and queens have been crowned within the walls of the abbey. many, also, are buried in the same building, which gives occasion to moralising jeremy taylor to observe:--"in the same escurial where the spanish princes live in greatness and power, and decree war or peace, they have wisely placed a cemetery, where their ashes and their glory shall sleep till time shall be no more; and where our kings have been crowned, their ancestors lie interred, and they must walk over their grandsire's head to take his crown." whether for kings or humble men, there is no place better adapted to this vein of thought than westminster abbey. the abbey-church was dedicated to st. peter, who, according to the mediæval tradition, appeared to a fisherman on the opposite bank of the thames, and requested him to ferry him over to thorney island, where, with his own hands, he performed the ceremony of consecration. an atmosphere of legend and romance surrounds the earlier history of westminster abbey, and continues even as late as the days of edward the confessor. it is related in old chronicles that that monarch, having omitted to make a pilgrimage to rome, which he had promised on condition that he should be restored to his throne, from which the danes had expelled him, was enjoined by the pope, as the necessary price of absolution, that he should expend the funds set apart for his journey on the foundation or repair of some religious house dedicated to st. peter. the particular house was not indicated; but, just at that time, a monk of westminster, named wulsine, dreamed that the apostle appeared to him, and bade him acquaint the king that he should restore the church on thorney island. "there is," he is reported to have said, "a place of mine in the west part of london, which i chose, and love, and which i formerly consecrated with my own hands, honoured with my presence, and made illustrious by my miracles. the name of the place is thorney; which, having, for the sins of the people, been given to the power of the barbarians, from rich has become poor, from stately low, and from honourable is made despicable. this let the king, by my command, restore and amply endow: it shall be no less than the house of god and the gates of heaven." this, according to the old belief, was the way in which the later abbey arose. at any rate, edward rebuilt the monastery and church on a larger and more sumptuous scale; and, from that time forth, westminster abbey became the grandest, and on the whole the most august, building in london. it was then, likewise, that the edifice first took a distinct and historical place in the annals of the english people. until then, it is difficult to trace its history, which, indeed, is little more than a series of ecclesiastical myths. from the days of edward the confessor, the story of the abbey is clear in every respect; but, in such an edifice, history itself assumes a romantic, almost a marvellous, colour. we are in the presence of eight centuries of the national life; for, although no portion of edward the confessor's work remains at the present day, the abbey is so associated with the saintly monarch that it is impossible to detach his memory from the structure begun by henry iii., continued by edward ii., edward iii., and richard ii., and from time to time enlarged by later sovereigns. the building we now behold is the legacy of successive ages, which have left upon the stone itself the imprint of their thoughts, their aspirations, their struggles, and their hopes. in passing from chapel to chapel, from cloister to cloister, from aisle to aisle, we seem to pass through the centuries which gave them birth, and which have strewn over all the dust of their extinguished fires. but westminster abbey is not merely an embalmed corpse, preserving the semblance of a life which has long since vanished, it is still the shrine of england's greatest men--still the embodiment of ideas yet living in the national heart. [illustration: the abbey, from lambeth bridge.] westminster hall is second only to the abbey in historic interest. it was originally built by william rufus, and it is probable that some of his work still exists, though the bulk of what we see is due to richard ii. the magnificent timber roof--one of the finest in europe--belongs undoubtedly to the period of richard; and it is marvellous to think that this piece of wood-carving should have survived the wear of five centuries, and resisted without injury the dynamite explosion of 1885. a well-known tradition states that the roof is made of irish oak, in which spiders cannot live; but it appears to be really constructed of chestnut. the place was intended as a banqueting-hall, and so used by king richard; but some of our early parliaments assembled there, and, at the very first meeting of the houses in the new edifice, richard himself was deposed. the law courts were likewise held in this building and its predecessor, from 1224 to 1882. until a comparatively recent time, the judges sat in the main body of the hall; and, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, one side of the vast chamber was taken up by the judges, the lawyers, the juries, and the other persons concerned, while the opposite side was divided into a number of little shops or counters, where vociferous traders bawled their wares and solicited custom, until the usher over the way commanded silence with a voice louder than their own. with one exception--the hall of justice at padua--westminster hall is believed to be the largest chamber in the world not supported by pillars. its aspect is indeed noble, and the recollections which crowd upon the mind on entering its walls are almost overwhelming in their historic and dramatic interest. in the hall of rufus, sir william wallace was condemned to death; while the very building that now stands has witnessed the trials of sir thomas more, the protector somerset, the earl and countess of somerset, who contrived the assassination of sir thomas overbury, the earl of strafford, king charles i., the seven bishops who defied the power of james ii., three of the rebel lords in 1745, warren hastings, and several other persons of less distinction, who still have made some mark in the political or social history of the land. here oliver cromwell was inaugurated as protector; and here, only a few years later, his head was set upon a pole, between the skulls of ireton and bradshaw. one could fancy ghosts flitting at night about this vast old hall. it would be a strange gathering, drawn from the tragedies of five hundred years. returning to the river, we pass under new westminster bridge, but think rather of its predecessor, the work of charles labelye, a native of switzerland, yet a naturalised british subject. this structure lasted from 1750, when it was completed, to 1853, when its destruction was commenced. until the building of labelye's bridge, there was actually no way over the thames, within the metropolis, but at london bridge; and the proposal to execute this most necessary work encountered violent opposition in the city. old westminster bridge was a ponderous erection, in which, if we may accept the statement of the architect, twice as many cubic feet of stone were employed as in st. paul's cathedral. with its fifteen arches, diminishing in span from the centre, its lofty parapet and wide alcoves, it presented a rather handsome appearance, and many londoners, not yet old, retain it in kindly memory. it was badly constructed, however, and several of the piers gave way in 1846. there was no alternative but to take the whole structure down; but it has an abiding place in literature, owing to the noble sonnet which wordsworth composed there on the 3rd of september, 1803. another literary association with the bridge is of a painful nature. when crabbe the poet first came to london, in 1780, he was in such deep distress that, after appealing in vain to many persons of distinction, he delivered a letter at the door of burke's house--a letter to which the great orator and statesman afterwards replied with the utmost kindness; but, pending the answer, crabbe was in such a state of agitation that, as he told lockhart in later days, he walked westminster bridge backwards and forwards until daylight. it was by such experiences as this that crabbe acquired his realistic power of delineating the sufferings of the poor, with whom the fear of hunger or the workhouse is one of the permanent facts of life. it is on quitting westminster bridge that the victoria embankment begins--a magnificent work, containing the finest effects of architecture, mingled with trees and shrubbery, that are to be found in the metropolis. when one recollects the unsightly mud-banks that used to stretch along the shores of the thames in this part of its course--the grim, dilapidated buildings that approached the water's edge--the general appearance of ruin--the shiftless, disreputable air of the whole locality, save where some great building, such as somerset house, broke the dull uniformity of dirt, decay, and neglect--it is impossible to be too grateful for what we now possess. the massive river-wall, with the bronze heads of lions starting out of every pier, the extended line of parapet, the artistic lamps reflected at night in the shining stream, the cleopatra's needle, with sphinxes round its base, the avenues of planes, the green and leafy gardens, the elevated terrace of the adelphi, the stately river-front of somerset house, and the splendid new buildings which have been erected at various points of the route, make up, together with the broad and flowing river, a picture which it would not be easy to surpass. at charing cross, unfortunately, there is an irremediable contradiction to this grandeur. the railway bridge which there crosses the thames is one of the ugliest of an ugly family; and all we can do is to comfort ourselves with a sense of the convenience afforded by such structures, and with the impression of titanic power always accompanying the transit of vast bodies through the air above our heads. as soon as our backs are turned upon the viaduct, it is forgotten; and close by, at the bottom of buckingham street, we come upon a decaying relic of old london, which is worth going to see. the water gate, formerly belonging to york house, and built by inigo jones for george villiers, duke of buckingham, still outlasts, in melancholy isolation, all the princely splendours that once distinguished this spot. york house was, for a short time, the london residence of the archbishops of york, by whom it was afterwards let to the lord keepers of the great seal. it was here that no less a man than francis bacon was born, and he retained possession of the dwelling until his death. the next occupant was the famous duke of buckingham, the favourite of james i. and charles i., who pulled down the old house, and erected a temporary mansion to supply its place. his intention was to build a more sumptuous palace on the site of bacon's town-house; but inigo jones's gate was the only portion ever erected. of course, when originally made, it was on the absolute margin of the river, and here, at high tide, the duke and his friends took the water in their barges, or landed after an excursion on the thames. at the present day, owing to the formation of the embankment, which covers the sloping shores of the river formerly left dry, or rather oozy, when the tide was out, the water gate of inigo jones is a long way inland, and looks forlornly across the intermediate gardens towards the stream from which it is permanently divorced. the edifice is a fine piece of roman architecture, massive, rugged, yet ornamental, and admirably adapted, by the peculiarities of its structure, to serve as the approach to a mansion whose grounds came sweeping down to the edge of the waves. the house was afterwards sold by the second duke of buckingham, one of the profligate noblemen of charles ii.'s reign, illustrious by his own wit and spirit, and still more so by the masterly portraitures of dryden and pope; and a number of streets were built upon the site, some of which were called after the names and title of the duke. [illustration: york gate.] waterloo bridge--the grandest bridge in london, and perhaps in the world--admirably falls in with the architectural character of the embankment and its surroundings. nothing can exceed the magnificence of those nine broad arches, each one hundred and twenty feet in span, and thirty-five feet high; or of the columned piers from which they spring. the whole effect is colossal, yet graceful to the last degree of cultured power. where the massive pillars meet the embankment, they give an added grandeur to the work of sir joseph bazalgette, and the triumphant arches, as they leap the channel of the river, display the happiest admixture of strength and suavity. the engineer who executed the works of waterloo bridge was the celebrated john rennie; but the design was furnished by a somewhat obscure projector named george dodd, who, in the first instance, was appointed to carry out his own conception, but who appears to have been discharged through inattention to his duties, and the lax habits which ultimately brought him to the prison where he died. the name of rennie is so universally associated with the bridge, often to the exclusion of any other, that it seems but fair to give the credit of the plan to this forgotten and most unhappy genius. leaving waterloo bridge and somerset house in our rear, the next object of note that we reach is the temple, where we might linger a whole summer's day, without exhausting all the interest that attaches to that memorable spot. what one chiefly sees from the river is the green and pleasant garden, where, according to shakespeare, the partisans of the houses of york and lancaster plucked the white and red roses which served as the distinctive badges of their cause. looking northward, however, we discern some of the new buildings which border the open ground; and we know that beyond these lie the wonderful courts and alleys--the mazy lanes and avenues of old houses--which, taken altogether, make the temple one of the most fascinating spots in london. as he passes by on the smooth waves, the man familiar with books can hardly refrain from repeating to himself the murmuring lines of spenser, in which the poet traces back the history of that cloistral retreat to the days when it was associated with a great military and ecclesiastical order. spenser was a thorough londoner, and therefore well acquainted with "those bricky towers the which on thames' broad, aged back doe ride, where now the studious lawyers have their bowers: there whilom wont the templar knights to bide, till they decayed through pride." in the poet's time, and for nearly a hundred years after, brick edifices were very uncommon in london, and the great fire of 1666 would never have spread so rapidly, or extended so far, had not the majority of the houses been constructed of wood. it was the "bricky towers" of the temple which at length stopped the westward march of the conflagration. the oldest parts of the two inns seem almost as if they might be coeval with the days of spenser; but the greater number of the buildings belong apparently to the latter part of the seventeenth century. many alterations have of late taken place in the temple, and the new work (if only for its newness) is out of harmony with the old. could charles lamb revisit this beloved spot, it is to be feared that he would be much troubled by some of the recent innovations. those who share lamb's appreciation of old london have certainly a good deal to put up with in these days. perhaps the alterations are necessary and unavoidable; but they are often terribly jarring, though there are persons who will scarcely tolerate even a sigh over the departed or departing relics of an interesting past. a good deal of the old temple, however, still remains, and may perhaps survive for another decade or two. in the temple church we have a striking relic of the middle ages, elaborately, but not always judiciously, restored between 1839 and 1842; and the middle temple hall is thought to contain some of the best elizabethan architecture in london. [illustration: bit of the victoria embankment.] we are in modern times again when we come to blackfriars bridge; for not only is the structure one of yesterday, but that which preceded it dates back no farther than the second half of last century. the bridge erected by robert mylne was completed in 1769, and lasted for nearly a hundred years; but it shared the infirmity of labelye's work at westminster, and the subsidence of the piers became so alarming that in 1864 the whole edifice was doomed to destruction. one of the finest views of st. paul's cathedral, or, at any rate, of the dome, is obtainable from blackfriars bridge; but the appearance of the bridge itself on the eastern side is greatly marred by the railway viaduct of the london, chatham, and dover line. we have now passed the thames embankment, and the river begins to be bordered by wharves and warehouses, often black with the smoke of many years, yet not devoid of a certain rugged picturesqueness and gloomy state. enormous cranes project from the walls; vast bales of goods dangle perilously in the air, and are lowered into the barges and other vessels which come up close to the landing-stages. tier above tier of narrow, grimy windows rise into the sky; and gaunt openings in the walls, which seem as if they were intended for suicide, but are really meant for the reception and discharge of goods, reveal to the observant passer-by some dusky glimpses of that accumulated merchandise, the interchange of which has made london the greatest city in the world. in these sullen edifices, beetling over the water-side, you shall see nothing of beauty or of grandeur; but a man must be ignorant indeed, or grossly dull in his perceptions, if his mind do not discover, in the reaches of the lower thames, matter of the deepest interest, affecting not merely his own country, but her possessions in every part of the world, and to some extent the whole world itself. from this point, the wondrous city spreads around: the city with its roots in fable, and its branches in the living present; the city of commerce, of manufactures, of finance; the city of incalculable riches, and of that hopeless poverty which accompanies riches as the shadow accompanies the sun; the city which receives into its bosom the vessels and the wealth of all the globe, and which is in constant and electric sympathy with every part of europe, with the teeming populations of the east, with the desert heart of africa, with the young republics of the western continent, and with the rising commonwealths of australasian seas. whence comes this marvellous power--this universality of influence? partly from the genius and energy of the races which people britain; but partly also from the opportunities presented by that deep and expanding stream which issues out into the german ocean, and brings the fleets of nations to the walls of london. the greatness of england depends upon this liberal and majestic thames--a fact so apparent, even in the time of queen mary, that an acute alderman, hearing of the sovereign's intention to remove with the parliament and the law courts to oxford, observed that they should do well enough, provided her majesty left the river behind. even in the time of the roman occupation, london was a great commercial city; and since then, eighteen centuries of development have reared the mighty fabric of her trade. [illustration: the river at blackfriars.] though st. paul's cathedral is some little way from the thames, its splendid cupola is so prominent an object from the river that it is impossible not to pause a little before wren's masterpiece, and consider the history of this great edifice, the foundation of which takes us back to the early days of british history. by some antiquarians it has been supposed that, in the roman times, the summit of ludgate hill was occupied by a temple to diana; but this tradition was entirely discredited by sir christopher, who records that, in digging for the foundations of the present cathedral, he found no evidences whatever of the existence of any such pagan structure--no fragments of cornice or capital, no remains of sacrifices. he did, however, arrive at some foundations, consisting of kentish rubble-stone, cemented with exceedingly hard mortar, after the roman manner. he believed these to have been the relics of an early christian church, destroyed during the diocletian persecution, the erection of which he considered may have been due to st. paul himself. whatever may be the truth of these remote traditions, it seems unquestionable that a christian fane existed on this spot from an early period. the crown of the hill was a very likely place for such an edifice, and the proximity of the river made it easy of access from surrounding parts. the church demolished during the persecution of 302 was rebuilt in the reign of constantine, between the years 323 and 337. in the following century it was destroyed by the saxons, but, after the conversion of the early english, was again erected by ethelbert and sebert in the sixth and seventh centuries. the cathedral which immediately preceded the present was begun about 1083, and lasted until the great fire of 1666. during this long period of nearly six hundred years, the edifice underwent frequent alterations, and received many additions. some of its dimensions are thought to have exceeded those of any other church in christendom. its length from east to west was six hundred and ninety feet, and the spire over the central tower rose five hundred and twenty feet into the air. this spire was burned in 1561, and, from that time until 1633, the noble old pile was in a state of dilapidation, which it is surprising that so rich a city as london should have allowed to continue. but the whole condition of the cathedral at this period was one not easy to understand at the present day. the middle aisle, usually termed paul's walk, was an ordinary lounging-place for the wits, gallants, and disreputable characters of the time. under the pillars of that magnificent arcade the lawyer received his clients; the business man transacted his affairs; the idle inquired after news; servants wanting employment let themselves out for hire; and the chorister boys exacted tribute of gentlemen who entered the cathedral, during divine service, with spurs on. from the period of the reformation to the early part of the reign of philip and mary, matters had been even worse; for a daily market was held in the nave, and men would lead mules, horses, and other animals from entrance to exit. "paul's walk" is one of the most frequent subjects of allusion in the works of the elizabethan dramatists; and there was certainly no better place in london for an observer of manners, like ben jonson, to imbue himself with the humours of men. it need hardly be said that old st. paul's was a gothic structure; but when it was repaired in 1633, the work was put into the hands of inigo jones, who was entirely a child of the italian school. he accordingly set up a classical portico in front of the ancient gothic church, thus producing an effect of painful incongruity, although the portico in itself appears to have been extremely fine. the circumstance, however, is to some degree excused by the design of charles i. to build an entirely new cathedral, of which inigo's portico was to be the frontispiece. the civil war put an end to this project, together with many others; and during those tumultuous days cromwell's soldiers stabled their horses in the metropolitan church of london. the complete destruction of the building followed six years after the restoration, when the greater part of london succumbed to a disaster which more vigorous measures might have stifled in its infancy. another gothic edifice would have been more in accordance with the traditions of the place; but it is fortunate that no attempt was made to revive an architectural style with which all the builders of that age were entirely out of sympathy. wren held the gothic forms in absolute contempt, and the towers which he added to westminster abbey show how miserably he failed when trying to accommodate himself to methods which he neither understood nor cared to understand. with the renaissance he was perfectly at home; and his great work, whatever objections we may make on the score of coldness, so far as the interior is concerned, is surely characterised by a grandeur of its own, dependent not merely upon physical size, but on vastness of conception, and on that sense of towering magnificence, and almost infinite dilation, which is produced by this mountain of hewn stone, extending into curved and pillared aisles, and swelling upwards into the mimic firmament of the dome. for nearly two hundred years sir christopher wren's cathedral has been the central monument of london. round its giant mass the waves of the great city beat day by day in feverish unrest; and there is something in its ponderous bulk, its countless reduplication of arch and column, and its soaring cupola, which seems to image the stability of english life in the midst of constant agitation and perpetual change. [illustration: st. paul's, from the thames.] southwark bridge, under which we pass shortly after returning to the river, is chiefly interesting as being the first thoroughfare which carries us over into what is popularly called "the borough"--certainly one of the most memorable parts of the capital. by a kind of fiction, southwark is accounted one of the twenty-six wards of london, and, considered in this relation, is entitled bridge ward without. it is therefore, to some extent, a part of the city; yet it has its own government, and a distinctive character, both in general appearance and in metropolitan history. in early times, it was a sanctuary for malefactors, and in other respects possessed an evil reputation, which appears to have been not wholly undeserved. in the bankside, southwark, was situated the bear garden, of which we read so frequently in old english writers--a place where shakespeare must have seen the bear sackerson which he has immortalised in the _merry wives of windsor_. edward alleyn, the actor, who founded dulwich college, was at one time master of this objectionable place of amusement; and here pepys went one day with his wife, and pronounced the entertainment "a very rude and nasty pleasure." a much pleasanter association with old southwark is the fact that shakespeare's theatre, the famous "globe playhouse," conspicuous in stage history, was here situated close to the river. the external shape of this illustrious edifice was hexagonal, and, though the stage was roofed over with thatch, the spectators sat in the open air without any covering whatever. the interior was circular, and the building displayed a classic figure of hercules supporting the globe. one would be glad to know the exact spot where shakespeare trod the boards, submitted some of his works to public approval, and perhaps discharged the duties of a manager. but, although the theatre is commonly said to have stood in bankside, there appears to be some doubt upon the point. unquestionably, however, the bankside has the best claim, and it is believed that barclay and perkins's brewery occupies the site, or nearly so. originally erected in 1594, the globe was burned down on the 29th of june, 1613, owing to some lighted paper, projected from a piece of ordnance, having found a lodgment in the thatch. this was rather less than three years before the death of shakespeare; but the playhouse was speedily rebuilt, at the expense of james i., and of many noblemen and gentlemen. the drama that was being acted on the occasion of the fire seems to have been shakespeare's _henry viii._; and sir henry wotton, who writes an amusing account of the affair to his nephew, says that the drama "was set forth with many extraordinary circumstances of pomp and majesty, even to the matting of the stage; the knights of the order with their georges and garters, the guards with their embroidered coats, and the like." the new theatre was much handsomer than the old, and provided with a roof of tile, so that the discharge of ordnance should not again produce such disastrous consequences. the house was pulled down in 1644, by which time puritanical opinions had gained so much ground amongst the london population that theatres were no longer the prosperous undertakings they had been in more careless and light-hearted days. from the bankside to the high street of southwark is no great distance; but it takes us backward from the time of shakespeare to the time of chaucer. the "tabard" inn stood in that ancient thoroughfare, and, until recently, some old, decrepit buildings flanked the back yard of this hostelry, which, though probably not coeval with chaucer, were at any rate antique enough to suggest his period. the borough high street, being the main road into the south-eastern parts of england, was from an early date celebrated for its roomy hostelries, some of which still remain in all their picturesque amplitude, with external galleries, overhanging roofs, carved timber, dusky passages, and cavernous doorways. none, however, could boast such an association as that which throws its halo round the "tabard." we are not, of course, to suppose that chaucer's immortal poem is an exact record of anything that happened on some given occasion; but it is more than probable that chaucer performed the pilgrimage to canterbury, "the holy, blissful martyr for to seek," and that, with his companions, he started from the "tabard" in the high street. it is also conceivable that these pious excursionists often beguiled the way by telling stories; and it is thoroughly in accordance with the manners of the time that some of the stories should be of a very questionable tendency. pilgrimages, after a while, became a form of dissipation with which the religious sentiment was but slightly associated. as early as the fourth christian century, gregory, bishop of nyssa, dissuaded his flock from joining pilgrimages, because of the low moral tone frequently developed amongst the travellers. in the ninth century, englishwomen had a particularly bad name for the gallantries they carried on under pretence of devotion; and in the fourteenth century, when chaucer wrote, the matter had doubtless become still worse. one of the results of this perversion, however, was that people distinguished by every variety of character were drawn together by the common object of adoration at some famous shrine. chaucer was thus presented with the finest possible opportunity for the exercise of those powers of observation and of portraiture in which he was hardly inferior to shakespeare himself. hence a poem which, notwithstanding the difficulties of its partially obsolete english, is still a living force in the literature of our race. hence a collection of stories which touch the whole round of human nature--in its pathos, its humour, its tragedy, its devotion, its blunt and rugged realism, its high-raised phantasy, its vulgarity, and its nobleness; and hence that fascinating light of genius and human fellowship which hovers round the vicinity of the "tabard" inn, and will consecrate even its modern brick-and-mortar with the tenderest memories of the past. returning towards the river, we find on our left hand, not far from the water itself, the fine old church of st. saviour's, southwark (anciently called st. mary overies, from its position as to the bridge), which contains a handsome gothic monument to chaucer's contemporary, john gower. the church has been much injured by alterations in recent times, but still presents some beautiful specimens of the early english style. all that remains of the old church founded in 1208 is in the choir and the lady chapel; yet, on the whole, the effect is venerable, and the associations with the church are highly interesting. among the persons here buried are edmund shakespeare, the brother of william; john fletcher, the fellow-dramatist with beaumont; philip massinger, another dramatic poet; and several persons more or less connected with the theatrical world of shakespeare's generation. [illustration: southwark bridge.] we are now at the southern extremity of london bridge--one of the best of rennie's works, but a very uninteresting structure compared with that which preceded it. still, it is impossible to pass over this granite causeway without seeing, at any hour of the day, such a spectacle of human life as penetrates both the heart and soul. all bridges are favourable to this kind of observation; for they contract and isolate the great stream of human beings, which for a brief period is incapable of any diversion either to the right or to the left, but is brought sharply and sternly face to face with him who would take note of his fellow-creatures. moreover, the absence of houses or other buildings at the side of the footpaths brings every figure into relief against the vast, eternal sky, and suggests, in a subtle and almost terrible way, the fragility of the individual, as compared with the infinity above his head. beneath is the deep, dark river; above are the inscrutable heavens; and between the two are these mites and motes of a vanishing existence, suspended for a time between elements which are stronger than themselves. on london bridge one sees all the chief varieties of human character, passing on from morn to eve, and often far into the night, with that look of patient endurance, or of half-suppressed suffering, which comes out so strangely when large multitudes of men and women are brought together, without any community of interest, or knowledge of each other's cares. the city man, the lawyer, the clerk, the rugged labourer, the railway servant, the desperately poor, who are evidently on the tramp, either from london to the country, or from the country to london; the lurking thief, the flashy swindler, the jew with his bag, poor women with their heavy bundles, and heavier faces, and perhaps still heavier hearts; the street arab on the look-out for stray halfpence, the girls who sell cigar-lights, the meagre seamstresses going to and fro with their work, and, at one season of the year the vast emigration of hop-pickers, making for the fields of kent--all these are here, together with many other types of character that demand recognition from thoughtful minds. under certain climatic conditions, the effect is almost phantasmal in its reduplication and variety, its familiar aspects and its mysterious depth of life. [illustration: cannon street station.] the complete demolition of the old bridge in 1832 was a matter of necessity, since the decrepitude of the former had at length gone beyond all hope of further patching, and the growing traffic of london required a broader and more convenient way from the city to the borough. but no more interesting structure was ever devoted to the labourer's pickaxe. a bridge appears to have existed as early as 978; another, built of wood, in 1014, was partly burned in 1136; and this was succeeded, some years later, by the edifice which was destroyed within the memory of some still living. the design was given by peter of colechurch, chaplain of st. mary colechurch in the poultry. the construction occupied thirty-three years, from 1176 to 1209, which, considering the breadth of river to be spanned, the massiveness of the work, and the primitive nature of engineering science at that time, does not seem excessive. peter's bridge was of stone, not of timber, and consisted of nineteen arches, a drawbridge for large vessels, a gate-house at each end, and a chapel in the centre, dedicated to st. thomas of canterbury. according to an old tradition, the course of the river was diverted into a trench while the works were proceeding--a trench which, commencing about battersea, ended at redriffe. traces of this vast ditch were remaining about lambeth marsh in the middle of the seventeenth century, when small lakes of water appeared here and there, with intervals of fenny ground between. the bridge was built on piles, and these masses of timber, driven into the bed of the stream, must have lasted until the destruction of the bridge itself. on the outside of the timber foundations other piles were fixed, which rose up to low-water-mark, and formed projections into the river, having somewhat the character of open boats or barges. the object of the external masses, which were called "starlings," was to break the rush of water as it dashed towards the bridge itself; but the narrow arches and their timber defences constituted a peril in the navigation of the river, and were the occasion of several accidents to boatmen not thoroughly masters of their calling. the operation of "shooting the bridge" was an exceedingly awkward one, and many persons were afraid to undertake it. the water formed a little cascade in these menacing straits, and the strength and rapidity of the current would sweep away small boats, and leave their occupants little chance of their lives. in many ways, london bridge was perhaps the most characteristic structure of its kind in the world. the chapel of st. thomas, erected on the eastern side of the bridge, over the tenth or central pier (which was carried a considerable distance eastward along the channel of the river), appears to have been a very beautiful gothic building, reared upon a massive and graceful crypt, which could be approached not only from the bridge, but by a flight of steps leading from the starling of the pier. a tower, often grimly adorned with the heads of distinguished traitors, stood near the centre of the bridge, and the sides were covered with substantial houses, which were not taken down until 1757-8. the tower in the middle part of the bridge was removed towards the end of the sixteenth century, when its place was occupied by a wooden edifice called nonsuch house, constructed in holland, brought over to england in pieces, and put together with wooden pegs, to the exclusion of all iron. it crossed the bridge on an arch, and presented a singularly picturesque appearance, with its timber carvings, its four square towers, its domes, its spires, and its gilded vanes. the heads of the traitors--or of those who were described as such--were transferred from the demolished tower to the gate at the southwark end, which was henceforth known as "traitors' gate." such was the singular aspect of old london bridge, which, whether viewed from the river or from the roadway, must have looked like some fantastic vision. its history is no less full of variety and of strange experiences. terrific fires occurred from time to time, by which, on some occasions, large numbers of lives were lost. arches and piers were carried away by high tides, or rendered frail by the incessant action of the water, so that large structural repairs were frequently needed. here, in 1263, eleanor of provence, the queen of henry iii., was attacked by the londoners, when, during the de montfort troubles, she was endeavouring to escape to windsor. eleanor was proceeding up the river in a boat, and the exasperated citizens, assembling on the bridge, assailed her, not merely with insulting words, but with dirt and stones, so that she was obliged to return to the tower. it should be observed that, although the bridge was for the most part flanked by houses, there were open spaces every here and there, very convenient for pelting a queen who happened to be unpopular. by this way, wat tyler obtained an entrance into the city at the head of his kentish men. single combats; desperate faction-fights, attended by much slaughter; triumphal processions of conquering kings; splendid pageantries of the great and noble; the mournful pomp of royal funerals; the sumptuous entry of foreign princesses; wolsey in his grandeur, wyatt and his insurgents, charles ii. on his return from the continent, when he at length succeeded to the throne; knights, citizens, men-at-arms, priests, 'prentices, beggars, ruffians, fugitives; the rich, the poor, the mighty, the humble, the downcast, and the prosperous--all this wealth of human action, suffering, despair, and hope, gives an enduring charm to the memory of peter of colechurch's structure, and furnishes such a record as few other buildings can parallel. the story of london bridge is a romance of the deepest interest, of the most gorgeous and the most gloomy colours. but we touch only on its more salient points, and, passing on along the eternal river, leave the shadow of this english _ponte vecchio_ behind us like a dream. [illustration: battersea to london bridge.] /edmund ollier/. [illustration: in the pool.] chapter xi. london bridge to gravesend. hogarth's water frolic--billingsgate--salesmen's cries--the custom house--queen elizabeth and the customs--the tower, and tower hill--the pool--the docks--ratcliff highway--the thames tunnel--in rotherhithe--the isle of dogs--the dock labourer--deptford and greenwich--woolwich reach and dockyard--the _warspite_. there is a mighty change in the river after it has passed fishmonger's hall. when the tide is running out it races through the arches of london bridge, and swirls round the buttresses, and eddies to right and to left in such manner that the thames waterman, having remembrance of many disasters brought about by absence of knowledge or want of care, amazes his passenger by his singular method of progression, rowing round a clump of barges, getting under the hull of a steamer, shooting across the river with the current, creeping slowly along by the wharves, and otherwise man[oe]uvring as if he were a general preparing to take a town. it requires a long pull and a strong pull to shoot the bridge against the tide, and often has it happened to the idler, leaning over the buttresses, to behold an upturned boat floating below him, and behind it the boatman and his passenger sustaining themselves above water by clinging to the oars. [illustration: st. magnus' church and the monument.] the thames waterman of the present year of grace is by no means such a picturesque person as the oarsman of former days. there is no salt water flavour about him; he wears no indication of his calling; he is, to all appearances, merely a landsman in a boat. it was otherwise in jolly william hogarth's time. that great humorist drew, as the tailpiece to an eccentric book, a queer little design of a grinning thames waterman, stout and jolly, seated on crossed oars, his legs drawn up to his chin, a drinking-glass and an earthen pipkin dangling from his gigantic heels. he was a creature all hat, boots, and broad grin; whereas the waterman of to-day is rather a solemn sort of person, very indifferently clad, who takes your shilling or your half-crown as if you were doing him an injury. the tailpiece aforesaid adorns the last page of an entertaining account of how hogarth, and three friends of his, set off on a holiday excursion to gravesend, rochester, and sheerness, sailing over just that space of water which we are about to explore. the four boon companions set off from the bedford coffee house, in covent garden, on the 27th of may, 1732. they spent a day in the neighbourhood of billingsgate, drinking, apparently, and hogarth drew a caricature of a long-shore humorist who was known as "the duke of puddledock," which said caricature, the rhyming chronicler of the expedition records, in execrable verse, "was pasted on the cellar door." thackeray calls these four, "a jolly party of tradesmen at high jinks," and high jinks they certainly had, hogarth and one of his companions playing at hopscotch in rochester town hall. they went down the river in a "tilt boat," laughing and shouting and drinking, exchanging jokes with the watermen, singing each other to sleep with jolly choruses, and behaving generally in a manner that was highly indecorous and reprehensible. it was six o'clock in the morning when they reached gravesend, something like twenty-four hours after their start. with the tide in your favour, on the steamers which leave london bridge twice a day, you may now make the same bright and agreeable journey in two hours and a half. and such a journey should every one make who wishes to realise, however faintly, the picturesque magnificence, the prodigious commerce, the splendid importance of the thames. the crowded shipping of the pool, the steamers coming and going, the vessels lying at anchor here and there, as if the river were a huge dock, only feebly represent the vast tonnage which is borne on our grand and historic river every day of every year. behind the great piles of warehouses--towering over the housetops, ornamenting the sky with a curious fretwork of masts and spars and cordage--lie scores and hundreds of the vessels of all nations, crowded into dock beyond dock, making a line of rigging, of glittering yards and masts, of furled sails and flaunting canvas, on either side of the thames for mile on mile. it is on the tower side that the line is least broken. london bridge is scarcely left behind ere st. katharine's and london docks come in sight; then follow the enormous acreage of the east and west india docks, then come the docks at millwall, and the albert and victoria docks, stretching onward to north woolwich--a vast contiguity of dock property, basin beyond basin occupied by some of the finest shipping that roams the seas. earlier in the century, when the screw-steamer was as yet undreamed of, and there had been no vision of the steam-tug which is so vast a convenience to-day, this portion of the river presented at certain seasons a much more stirring sight than now. fleets of vessels, with their sails spread, came in at every tide; hundreds of ships lay crowding in the thames at the mercy of the wind; it was a long panorama of seafaring life, with no bellying smoke to impede the view. all that has been changed by the wand of science and the genius of discovery. if a vessel lies in the stream instead of in the docks, it is for purposes peculiarly its own; and the dock gates, instead of opening to whole fleets driven up by a prosperous wind, swing open to solitary, but more gigantic, vessels propelled by steam. not that sailing-ships are no longer numerous in the thames! the old east indiaman has departed, the ships of john company are broken to pieces; but the tall three-master is by no means an unfamiliar object, and on the thames waters below london bridge one may encounter schooners and brigs and brigantines galore. nor has the number of lighters and wherries and dumb-barges diminished. on most shipping rivers these auxiliaries of trade have almost or wholly disappeared. the uncouth keelmen of the tyne are a race with few survivors, and when the universally popular "keel row" is sung or played, it is almost invariably without reference to its former signification. on the mersey no long line of coal-barges blocks the stream. the barge and the keel have, indeed, had their day, and are now little more than encumbrances; yet it is probable that they will be familiar objects for years to come on the thames. when the docks were made, the watermen rose up in revolt against a threatened invasion of their privileges, and were fortunate enough to secure for themselves new rights which ensured their continuance and prosperity. so it happens that in addition to the sailing-ships and schooners which may be seen at anchor along either side of the thames, there is a great number of smaller craft, inconvenient but full of interest, greatly in the way, but very delightful to the artist and the heedful possessor of a "quiet eye." no effective justice has ever yet been done to the lower portion of the thames. you will find it stated in most books on the subject that the river ceases to be picturesque when it has passed st. paul's. a french poet calls it "an infected sea, rolling its black waters in sinuous detours"; and that is the despondent view that has been taken by the majority of english writers. yet in the eyes of those who have roamed about this section of the river, and have loved it, only at london bridge does the thames become really interesting. in the higher reaches it is an idyllic river, swooning along through pleasant landscapes; after st. paul's it takes on a new and more sombre sort of glory, assumes a mightier interest, and is infinitely more majestic in the lifting of its waters. above london bridge, even when the wind is blowing, the waves are small and broken, like those of a mountain lake; in the pool the water surges and heaves in broad masses, the light seems to deal with it more nobly, and the thames assumes such majesty as becomes a stream which flows through the grandest city, and bears so great a portion of the commerce, of the world. as for picturesqueness, one may behold a score of the finest possible pictures from london bridge itself. the grey tower of st. magnus' church, smitten by a passing ray of sunlight, stands out bright and shining behind the dark mass of buildings over freshwater wharf; beyond it, more dimly seen, the monument lifts its flaming crown; the pool is alive with hurrying steamers and clustering sails; billingsgate is in the midst of its traffic; the white face of the custom house looks down into the dun waters; and yonder rise the more sombre walls of our most ancient fortress, the venerable quadragon of the white tower, with its four dark cupolas, dominating them all. round the spot on which freshwater wharf now stands clustered roman london. there are still some half-hidden relics of it under the recent and handsome coal exchange in thames street. there, descending to the foundations, one may find a hypocaust full of fair spring water, a pavement floor, an ancient and austere seat built of roman tiles, and some pieces of ruined wall. it is the lower portion of a roman house, the most interesting and complete bit of evidence still remaining in london of the roman occupation of britain. [illustration: london bridge to woolwich.] the front of billingsgate has altered its aspect of late. a wharf has arisen where, heretofore, a couple of narrow gangways descended sheer to the foreshore of the thames, when it was exposed, and to the water, when the tide was in. many a billingsgate porter has lost his life hurrying up those gangways, yet, so conservative is the city of london in its habits, that it is only a few years since the conclusion was reached that the market would be no worse, and human life would be all the safer, for a pier. with that very modern improvement one of our london "sights" has changed its aspect. no longer may we behold the four lines of white-jacketed figures, two bustling up from and two hurrying down to the boats. yet the white-jacketed figures are there, and they bustle about as of old, though the work has become indescribably easier, and is carried on by men in less constant peril of their lives. to see billingsgate in the full tide of its work--and england has no other sight to compare with it--one must rise with the sun in summer, and long before the dawn in winter, when heavily-laden market-carts from kent are rumbling over london bridge, whilst the homeless tramp is still composing himself to slumber, and while still the mists cling to the surface of the river so heavily as to seem beyond the power of any mere london sunshine to raise or dispel. [illustration: billingsgate--early morning.] at five in the morning, summer or winter, rain or shine, billingsgate seems to shake itself and start on a sudden into active and turbulent life. in the night a series of long, low, snake-like steamers have crept up the river, bearing freight from the fishing-smacks which are pursuing their dangerous fortune in the north sea. just below where they have dropped anchor cluster several broad-beamed, highly-polished, dutch schuyts, bringing oysters or eels to market, and reminding you, by their bulk and build, of the stout, prosperous, slow-moving citizens of amsterdam. little panting steam-tugs are hurrying here and there, and amid a confused glare of lights, and a tempest of smoke and steam, the billingsgate porters, having waited for the five o'clock bell, rush out in streams to schuyt and smack and steamer, pushing, shouting, swearing, surging to and fro in the mist and steam and glare, working with the energy of gnomes doomed to perform an allotted task ere the first beams of morning surprise them at their toil. thames street, and fish street hill, and pudding lane, and many a street and alley roundabout, are crowded, packed, jammed, with vans and carts and trollies. the stranger wanders bewildered and afraid among all these, in danger of being knocked down by laden porters, run over by market-carts, hustled out of all self-possession by feverish buyers, or lost amongst such a wild and interminable confusion of vehicles as no other place in the world can show. for all that is known to the contrary, billingsgate has been a fish-market from the time when the ancient british inhabitants of the proud hill on which the city of london stands put off in their coracles to seek the means of livelihood in the broad waters which dock and warehouse and wharf now confine in the comparatively narrow channel of the thames. there was a toll on fishing at billingsgate when the saxon æthelstan reigned. william iii. made the market open and free for all sorts of fish in 1699. since that day many attempts have been made to establish fish-markets elsewhere in london, but up to this time with uniform non-success. it is not yet quite a score of years since the present billingsgate market was completed. you may still read, in even recent books, of "the elegant italian structure" of mr. bunning, with its towering campanile, its fine arcades, and its picturesque blending of brick and stone. mr. bunning's market, however, was too small for its purposes; and in 1874 the present building was begun, and, in spite of vast difficulties, was finished without disturbance of the business of the day. it preserves much of the old "elegance" of structure, and is partly italian in style, but the smoke of the steamers clings to it, and has blackened it so that, between the grey buildings above freshwater wharf and the shining walls of the custom house, it looks like a patch of shadow in a field of light. fish was once indifferently delivered at billingsgate or at queenhithe, on the other side of london bridge. henry iii., at a loss how to furnish pin-money for his wife, gave to her a tax on the fish landed at queenhithe pier. it was a tax, too, which the fishmongers were very reluctant to pay, and many were the fines inflicted on shipmasters who tarried at billingsgate instead of making their way to the royal quay. billingsgate fought that hard battle against royalty with great resolution, and ultimately won. since then it has become obstructive on its own account, and has, in turn, successfully resisted any invasion of its own exceptional privileges. the dealers at billingsgate must in those early days have been as rich, and quite as exclusive and privileged, as are their successors of this latter part of the nineteenth century, for it is recorded how, when the news was brought to london of the victory which edward i. had obtained over the scots, they paraded the city with over a thousand horsemen, accompanied by the sound of trumpets, and the streaming of banners, and all the fine pageantry of a picturesque time. the daily supply of fish to billingsgate amounts, on an average, to 500 tons. it is difficult to realise how prodigious a quantity is this; but the imagination is assisted by reflecting that one ton of fish is equal in weight to twenty-eight sheep, so that the day's supply of 500 tons is equivalent to a woolly herd of not less than 14,000. london in this manner draws to itself the great bulk of the fish that are caught around our coasts; but, it must be understood, billingsgate does not exist for the advantage of metropolitan consumers alone. most of the large provincial towns draw upon the great fish-market of the thames, and almost as soon as the day's supply is landed and sold much of it is speeding off in fast trains to the great centres of industry, where it is again distributed, it may be, to less important communities, and to small hamlets nestling amid ancestral trees. at billingsgate you may make your purchases by the ton or the single fish. there are fish-salesmen of varying degrees, some selling, in large quantities, the fish as it is landed from the boats, others selling over again to shopkeepers and to costermongers what they have only themselves purchased some half-an-hour before. the more respected and prosperous dealers, coming early, with long purses, have the pick of the market, and are speeding off home again before the bell of st. paul's has tolled the hour of nine. then the costermongers come crowding in, shouting, pushing, swearing, exchanging jokes, impugning the freshness of the fish, boiling into anger at the prices asked from them, and filling the market-hall with an amazing clatter of cockney tongues. the attendance of the london coster is regulated by the supply of fish. sometimes only a few scores of these itinerant dealers are to be encountered in old thames street; sometimes they are present by hundreds and thousands. it has never yet been discovered how the intelligence of a profuse and cheap fish supply is diffused over london; but it invariably occurs that when the market is overstocked every costermonger in town has knowledge of the fact long before noon. it is much as if the street-dealers were connected with billingsgate by electric wires. "barrows" come racing by dozens over london bridge; covent garden market is suddenly deserted by the most numerous class of its customers; from shadwell, from kentish town, from more remote hammersmith, the costermonger rushes off to billingsgate as if for bare life, and by mid-day cheap fish is being cried all through the london streets and far off at the doors of "villadom" in the suburbs. the late henry mayhew has striven to give an idea of the confused cries of billingsgate in his wonderful and painstaking work on "london labour and the london poor," where the sounds heard above the general din are represented thus:--"ha--a--ansome cod! best in the market! all alive! alive! alive, o!" "yeo, ye--e--o! here's your fine yarmouth bloaters! who's the buyer?" "here you are, guv'ner; splendid whiting." "turbot, turbot! all alive, turbot!" "glass of nice peppermint this cold morning, a ha'penny a glass, a ha'penny a glass!" "fine soles, oy, oy, oy!" "hullo, hullo, here! beautiful lobsters, good and cheap!" "hot soup, nice pea-soup! a--all hot, hot!" "who'll buy brill, o, brill, o?" "fine flounders, a shilling a lot! o ho! o ho! this way--this way--this way! fish alive! alive! alive o!" and in such fashion is business carried on at billingsgate every morning, amid a turbulence not to be described. it is a prosaic, evil-smelling business, this of fish dealing, relieved by no such spectacles as were to be witnessed in the time of stowe, when, "on st. magnus' day the fishmongers, with solemn procession, paraded through the streets, having, among other pageants and shows, four sturgeons, gilt, carried on four horses; and after, six-and-forty knights armed, riding on horses, made 'like luces of the sea;' and then st. magnus, the patron saint of the day, with a thousand horsemen." the salesmen reserve their solemn rites in these days for the dinners in fishmongers' hall, and the only "knights" they can boast of are those ludicrous "men in armour" who make a part of the lord mayor's show. close by billingsgate lies the long frontage of the custom house, conspicuous no less by reason of its bulk and position than for that leprous whiteness which, on certain kinds of stone, is one of the effects of the biting and crumbling atmosphere of london. the site is one that should be dear to lovers of english poetry. here geoffrey chaucer officiated as controller of customs, the stipulation being that he should write the rolls of his office with his own hand, and perform his duties personally, and not by deputy. it may be that whilst his pen was thus unpoetically employed, his mind wandered off to the "tabard" inn, by the end of london bridge, to its jolly landlord, "bold of his speech, and wise and well-i-taught," and to the curiously compounded bands of pilgrims who gathered there on their way to the shrine of st. thomas at canterbury. here, also, came william cowper, in one of his fits of insanity, intent on suicide. the water was low, exposing the foreshore, and there was a careless porter sitting on a bale of goods. it seemed to the poor stricken poet as if the man were waiting there to prevent the execution of his purpose, "and so," he says, "this passage to the bottomless pit being mercifully closed against me, i returned to the coach," which was really the only sensible thing he could do. the present custom house, built in 1825, contains one of the longest and the most dingy-looking rooms in england. here may be encountered strings of british merchants and rough ship-captains waiting to transact business relating to their cargoes. at one counter is kept a record of vessels and their owners, at another the clearance of ships outward is the subject of concern; at a third the skipper must hand in a list of every article on board his vessel, and thence proceed from counter to counter until he has satisfied all the requirements of the law. in one corner of the building there is a custom house museum, containing many quaint official documents, detailing how john doe, being a papist, did not receive his quarter's salary, and how some other servant of the customs has been docked of his wages because of the indiscretion of somebody else's wife; containing, also, curious articles which have been employed in small acts of smuggling--a stewardess's crinoline that has been puffed out with a bottle of right good hollands, a book which has been made to do duty as a brandy-flask, quantities of snuff that have been shipped as oilcake, and many other curious examples of unexpected failure to evade the law. those whose business it is to detect cheats of this description love to retain some memorial of their prowess, and in this manner it happens that the custom house museum is valuable chiefly to those who care to study human ingenuity in connection with dishonest purposes. there is in existence a curious record concerning the custom house and queen bess. "about this time (1590)," writes the quaint author of "the historie of the life and reigne of that famous princesse elizabeth," "the commodity of the custom house amounted to an unexpected value; for the queen, being made acquainted by the means of a subtle fellow, named caermardine, with the mystery of their gaines, so enhanced the rate that sir thomas smith, master of the custom house, who heretofore farmed it of the queen for £14,000 yearly, was now mounted to £42,000, and afterwards to £50,000, which, notwithstanding, was valued but as an ordinary sum for such oppressing gaine. the lord treasurer, the earls of leicester and walsingham, much opposed themselves against this caermardine ... but the queen answered them that all princes ought to be, if not as favourable, yet as just, to the lowest as to the highest, desiring that they who falsely accused her privy council of sloth or indiscretion should be severely punished; but they who justly accused them should be heard. that she was queen as well to the poorest as to the proudest, and that therefore she would never be deaf to their just complaints. likewise that she would not suffer that these toll-takers, like horse-leeches, should glut themselves with the riches of the realm, and starve her exchequer; which, as she will not bear it to be docked, so hateth she to enrich it with the poverty of her people." from which lion-like speech it appears that queen elizabeth more than suspected her privy councillors of having intercepted moneys which should have found their way to the exchequer of the crown. after the billingsgate fever is over, everything round about the custom house seems quiet and sleepy and still; yet an almost inconceivable amount of business is transacted within its walls. every merchant receiving a cargo, every shipmaster going out or coming in, has unavoidable business here. there is a series of counters, distinguished by the various letters of the alphabet, and from one to another the visitors to the custom house continue to circulate, engaging in one sort of transaction at one counter, and in some other sort at a second, and third, and fourth. it is a long and wearisome process, the discharge of the various duties appertaining to the entry and the clearing out of ships--a process which, be it said, seems much less trying to the clerks than to those on whom they are called upon to attend. in front of the custom house there is a broad quay, used as a public promenade, a true haven of rest to him who has lost heart and energy in the almost vain attempt to escape from the crowd and the bustle of thames street. at this spot, on new year's morning, the jews of london were wont to assemble to offer up prayers in remembrance of that sad captivity when their people sat down by the waters of babylon and wept. the custom has been discouraged of late years, but there are still some professors of the ancient faith who follow the rule of their forefathers, and offer up the time-worn prayers on the spot which was consecrated by them in "the days that are no more." it is difficult to break away from that portion of the river on which we seem already to have lingered too long. the thames is here full of interest and of crowding associations. over the water, behind the great, grim warehouses, slopes downward into bermondsey that tooley street which the three tailors--"we, the people of england"--have made famous throughout the world. from amid grimy roofs and grey-brown walls rises the tower of st. olave's church, half-buried and lost amid a london of which its builders never dreamed. down here, in narrow street and dim entry, the bewildered stranger begins to feel that, after all, man is too small for the planet on which he lives. great walls--of granary, and store, and manufactory--reach over and above him, and dwarf him into extreme littleness. he seems to be walking beneath high cliffs by the sea. the whole air trembles and throbs with noise and travail. here and there, through some unexpected narrow opening, may be discerned a thin strip of river, with ships and boats. at intervals of every two or three hundred yards these openings occur, and they lead down to old-fashioned thames stairs, where the waterman plies his trade. lingering about the landing-places, or the streets and alleys adjacent thereto, one meets occasional blear-eyed, evil-countenanced, ill-clad men, who approach with a sinuous stoop of the shoulders, a deferential ducking of the head, and a dirty thumb raised to the brim of a greasy hat. these men will do anything for money except work. if you employ one of them to conduct you to the stairs and to call a boat he will pretend to hurry forward, but, without progressing much, will look furtively behind, seem to measure your size and estimate your running powers, and then proceed slowly in front, his evil-looking thumb continually beckoning, and his croaking voice ejaculating, "this way, sir; this way; this way, if _you_ please." he means no mischief probably, but as you walk through these parts of london in such company you are thankful it is daylight, and that even the alleys and courts of the surrey side are not absolutely impervious to the sun. some of these strange places have equally strange names. pickle herring street, and shad street, and other cramped thoroughfares with ancient and fish-like designations, suggest that here, also, almost directly opposite to billingsgate, there must have been a market once. there is scarcely even a shop or a public-house now. this is the london that really works with a will. to the right are tanneries and tallow-chandleries--their odour loads the atmosphere as if it were a thick fog, incapable of any effort to rise--to the left are vast granaries and wharves; and between them the narrow spaces are filled up with hurrying vehicles and toiling men. from the south to the north side of the river there is a continual stream of labourers, some making their way under the river, like moles, by means of the subway, some streaming down to the boat-landings and casting off in batches into the tide. the subway is an iron barrel, some six feet in diameter, which has been driven underground far below the bed of the thames. walking through it, one hears, as a series of dull, only half-audible, thuds, the lashing of a paddle-steamer overhead. no other sound reaches that cramped, underground chamber, in which one seems to be walking as in a coal mine, from the dark into the dark. after this dreary journey, we ascend a flight of stairs that is wearying, and that seems to be endless, and emerge on tower hill, into the sunshine, and the presence of green trees, and the sight of what is most venerable in the whole english realm. tower hill is a sort of oasis in a desert filled with the whirling sands of traffic--the terminus to the great lines of warehouses which fill thames street. surrounded by shops and offices and public buildings, it is, but for the country cousin newly arrived to behold "the sights," almost as quiet as some retired corner of the parks. standing here, where so many historic heads have fallen, one may behold the river streaming by, and watch the sun lighting up the polished masts of a hundred vessels slumbering in the pool. on tower hill stands trinity house, which claims notice here because of its close connection with the river and with ships. queen elizabeth made the masters of trinity the guardians of our sea-marks, and they have now the sole management of our lighthouses and our buoys. part of their business is to mark out the locality of wrecks, and to announce to the shipmasters of all nations any changes in the entrances to english ports. at trinity house is one of those numerous london museums which are seldom seen--a museum of models of lifeboats, buoys, lighthouses, life-saving apparatus, and other objects connected with the safety of ships and voyagers at sea. here the curious visitor may spend an hour or two with advantage, and it will be matter for wonder if he does not come away oddly instructed in many intricate matters connected with the sea. to all fairly informed englishmen, the history of the tower of london is so familiar that it would be an impertinence to recount any portion of it here. the "towers of julius, london's lasting shame"--not that cæsar really had anything to do with them--have the peculiarity of being known, through some sort of representation, to most, even, of those stay-at-home people who are said to have country wits. and let it be said at once that at the first glance they are not nearly so imposing as they are usually made to appear. "and that is the tower?" an american observed to me lately; "and that is the tower? well, then, i guess the tower was not worth crossing the atlantic to see." yet, even this unfavourable critic saw reason to change his views. it is from the river, and not from tower hill, that the first inspection of this venerable edifice should be made. seated on an idle barge, one may contemplate it at leisure; and it is only after leisurely contemplation that its fine grouping, its richly varied colour, and its compact massiveness force themselves on one's slow appreciation. from just behind where we are supposed to be seated, the adherents of the earl of salisbury poured stone shot into the tower precincts when henry vi. was king. facing us, the lower portion now hidden by a quay wall, is the round arch of traitors' gate- "through which before went essex, raleigh, sidney, cranmer, more." with those steps still intact on which the princess elizabeth seated herself, petulantly declining to make such an entrance to the tower as would declare her to be a traitor to the realm. [illustration: the tower, from the river.] up to quite recently, to the time of mr. shaw-lefevre's occupancy of the office of board of works, indeed, the tower, as seen from the river, was much disfigured by modern buildings of exceeding ugliness, which public feeling had long since condemned. most of these have now disappeared, but one such building, bearing the appearance of a granary, still remains to break the face of the white tower with its dull red-brown. beyond it one catches glimpses of quaint gabled roofs, characteristic of periods as widely separated as those of elizabeth and queen anne. to the left are more buildings of old red-brick, with ivy clustering over them, and beyond, home of many sad memorials, rise the walls of the beauchamp tower, with, beside them, a curious lumber of quaint, many-windowed, square turrets, jumbled together in different ages for diverse purposes, and now used as lodgings for the beefeaters and the guard. in the church of st. peter ad vincula, the situation of which one may guess from the river, were interred the headless bodies of queen catherine howard, of anne boleyn, of the countess of shrewsbury, and of lady jane grey; of sir thomas more, of the first cromwell, of seymour, lord high admiral, of his brother, the protector somerset, and of many others whose illustrious positions were the occasions of their own misfortunes. "there is no sadder spot on earth than this little cemetery," says macaulay. "death is there associated, not, as in westminster abbey and st. paul's, with genius and virtue, with public veneration, and with imperishable renown; not, as in our humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most endearing in social and domestic charities, but with whatever is darkest in human nature and in human destiny; with the savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted fame." the most ancient and illustrious building that is mirrored in the waters of the thames is, indeed, also the home of the grimmest memories. the tower is a sad, depressing place to visit, the concrete representative of all the darker events of our history. the character of the thames below london bridge is best expressed by the normal appearance of the pool. and let me at once explain that the pool is the wide, curving stretch of river which extends from just above the tower to the neighbourhood of "wapping old stairs." here, in most abundance, you find "toil, glitter, grime, and wealth on a flowing tide." mr. w. l. wyllie's picture, purchased out of the funds of the chantrey bequest, is a wonderfully characteristic description of the aspect which the thames presents in this busy portion of its course. in the foreground a couple of coal-laden boats, with a little hasty steam-tug beside them, are making slow headway against the tide; beyond these, a great iron steamship rears up its vast bulk; a couple of heavily-laden thames barges are flying along under full sail; on either side of the river there are confused masses of rigging, with here and there the hull of a ship, half visible through whirling clouds of smoke and steam. on the waterway, kept clear of all vessels at anchor for a breadth of 200 feet, the strong white sunlight gleams, making clear to the spectator what the poet spenser had in his mind when, in his rich vocabulary, he spoke of "the silver-streaming thames." spenser's phrase is one which has been greatly misunderstood. the thames, even in its quietest and least corrupted days, can never have been a very pellucid stream. when taylor, the water poet, plied his craft upon it he must have found almost as much difficulty in looking into its mysterious depths as we find to-day. certainly, to the local colour of a swift-flowing river which brings down continuous deposits of mud from far-off meadow-lands, such a word as "silvery" could never properly be applied. only when the sunlight struck the river, and its rippled surface tremblingly gleamed back to the sky with a reflection of its own brightness, could spenser have been delighted by the aspect of the "silver-streaming" waters, ebbing and flowing through london's heart, and bearing onward their heavy burden to the sea. leaning over the rail of a steamer outward bound, one is apt to forget everything else in the contemplation of these brilliant and rapidly changing effects of light, which seem to chase one another as if in mere wantonness, and which, in no mood of wantonness, at every capricious curve of the stream cast on the thick dusky waters some new and strange glory. the pool is full of such life and movement as is to be encountered on no other english river, for here the crowded ships do not merely lie at anchor, waiting on wind and tide; they are busy loading and unloading freights. one hears the grating of cranes and the shouts of men; the peculiar "dumb-barges" of the thames cluster round the hulls of screw-colliers from newcastle, and receive from them their separate loads of coal; and excitable little steamers are running in and out as if they had lost their way among the crowded shipping. in mid-stream the traffic is almost as busy and confusing as that of a london street. vessels are coming up with the tide; barges are slowly floating onward, their brown sails spread, tacking to the wind, their decks washed now and again by some arrowy wave from a paddle-steamer. there is, as mr. jefferies says, "a hum, a haste, almost a whirl," for on the river work proceeds at a more rapid pace than in the docks, and the thames, it must be remembered, is the busiest port on the surface of the globe. it is hard to say whether the pool is most beautiful and striking at moonlight or in the dawn. turner loved it best at the hour before twilight, when the sky was robed in gold and crimson and purple, and the thames was ablaze with the light of the setting sun. at such seasons it is indeed very glorious; yet to me it has always seemed most beautiful in the morning, when the light is slowly diffusing itself from behind a bank of purple cloud, and the face of the white tower is touched into pale gold, and there is a glittering radiance on turret and roof, and the craft anchored in the stream are reflected to every mast and spar and half-furled sail, and the river trembles in the new radiance as if it were divided between delight and fear. everything is very still and soft and shadowy. it is such a scene as seems appropriate to happy dreams. in another hour or two the river will be awake, the twitter of birds flitting across the waters will be drowned in the shouting of labourers and the shrieking of cranes; the stream, its brief glory departed, will be churned up by paddle-wheel and screw; the swarthy steam-colliers will come, hard and clear, out of the soft haze, and the thames will become a workaday river again, wonderful still, but, after such a vision, too grimly prosaic and real. yet it is well to have seen it once with the dawn upon it, if only to learn how those have libelled it who deny that it is "picturesque." in the seventeenth century there was, in the upper, lower, and middle pools, space for 900 vessels. nearly that number might now be packed into the london and st. katharine's docks, which lie just below the tower, hemmed in by what was once fashionable london, now fashionable no more, but famous the world over as the accustomed haunt of the seaman on shore. before docks were constructed along thames-side, vessels were unloaded into barges and wherries, and river-robbery was a thriving trade. numbers of men lived, and grew rich, on what they had contrived to steal from cargoes that were waiting to be discharged at the wharves about london bridge. ships were sometimes as much as six weeks in unloading, and a whole host of lightermen, carmen, porters, and nondescripts thrived on the unconscionable delay. there were good pickings in those times, and it is wonderful, when we consider with how much rascality and obstruction our commerce had to contend, that england ever became a great nation of carriers and traders. the docks nearest to london bridge cover the site of a church, a hospital, and a graveyard. more than 700 years ago, or, to be precise, in 1148, matilda, the wife of king stephen, founded on a site just below the tower a hospital which was dedicated to st. katharine. it endured, in one form or another, to 1827, when the building was pulled down, and the hospital was removed to regent's park. in that same year was commenced the construction of the st. katharine's docks, which, by the employment of 2,500 workmen, were completed in the brief space of eighteen months. they cover an area of twenty-three acres, ten of water and thirteen of land. the docks are the most prosaic of all those which are to be found along thames shore. to the river they present a dull heavy frontage, which suggests no connection with ships; on the land side they are shut off from observation by a prodigiously high wall. entering through the gates you find three great basins, with ships lying close to the wharves, and you have towering above you gigantic warehouses, dull and dismal, but capable, you would suppose, of finding storage room for half the commerce of a city. the cellars of st. katharine's dock are complex and amazing, but the docks themselves are going out of vogue, for many of the ships which used to frequent them are now intercepted before the lights of london come in sight, the victoria and albert docks, much lower down the river, absorbing a great proportion of the traffic which was wont to make its way into the pool. the london docks, much larger than those of st. katharine, are beginning to share in the same neglect. they are of more ancient date than their neighbours, having been designed by rennie, the architect of london bridge, in 1805. as many as three hundred vessels can find a comfortable haven here. the warehouses will contain 220,000 tons of goods; there is storage for 130,000 bales of wool; the wine-cellars are among the marvels and attractions of london. "here," mr. sala has remarked, "in a vast succession of vaults, roofed with cobwebs many years old, are stored in pipes and hogsheads the wines that thirsty london--thirsty england, ireland, and scotland--must needs drink." curious persons come here with tasting orders, and are shown round by brawny coopers, who seem marvellously wasteful of good wine, and are more generous to their visitors than the most prosperous of city merchants, with the best plenished of wine-cellars, is to his friends. many a visitor to the wine-cellars of the london docks has found occasion to regret, when he has reached the open air, that he has been so easily tempted to pass too frequent opinions on too many varieties of wine. in the cellars an amateur wine-taster is apt to overrate the strength of his head; above ground once more, the breath of the river brings him to a sense of his own incapacity for frequent and varied potations, and he shamefacedly betakes himself to a cab, to escape as quickly as may be from the scenes of his bibulous indiscretion. [illustration: limehouse church.] on the dockside one encounters men of all nationalities--the swart lascar, the dusky suliote, the quiet pigtailed chinaman, the grizzled negro; germans, swedes, stout little dutchmen; americans, fins, malays, greeks, and russians. nowadays an english ship is a polyglot institution. in the sailors' home, near to the gates of st. katharine's docks, one may hear men conversing in all the european languages; in the asiatic home, close to the india docks, there is such a confusion of tongues as dismayed the builders of babel. entering and departing, the owners of all these voices, and the thousands of dock labourers, lightermen, loafers, visitors, must pass the inspection of the police, who stand at the dock gates always on the watch, and who do not scruple to submit to close examination the garments of all those whose pockets may happen to bulge unduly, or who, having entered in the morning with a perfectly erect spine, stoop inexplainably at the shoulders when they have completed their business at night. in the docks there is a perfect system of espionage, and "the queen's tobacco pipe," until recently located at the london, and now at the victoria docks, has smoked many thousands of little presents of tobacco that large-hearted sailors had intended for the gratification of their friends. [illustration: the river below wapping.] the long, narrow, grimy, and dissolute lane known to englishmen everywhere as ratcliff highway, and now disguised under the name of st. george's street east, begins its career near the gates of st. katharine's docks, and winds along like a great slimy snake towards limehouse and blackwall. it is unvisited of all those who have not business to transact with men who go down to the sea in ships; for this is peculiarly the sailors' quarter of london. jack is to be encountered at every step, not infrequently reeling somewhat, and with a lady of loose manners on his arm. the shop-fronts are hidden behind strange collections of oil-skins, sea-boots, mattresses, blankets, and the miscellaneous assortment of articles specially provided for emigrants and sailors. the public-houses, of which there are many, resound with the noise of mechanical organs and string bands. the language one hears is of a strictly nautical description; and every third house or so is a lodging-house for sailors. of late years ratcliff highway has improved in character somewhat, and many of the men who were wont to be fleeced and robbed in it have been rescued from the crimps and sharpers by the sailors' home; but it has still much of its old disrepute left, and discreet persons do not perambulate it after nightfall without the escort of the police. here the seafaring men of various nationalities separate themselves into groups, and form little colonies of their own. the public-house is their forum, to whatever nation they may belong. in one of these, english is spoken, in another german, in a third norwegian, in a fourth greek. even the negroes have a special house of call of their own. as for the chinamen, they prefer to smoke opium in quietness, and so they divide themselves between various chinese lodging-houses, where they can eat, in the properly orthodox manner, with chopsticks, and assemble round a table at night to gamble with their friends. it is a strange, stirring, disordered place, ratcliff highway. its population is changing with the arrival or departure of every ship, yet its aspect and its frequenters always seem to be the same, similar in manners, bent on the same amusements, afflicted by the same vices, reeling into or out of the same doors. there is nothing here except an occasional piece of nautical slang to suggest the jolly british tar. to a great extent, indeed, the tar has ceased to be either jolly or british. the majority of the sailors to be met with in ratcliff highway are visibly and distinctly foreign. there are no white "ducks," or raking straw hats; nobody publicly "shivers his timbers," or speaks in that mixed and technical language which helps to make the characters of captain marryat so delightful. only on the stage is it nowadays possible to encounter the sailor of tradition. the seaman who frequents ratcliff highway outwardly resembles the stoker of a railway train, attired in his second best suit. there is nothing romantic about him, nothing picturesque; and if the river and the docks were not so near, and the shops were not so nautical-looking, and one's ears were not occasionally saluted with "how goes it, captain?" and "hallo, mate!" there would be nothing to suggest his connection with the sea. all this was very different in ned ward's time, when that lively writer was collecting materials for his _london spy_; very different, indeed, when men who are only now middle-aged were in the bloom of their youth. "sometimes we met in the streets with a boat's-crew," says ward, "just come on shore in search of those land debaucheries which the sea denies them; looking like such wild, staring, gamesome, uncouth animals, that a litter of squab rhinoceroses, dressed up in human apparel, could not have made a more ungainly appearance.... every post they came to was in danger of having its head broken.... the very dogs in the street shunned them.... i could not forbear reflecting on the 'prudence' of those persons who send their unlucky children away to sea to tame and reform them." and well he might wonder at that same prudence now, if he saw how miserable and forlorn the british tar can look when his money is spent, and how little his appearance is suggestive of those high spirits which a life on the ocean wave is supposed to engender. from wapping, to which ratcliff highway will bring us, you may pass, through the famous thames tunnel, under the river to rotherhithe. not, however, as formerly, when the tunnel was reached by sets of circular stairs, and toyshop keepers drove a meagre business under a dripping and gigantic arch. at that period, the tunnel contained a central arcade lighted by gas; nowadays, it is so dark that no man can discern when he enters and when he leaves; for it has been absorbed into the great railway system, and instead of traversing it on foot one is whirled through it in a train, so that the traveller might be carried underneath the thames, at a depth of more than seventy feet below the surface, without knowing that he had been on anything else but an ordinary underground railway. the tunnel cost nearly half a million of money to construct, and twenty years elapsed--from 1823 to 1843--from the time when it was designed by brunel and the day when it was opened to the public. as a place of resort for sight-seers it proved a gigantic failure; as a railway tunnel, it is a means of communication between the two most populous and busy districts of london. not that there are many signs of business to be encountered when one leaves the tunnel by means of the railway station at rotherhithe. at the first glance the district round about seems quiet and sleepy and secluded. mr. walter besant came upon it unexpectedly and with great joy, for here he found a world altogether in contrast with that which he had left a little higher up the thames--houses of quiet old sailors, little churches and chapels, rows of small dwellings with flowers blooming on the window-sills, timber-yards and lagoons and canals, and a general air of retirement and repose. it is a narrow strip of shore, rotherhithe. on one side it is washed by the thames; on the other, it is hemmed in by the surrey commercial docks. sailor life in its better aspects is to be encountered here, for the neighbourhood has been haunted by seamen from saxon times downwards, and the influence of the quaint older world has not yet passed away. it was through being a "sailor's haven," say the antiquaries, that rotherhithe came by its name. here canute cut deep trenches, which, according to one of the friends of samuel pepys, who saw the remains of them in the course of a walk from rotherhithe to lambeth, were intended to divert the course of the thames. at rotherhithe edward iii. fitted out one of his fleets, and close upon its borders, in bermondsey, lived some of our early kings. the signs of the rotherhithe inns--the "swallow galley," and the "ship argo"--seem to carry us back to "the stately times of great elizabeth;" and though the place itself must have altered greatly since then, the manner of life of some of its inhabitants is much like that of their predecessors must have been when stout, high-decked ships sailed by on their way to the spanish main, and rotherhithe sent out its contingent of vessels and men to fight against the invincible armada. all but completely cut off from the rest of the world for many generations, rotherhithe has naturally made the river its highway, and so, leading off from its quiet, old-world streets, there are everywhere passages which end in boat-landings and stairs. the names of many of these latter recall memories of a bygone time. there are king and queen stairs, globe stairs, shepherd and dog stairs, redriff stairs--redriff being the name under which, at one time, rotherhithe was known--and others that must have received their designations when most of the land beyond rotherhithe was marsh and wilderness. when the tide is out the stairs are left high and dry, and the river becomes a narrow channel between muddy flats, on which barges lie grounded, and the ribs of old wrecks are to be seen, and a steamer heels carelessly over, one side of its keel washed by the lapping tide. on the opposite side of the river lies wapping; the unique spire of limehouse church is visible, rising high above masts, and roofs, and chimneys, a landmark for miles; stepney stands proudly dominant on its elevated banks; and ratcliff, half enveloped in thick atmosphere, proclaims itself by the gleaming sunlight on its multitudinous roofs. of wapping one cannot think without recalling one of the tenderest of english popular songs:- "your molly has never been false, she declares, since the last time we parted at wapping old stairs; when i swore that i still would continue the same, and gave you the 'bacca-box, marked with my name." wapping old stairs are still discernible from the river, but are grievously difficult of identification, for, as at most other places along these shores, great warehouses have taken the place of most of the quaint-timbered old houses of former days. yet at wapping something of the old appearance of things is visible still. leaning forward on to the shore, supported on mossy piles, green as the herbage of spring or brown as the weeds of the sea, are groups of strange old houses, with bay-windows, and overleaning balconies, and wooden walls, "clouted over" with planks until they look like a suit of mended clothes. the seafaring man's love of vivid colour is everywhere visible. the half-ruinous, time-worn buildings are painted after the manner of a dutch barge--green contending with red, and raw yellow striving to hold its own against the imperial blue. in some of those curious accidental lights which are so frequent on the thames, the low bank of wapping assumes a peculiar glory of its own, heightened by the brown sails of barges sweeping past, and as full of colour as any picture which even turner ventured to paint. but from wapping we must return once more to rotherhithe, and to the surrey docks. they are ensconced in a graceful bend of the river, ere it curves back again round the far-projecting isle of dogs. there are, it is said, no older public docks in great britain, the act by which the docks on the surrey side were created bearing the date of 1696. even before that period, indeed, there had been docks in the same situation "of considerable importance and benefit to the shipping." but docks which seemed large and important in the time of queen anne would be ridiculously small and inefficient with our present trade. the howland dock occupied ten acres when it was made; the surrey commercial docks cover 330 acres now. they derive an historic and romantic interest from the fact that here the prize ships were brought to be delivered of their cargoes, when the jolly jack tar got his share of the prize-money, and, leave being granted, incontinently went off to squander it among his friends. there is a story of one such british sailor who entered the bank of england with a warrant for twenty pounds, and exclaimed to the amused and amazed clerk:--"that will bother you, i reckon, mate; but never mind, if you haven't got the whole of the money in hand i'll take half of it now, and call for the rest another time, when it suits you." [illustration: entrance to the east india docks.] from the lower portion of the pool the river assumes wayward and eccentric habits, broadening and curving, and looking at every turn, when the tide is in, like a long chain of lakes. there is abundance of motion, and the freest wash of water, for the wind has large surfaces on which to play; and, also, the thames is perpetually churned into long sweeping billows by the wheels of steamers passing to and fro. henceforward every moderately straight portion of the river assumes the name of reach, the meaning of which is obvious enough. there is first limehouse reach, then greenwich reach, and blackwall reach, and bugsby reach, and woolwich reach, and so onward to the magnificent reach at gravesend. it is a devious course that is pursued by the vessels making their way down the thames, but one which is full of perpetually varying interest, of ever-changing effects, of keen delight and breezy sensation to him who has the faculty of observing other things besides the muddiness of the thames water. writing of this part of the river, defoe describes grim sights in his "journal of the plague." he says of some of those who were terrified for their lives, that "they had recourse to ships for their retreat.... where they did so, they had certainly the safest retreat of any people whatsoever; but the distress was such that people ran on board without bread to eat, and some into ships that had no men on board to remove them farther off, or to take the boat and go down the river to buy provisions where it might be safely done; and these often suffered and were infected as much on board as on shore. as the richer sort got into ships, so the lower rank got into hoys, smacks, lighters, and fishing-boats; and many, especially watermen, lay in their boats; but those made sad work of it, especially the latter, for, going about for provision, and perhaps to get their subsistence, the infection got in among them and made fearful havock. many of the watermen died alone in their wherries, as they rid at their roads, and were not found till they were in no condition for anybody to touch, or come near them." a grim picture of a weird imagination! is it possible to form a conception of anything more awful than these boats, floating up and down with the tide, unnoticed, masterless, unowned, with their dreadful burden of bodies dead of the plague? the isle of dogs is only an island because it is cut across by the entrances to the east and west india docks. it is a vast space of dock property, hidden behind devious streets and towering wharves. originally it was "the isle of ducks," the ducks to which allusion was made having a vast swamp to wade and flounder in, and a solitude peculiarly their own. considerably less than a century, however, has sufficed to change the whole aspect of the place. where the ducks disported themselves are now situated the east and west india and the millwall docks. originally an attempt was made to construct a shorter course for vessels passing up and down the thames. a new passage was made straight through the peninsula, where the west india dock is now situated, but this, like the thames tunnel, proved to be a sad failure, vessels maintaining their course round "the unlucky isle of dogges," just as they did in pepys' time. round the long curve, engineering and ship-building yards have arisen, with houses of workmen attached thereto. the isle is populous, and dismal; and he would be a shrewd observer who should guess that it had not been built on till shortly after the century began. one of the illustrations accompanying this narrative (page 313) represents a bend of the river at millwall. it conveys, with much completeness, an idea of the character of the banks. near by, a little further up the river, is the entrance to millwall docks. the name arises from the fact that, in former days, the only buildings on the isle of dogs were windmills. one of them was left till quite recent years, a quaint dutch-looking structure, built very solid, to resist the high winds that blew unimpeded over the dismal peninsula, which even the ducks had abandoned. [illustration: the west india docks.] a little lower down the river there were erstwhile landmarks of another sort. gaunt gibbet-posts stood along the shore, with bones of pirates bleaching upon them, and music of creaking chains. a reminiscence of this variety of ancient thames scenery survives in the name of execution dock, which designation is only less repellant than another favourite place-name of the same period--hanging ditch, to wit. the docks at millwall are chiefly employed by steamers of large tonnage trading between london and the various european and american ports. great bands of emigrants set out from here to the new world, and as their ships swing into the river there is much signalling to friends on shore and much pathetic leave-taking on the decks. [illustration: millwall docks.] the docks are two, joined by a bridge, and a tonnage of more than 1,000,000, "gross register," passes in and out annually. ready access to the railways is to be found at millwall, but many of the vessels unload into dumb-barges, which swarm all over the millwall waters, one man on board each barge, propelling his craft with a pole, and seeming to take his labour like a light recreation, and as if there were not the slightest need for hurry in all the world. these dumb-barges, sluggish and unwieldy, it is the common habit to denounce as one of the nuisances of the thames. they float upward or downward with the tide; they are now "end on" across the river, floating sideways, and now lazily making a tolerably straight course; they get in the way of passing steamers, and are indescribably slow in getting out again. the single man on board seems to be influenced by the habit of the craft which he controls. he steadfastly declines to regard himself as an inconvenience, and if the tide drifts him into the middle of the stream he makes no haste to leave a clear course again, but prods slowly away with his long pole, utterly careless of mankind, and with an indifference to oath and objurgation which is positively sublime. [illustration: millwall.] compared to those at millwall, the east and west india docks, stretching right across the neck of the peninsula, and making an island of it in fact as well as in name, are of really gigantic dimensions. a few years ago it was possible to declare, with a fair amount of truth, that the west india docks were the largest in the world. from the land side they are approached by commercial road, the smaller of the two great highways which are the main arteries of east london. at the first glance the unsuspecting stranger might easily be led into supposing that he had come suddenly upon an important series of fortifications. the stone archway, crowned by a stumpy tower, which forms the entrance, is impressively massive, and even forbidding; the surrounding walls are very high, and seem to frown down a not unnatural curiosity to penetrate their secret; there is also a ditch which suggests a moat, and which looks as if the constructors had contemplated the possibility of having some day to cut off all communication with the docks otherwise than by water. altogether, the west india docks convey the impression that they are carefully guarded and somewhat mysterious, so that the nervous stranger within their gates traverses them not without fear and trembling, and is apt to become alarmed lest he should inadvertently trespass beyond his scanty privileges. and from the thames, also, the west india docks look important and imposing, the tall warehouses rising as high as the masts of the vessels which break the regularity of their fronts, thus forming one of the most striking objects of the north shore. of all the docks on the river, none is so likely to convey a concrete idea of the vastness of our trade, of the manner in which british intelligence and enterprise draw to the heart of london the spoils of the whole world. "i would say to the intelligent foreigner," exclaims one lively writer on the subject, "look around and see the glory of england! not in huge armies bristling with bayonets, and followed by monstrous guns; not in granite forts, grinning from the waters like ghouls from graves; not in lines of circumvallation, miles and miles in extent; not in earthworks, counterscarps, bastions, ravelins, mamelons, casemates, and gunpowder magazines, lies our pride and our strength. behold them in yonder forests of masts, in the flags of every nation that fly from those tapering spars on the ships, in the great argosies of commerce that from every port in the world have congregated to do honour to the monarch of marts, london, and pour out the riches of the universe at her proud feet." it is impossible in any brief description to give more than a general idea of the extent of accommodation for commerce provided by the warehouses, sheds, and cellars of the west india docks. the rum shed alone, with cellars corresponding in size, covers a space of 200,000 square feet. in one building vast quantities of tea are stored, in another, innumerable bags of fragrant coffee; here are sheds full of solid blocks of mahogany, yonder are bags of indigo, boxes of fruit, bales of cotton, bundles of hides, and sacks of tallow. the average number of vessels lying at one time in the east and west india docks is 215, all ships of large tonnage. the dock company keeps 2,500 persons in regular employment for the loading and unloading of ships, and employs as casual labourers nearly 3,000 men besides. the london dock labourer, to whom of late much public sympathy has been extended, is of two classes. the regular labourer, since the great strike, has been fairly well paid for an unskilled artisan, and is assured of constant employment. the casual labourer, with whom in many cases hard work is a new experience, is in a very different case. the starving and the outcast of all classes, to whom the whole of london holds out no other prospect of employment, stream down as a last resort to the isle of dogs, a sort of "going to the dogs" which is very grimly real. in some cases, when additional labourers are wanted, handfuls of tickets are thrown out among the eager and struggling crowd, and he who is fortunate enough in the scramble to secure one of these is provided with half a day's labour; in others, a foreman stationed at the gates secures the men he desires by scanning the throng and pointing to one and to another who seems most capable of hard labour, or in most need. it is a sad, a distressingly pathetic sight, this almost fiendish struggle for a few hours' work; and amongst those who engage in it are men of fair birth, of good education, of proved ability, but of irretrievably fallen fortunes, and with characters irrecoverably lost. when the india merchants created the west india docks they had a capital of half a million pounds sterling. enormous is the capital that has now been sunk on the estate. at one time, when the owners had made a larger profit than they were permitted by act of parliament to divide, they bought a quantity of copper and roofed their warehouses with that expensive material. the wharves, warehouses, and quays have now a storage capacity of over 170,000 tons; in the cellars 14,000 sheep can be stored; the weekly wages paid at the west india docks alone amount to £5,000; the revenue of the company owning them is close on £400,000 a year. then there are the east india docks beside--the docks that are sung about in fo'castle songs, that are haunted by the wives and sweethearts of sailors on the look-out for the good ship that is homeward bound, that are dreamed of by jack tar when he is thousands of miles away on the sea. "why?" asked mr. w. clark russell, "are the east india docks the most popular of all docks among sailors?" "there are two reasons," was the reply. "until the victoria dock was opened these docks were the lowest down the river. they were consequently the first at which a ship arrived on her return home. the east india dock was always so popular, owing to its convenience, compactness, and management, that, whenever there was room, and arrangements would admit, ships entered it. the advantage was great to the sailor. once on shore, he had nothing to do but jump into the train on the pier-head and be off. another reason was, the east india dock was the home of the emigrant ship; and as it was the first place where jack met his polly, so it was the last place in which he bade her farewell and took his glass of grog." along the bank of the thames, opposite to the isle of dogs, lie, making a long semicircle of streets, the twin towns of deptford and greenwich. behind them rise the kentish hills, dark with trees, among which the shadows seem continually to sleep. deptford is redolent of historic memories. its old church, with embattled tower, easily perceived from the river, contains the bones of captain edward fenton, one of frobisher's companions; drake was knighted here, on board his own ship, by that unmarried queen who so appropriately ruled our country in the most adventurous period of english history. here, peter the great came to learn ship-building, residing at sayes court, the house of the precise john evelyn, who complains grievously of the semi-barbarian monarch who broke down his hedges, and filled his house with "people right nasty." master samuel pepys, clerk of the acts of the navy, was necessarily a more frequent visitor to deptford, and he records, very early in his famous diary, how he repaired to deptford after sermon, "where," he says, "at the commissioner's and the globe we staid long; but no sooner in bed but we had an alarm, and so we rose; and the comptroller comes into the yard to us; and seamen of all the present ships repair to us, and there we armed with every one a handspike, with which they were as fierce as could be. at last we hear that it was five or six men who did ride through the guard in the towne, without stopping to the guard that was there, and, some say, shot at them; but all being quiet there, we caused the seamen to go on board again." up to quite recent years deptford was famous for its dockyard, established by henry viii., and employed in the construction of vessels of war through the greater part of three centuries. the site is occupied by a dockyard no longer; convicts are no more brought to labour in gangs on the construction of men-of-war; there is no sound of hammers, nor any shouting of overseers; the keel of no mighty ship is being laid; the greatness of deptford has departed with the era of our wooden walls. but as deptford has lost its importance in our naval system it has become one of the centres of our trade. facing the river, like the vanished dockyard, and occupying a portion of its former site, is the great collection of buildings known as the foreign cattle market. all cattle landed in london from abroad are brought here to be slaughtered, and in the vast shambles, which no person of nice tastes should think of visiting, beasts are being killed and dressed and quartered from morning to night, with an expedition which strikes the beholder as something unnatural and amazing. from deptford, it is probable, proceeds the greater portion of london's meat supply, and even smithfield gives a less striking idea of the vast capacity of englishmen for the consumption of animal food than do the deptford shambles. near the point to which we have now come the ravensbourne enters the thames, and with it the first black instalment of the sewage of london. the little river rises on keston heath, and flows sweetly through a lovely country, wandering, as a poet has sung- "in hayes and bromley, beckingham vale and straggling lewisham, to where deptford bridge uprises in obedience to the flood." on the bridge stands the boundary stone which marks the extremity of surrey and the beginning of kent, and just beyond it, a little nearer to the thames, are stationed, above ground, one of the sewage pumping stations of the london county council, and, below, the point of meeting of some of the principal sewers of southeast london. before us when we return to the river lies greenwich reach, broad and beautiful, uncrowded by shipping, with curious half-wooden houses on our right, with shoals of boats drawn up on the shore with the magnificent front of greenwich hospital reflecting itself in the waters. on the high bank above the landing-stage there is an obelisk erected to belot, the arctic explorer, unimpressive and meagre enough in itself, but beautiful as a tribute of praise from englishmen to a daring sailor of another, and, for many centuries, a hostile nation. at greenwich we are enjoined to "kneel and kiss the consecrated earth." it was the hospital which was thus alluded to as the means of consecration, but the glorious building is not a hospital any more. the fine old sea-dogs who used to find shelter here, and narrate to each other the story of their adventures on all the seas of the world, preferred fourteen shillings a week and their pension outside the walls to the liberal rations and the small allowance of money to which they were entitled by their residence indoors; so the place famous to all englishmen through many generations has become a royal naval college, where young officers and engineers are trained in the technical and scientific branches of their work. the site is one of the most illustrious to be found within the sea-washed borders of the british isles. here did the first of those who "dined with duke humphrey" come to carouse, for here humphrey, duke of gloucester, had a manor-house, which he rebuilt and embattled, enclosing what is now known as greenwich park. humphrey's choice of a site for his residence was approved by many an english king, for edward iv. finished and beautified the duke of gloucester's palace; henry vii. made it his favourite residence; henry viii., his brother, the duke of somerset, the queens mary and elizabeth, were born within its walls; there the young king edward died, and, a few days before his death, was lifted up to the windows by his courtiers, that his clamorous people might perceive him to be still living. greenwich palace was to queen elizabeth what osborne is to queen victoria; james i. was wont to escape to it from london; the unfortunate charles made it his home; and when his son, who "never said a foolish thing and never did a wise one," came to his throne, he determined to build at greenwich the finest royal palace england had ever had. "to greenwich by water," writes pepys, "and there landed at the king's house, which goes on slow, but is very pretty.... away to the king and back again with him to the barge, hearing him and the duke talk, and seeing and observing their manner of discourse. and good lord forgive me, though i admire them with all the duty possible, yet the more a man considers and observes them, the less he finds of difference between them and other men." the building which pepys had seen in course of erection, occupying the ancient site of "the manor of pleasaunce," as the palace at greenwich was wont to be called, owes its present magnificence to the genius of wren, and its dedication to the purposes of a naval hospital to the humanity of the consort of william iii. "had the king's life been prolonged till the works were completed," writes macaulay, "a statue of her who was the real foundress of the institution would have had a conspicuous place in that court which presents two lofty domes and two graceful colonnades to the multitudes who are perpetually passing up and down the imperial river. but that part of the plan was never carried into effect; and few of those who now gaze on the noblest of european hospitals are aware that it is a memorial of the virtues of the good queen mary, of the love and sorrow of william, and of the great victory of la hogue." [illustration: greenwich hospital.] [illustration: view from greenwich park.] the battle of la hogue was fought on the 24th of may, 1692. it concluded a "great conflict which had raged during five days over a wide extent of sea and shore." the english had gained no such victory over the french for centuries, and england, in spite of much popular sympathy with james, in whose interest our ancient enemies had planned the invasion of our country, went wild with enthusiasm. many of the wounded were brought to london and lodged in the hospitals of st. thomas and st. bartholomew, and it was shortly afterwards announced by the queen, in her husband's name, that the building commenced by charles should be completed as a retreat for seamen disabled in the service of their country. however, as mr. ruskin observes in reference to the crown of wild olive, "jupiter was poor." little progress was made with the new hospital during queen mary's life, but on her decease her husband resolved to make it her monument. the inscription on the frieze of the hall gives to the queen all the honour of the great design; and though the hospital has now been diverted to other uses, the memory of what it once was can never perish, and the grand edifice will remain to englishmen for ever "the noblest structure imaged on the wave, a nation's grateful tribute to the brave." wren's subject seems to have inspired his higher genius, and none of his works, not even st. paul's, is a worthier memorial of his powers. it was charles ii. who planted the trees of greenwich park, now remarkable for their great size and nobleness. from the crown of the steep ascent on which the observatory stands, once the site of "duke humphrey's tower," there spreads before the observer one of the broadest and most impressive prospects to be encountered anywhere round about london. far down below lie, first, the naval school, and then the two great wings of the hospital, each lifting its beautiful dome aloft into the blue of the sky; in front, the eye wanders, over the albert and victoria docks, to the valleys of the lea and the roding; to the left, the river, broader than at any previous portion of its course, bends suddenly round the isle of dogs, beyond which lies london, dim and distant, its white towers and spires gleaming out of the haze, its great cross of st. paul's glittering in the sunlight; to the right, the thames--laden with ships, alive with barges--flows on, a wide shining space of water, past ship-building yards, and warehouses, and dry docks, until it loses itself in the grey distance of the kent and essex marshes. where the lea--walton's river--after flowing through bedfordshire, by pleasant hertford, on to enfield, and edmonton, and bow, ends in an estuary of unfathomable mud, and joins the thames at blackwall, we are near to the entrance of the victoria docks. at blackwall, docks were being constructed in pepys' day, and he makes this curious entry in his diary:--"1665, sept. 22nd. at blackwall, there is observable what johnson tells us, that, in digging a late docke, they did twelve feet underground find perfect trees over-covered with earth. nut trees, with the branches and the very nuts upon them; some of whose nuts he showed us. their shells black with age, and their kernell, upon opening, decayed, but their shell perfectly hard as ever. and a yew tree (upon which the very ivy was taken up whole about it), which, upon cutting with an addes, we found to be rather harder than the living tree usually is." similar curiosities, it is probable, lie waiting for discovery all along the thames shore; and at the "new falcon" at gravesend there is a perfect specimen of moss, with still just a tint of green remaining in its fronds, which has been dug up from many feet below the surface at tilbury. [illustration: the albert docks.] far down the river the docks are spreading--growing longer, and deeper, and roomier with the necessities of our trade. from the entrance to victoria dock at blackwall to that of the albert dock at north woolwich is a distance of more than three miles. the albert dock itself is a long, straight expanse of two miles of water, lined on either side by great ocean steamers lying stem to stern. it is always resounding with the "yo, heave oh!" of sailors, the shouts of bargemen, the cries of dock labourers, the screaming and panting of steam-cranes, the exclamations of bewildered passengers on the look-out for the vessel which is to bear them over seas. up the river thames every year there makes its way a vast fleet of 6,000 steamers and 5,000 sailing vessels, with an aggregate of 6,000,000 tons burden. to one who desires to understand clearly what life, and excitement, and perpetual going and coming this entails, there could be no more stirring or instructive sight than the victoria and albert docks. some of the great steamers are like floating streets, almost as populous, with rooms like palaces, and decks as clean as village hearthstones. from gigantic port-holes strange wild faces and turbaned heads look out; the quays swarm with coolies in blue and white tunics, with negroes in cast-off garments from wapping, with chinamen in curious pointed shoes, and pigtails neatly tied up for convenience. above decks the officers may be heard giving their orders in hindostanee; the red-turbaned sailors speak to their mates in unknown tongues; the howl with which a rope is hauled in or a bale is lowered is not unlike the cry of tigers in the jungle. [illustration: woolwich reach.] the victoria dock is very roomy, and comparatively quiet. it is a series of great basins, with surrounding quays and projecting jetties. here are vast tobacco warehouses, and coal-sidings, and cellars for frozen meat. not many passengers come to or depart from victoria dock, which is used chiefly by cargo steamers, bringing for the consumption of englishmen every variety of foreign produce. the tobacco warehouses are one of the sights of dock-side london. they contain as much tobacco, in bales of raw leaf, as would seem to be a sufficient supply, not for england alone, but for the whole world, for many years to come. the refrigerating chambers, spreading far underground, and designed for the reception of frozen meat from australia, new zealand, the river plate, and russia, provide accommodation for no less than 60,000 carcases. at the victoria dock are now located the furnace and chimney which jointly make up "the queen's pipe." here, also, are landed many of the cattle which are slaughtered on the other side of the river, at deptford. the royal albert dock was opened for traffic no longer ago than the year 1880. it is used by the great lines of passenger steamers--the peninsular and oriental, the british india, the orient, the star, and a score of others. immense sheds run alongside the quay, capable of storing a prodigious number of cargoes, and a vessel may be unloaded and loaded in the course of a few hours. in the centre of the basin there is a movable crane, which will take up a waggon containing twenty tons of coal, and empty it in a few seconds into the hold of a ship. the royal albert is at once the most pleasant and the most exciting of all the docks of london. from the quays, it looks like part of a great river unusually busy with ships. there is no cessation of activity from the dawn of the day until dark. by one tide a great steamer is departing for australia, by another for calcutta or bombay. it is no unusual thing to find that five or six great ocean steamships are timed to leave the dock on a single day, to sail for ports so widely divided as sydney, calcutta, hong kong, port natal, japan, and the river plate. so important, indeed, has become the traffic of the albert dock that it has become necessary to make for it a new inlet from the thames. between the river and these gigantic docks lies the little colony of silvertown, still looking new and clean, so recently has it been founded on the verge of the essex marshes. originally the messrs. silver commenced a rubber manufactory here, and, finding how far they were from the centres of population, had to build rows of cottages for their workpeople. silvertown is now renowned for its electrical engineers, and has become quite a busy and prosperous centre of industry. but in reaching silvertown we have almost missed the fine sweep of woolwich reach, which is just as long as the albert dock, and is one of the most beautiful stretches of the thames. when night has settled down upon the river, and the moon makes "a lane of beams" along the slowly heaving water, and the lights burning on the misty banks tremulously reflect themselves in broken pillars of flame, woolwich reach, with its level shores, and its indications of great activities in temporary repose, is in itself sufficient to relieve the lower thames of the common and vulgar reproach that it lacks beauty. there is a quiet, solemn, lapping of the waters; barges at rest, sailing ships at anchor, a yacht lying here and there, break the line of the sky with their tapering masts and their sails partially furled; a belated steam-tug pants upward, with asthmatic breath, and from either shore comes the dull regular throb of half-suspended life. the lower thames is never so imposing as in the night-time, when the moon is pouring down long streaks of light on the throbbing waters, and even the brown piles of the river bank seem tinged with gold. the three prominent objects on the woolwich side are the barracks, the dockyard, and the arsenal. not that the arsenal can be said to be very prominent, either, for it lies by the side of the river like a low line of sheds, very bare and poor-looking, very disappointing, very unlike what one would expect the chief arsenal of england to be. the barracks alone relieve woolwich from monotony. they rise high above the town, with their great central quadrangle, and its four spires, looking not unlike an enlargement of the tower of london. not far away rises the square tower of woolwich church, with a populous graveyard beneath, climbing over the summit of a hill. the houses of woolwich rise above each other like irregular terraces, for here the land is more abrupt and uneven than elsewhere on thames-side, as if it were asserting itself before it came to the dead level of the neighbouring marshes. the once-famous dockyard, closed in 1869, is represented by great, empty, stone spaces, sloping to the river, and a pair of large, singular-looking sheds, stored full of gun-carriages and implements of war. looking on it nowadays, it is hard to believe that up to comparatively recent years it was employed in the construction of our navy. no hammers resound there now, and the dockyard, silent and sleeping, might well be the type of an age of national amity and absolute peace. [illustration: woolwich arsenal.] but not so with the arsenal, which is busy night and day in forging the bolts of war. a while ago a shower of military rockets burst upwards from this busy centre of martial industry, spreading some ruin and much consternation throughout the towns of north and south woolwich, scattering to right and to left, and penetrating the walls of houses situated a mile or so from the opposite bank of the thames. such accidents are always possible, despite the extremest care, and woolwich sleeps, like naples, in more or less constant fear of eruption. the choice of the place as a site for the royal arsenal was brought about by the discovery there of a kind of sand peculiarly adapted for fine castings, a fact which may help to explain the derivation of the name from wule-wich, "the village in the bay." on the opposite side of the river, under the shadow of the trees which line the banks below north woolwich pier, elephants may occasionally be seen wandering, as calmly as if this were their natural habitat, for here are the north woolwich gardens, where, as at rosherville, lower down the river, the folk of east london come now and then to "spend a happy day." [illustration: woolwich.] off woolwich, lies the _warspite_, a noble example of those english frigates which did good service when england was still defended by its wooden walls. and the _warspite_, which was formerly known as the _conqueror_, is doing extremely good service now, for it is the training-ship of the marine society, which, at the suggestion of jonas hanway, the first englishman who had the courage to carry an umbrella, was formed in 1772 for the purpose of equipping wretched and neglected boys for the sea. since that date 60,000 boys, none of them criminals, but many in great danger of falling into crime, have passed through the society's hands, and have started life with honest purposes. a finer looking lot of lads than those who swarm about the decks and the rigging of the _warspite_ it would be difficult to find even in a public school, and it is a proud day for the marine society when, once a year, a _fête_ is celebrated on board the noble old war vessel, and the boys go through their evolutions in the presence of royal and distinguished strangers. admiral luard, who commanded the _warspite_ whilst it was still called the _conqueror_, and carried a thousand sailors and marines, related a few years ago how narrow an escape it had of going down with all hands. overtaken in a typhoon off sumatra, it lay for many hours on its beam ends, its hold fast filling with water, and altogether in a condition so hopeless that all on board gave themselves up for lost. however, good seamanship and excellent behaviour on the part of the men saved the vessel to perform its present humane duty, and to endure as a type and example of the sort of ship which once maintained our supremacy on all the seas of the world. [illustration: plumstead.] below woolwich the thames flows through low-lying lands, flat and marshy, bounded at the distance of a mile or more by thickly-wooded hills, at the feet of which nestle here and there grey church towers, and little red villages, and occasional small towns. looking down over plumstead, which is a singularly prosaic place in a remarkable fine situation, the river is a mere thin streak, running between artificial banks, like those of a dutch canal. over the green marshland below us the river was once wont to spread itself like a great inland sea; and at various periods, since stout walls were built to confine it to a reasonable course, it has burst open its barriers and flooded the country for mile on mile. in this manner was created dagenham breach, where the river wall now encloses dagenham lake, famous for its bream fishing. on the plumstead side the river wall was broken down in queen elizabeth's reign, and repaired at tremendous cost. dagenham breach, on the opposite shore, between where the river roding and raynham creek open on the thames, was made so late as 1707, when the swollen river, breaking down its barriers, rushed over 1,000 acres of land, and carried 120 acres into the stream. the land swept away made a sand-bank a mile in length, and stretching half-way across the river. the damage was afterwards repaired by captain perry, who had been engineer to peter the great, and who was voted £15,000 for an undertaking which had cost him £40,472 18s. 8-3/4 d. the land enclosed by the thames' walls is mainly waste, but has a quiet, singular beauty, which would be more appreciated, doubtless, but for the fact that here, on either bank, london pours its two immense streams of sewage into the river. where the plumstead and the erith marshes join each other, there may be seen at low tide a couple of culverts, from which issue, twice a day, two thick, black, poisonous streams. just above them there is a substantial pier, and further back, a large white building with a tall chimney, beside which the nelson column would seem to be dwarfed. further back still, surrounding a covered reservoir, there is a quadrangle of small, neat houses, occupied by some of the workpeople of the london county council. these are the sewage works at cross ness. they are surrounded by gardens, inside which the ground rises abruptly to the height of the dykes. all around seems clean and pleasant, but underneath, built on arches of the roman aqueduct pattern, there is a huge reservoir, which receives most of the sewage of the south side of the thames. the large white building which was first discernible is the pumping station, where there are four great engines capable of lifting 120,000,000 gallons of sewage in the twenty-four hours. for sixteen hours each day the sewage is being pumped up from low-lying culverts into the reservoir; for four hours at each tide it is being liberated into the thames, which thereafter, for some miles, becomes a pestilential river, bearing its dark and unwholesome burden up and down and round about with every tide. one might stand on the quiet plumstead marshes and suspect nothing whatever of all this. from thence the river is made invisible by its dyke; but one observes, with an interest not unmixed with wonder, the funnel of a steamer skirting along the level landscape, or the rich brown sail of a thames barge, or the bellying canvas of one of those sailing-vessels which, to the number of 5,000 annually, still make use of the port of the thames. the larger sewer works of what is called the northern outfall are situated on the opposite side of the river, at barking, where there still remains a relic of the once famous barking abbey--the ancient curfew tower, from which the inhabitants were wont to be warned to extinguish their fires. barking abbey, which was a foundation of the benedictine order, dates back to the year 670, and was the first convent for women in england. it originated with the saxon saint, erkenwald, bishop of london, whose sister, ethelburgha, was its first abbess. this lady made the convent, so renowned that two queens--the wives of henry i. and of king stephen--thought it an honour to be appointed to the office which so distinguished a woman had held. all the abbesses of barking were baronesses in their own right, and took precedence of all abbesses in england. the last of the long line was dorothy barley, who was compelled to surrender the abbey to "bluff king hal" in 1539. the abbey church stood just outside the present churchyard, and was 170 feet long, with a transept of 150 feet. the curfew tower is the old gate of the outer court, and the room, of which the window is shown in the engraving on the next page, was anciently the chapel of the holy rood. in the near neighbourhood is the house from which lord monteagle carried to the king a warning not to attend the houses of parliament on the day fixed for the carrying out of the gunpowder plot. [illustration: dagenham marshes.] in barking--sometimes called tripcock--reach we are afloat on a tide of sewage. it discolours the water all around; it is sometimes churned up by the wheels of the paddle-steamers; the odour of it assails the nostrils at every turn; and yet barking reach is, with this exception, an altogether delightful place on a spring or summer day, all the more delightful if the day is one which follows upon or precedes a day of rain; for the sky should be full of grey clouds and capricious light to do justice to the landscape below barking reach. fortunately, even a vast burden of sewage, the refuse of the mightiest city in the world, cannot destroy the natural beauty of the river. by erith and at greenhithe it beslimes the low, muddy flats left exposed by the receding tide; but out in the centre of the thames how can it avail against the influence of wind, and cloud, and sunlight? the river smiles and sparkles, and reflects grey cloud and blue sky, just as if it had no secrets to hide; and over the flat meadow-lands the shadows chase each other like happy children at play. steamers, barges, sailing-vessels, coming and going, are almost as frequent here as in the higher reaches. it is the peculiarity of the thames that it is never forsaken, or solitary, or at rest. [illustration: barking abbey.] on either bank, unsuspected by the chance excursionist, are frequent powder magazines, which are a sort of introduction to purfleet, where there is such a store of explosives as, if they were fired, would shake london to its centre, and possibly to its foundations. at purfleet, by the way, the river banks vary their monotony by rising up sheer and white, in modest imitation of the chalk cliffs of folkestone and dover. as we proceed further down the river the smell of chalk-burning will taint the air somewhat disagreeably, and great white clouds of smoke will fly in our faces and almost hide the sky. purfleet is a pretty and interesting town, notwithstanding the uses to which it has been put, and the danger there must always be in living there. the chalk hills are crowned with pleasant woods, and over the river one looks across greenhithe to the kentish hills. of the country in that direction cobbett, writing his "rural rides," had only a disparaging account to give. "the surface is ugly by nature," he said, "to which ugliness there has just been made a considerable addition by the enclosure of a common, and by the sticking up of some shabby-genteel houses, surrounded with dead fences and things called gardens, in all manner of ridiculous forms, making, all together, the bricks, hurdle-gates, and earth say, as plainly as they can speak, 'here dwell vanity and poverty.'" but cobbett was by preference unjust, and the little grey houses, each with its own circle of trees, are an essential portion of the charm of these riverside landscapes, which, else, would look dead and solitary. [illustration: barking reach.] off purfleet, on one of whose chalky cliffs the standard of england was unfolded when the spanish armada threatened our liberties, lies the reformatory training-ship _cornwall_, once known as the _wellesley_, the flagship of the brave and adventurous lord dundonald. these handsome old hulks, some of them used as reformatories, some of them as training-ships for boys who have been rescued from poverty, and one large group as a fever and small-pox hospital, are very frequent between erith and northfleet, and greatly increase the interest of a voyage down the thames. off greenhithe, a famous yachting centre, the _arethusa_ and the _chichester_ lie moored; at gray's thurrock, on the opposite side of the river, lie the _exmouth_ and the _shaftesbury_, the latter being the vessel which has been found so costly by the london school board. the good-looking town of erith faces the river just above purfleet, half-surrounded in the summer months by a fleet of small yachts at anchor; and, just below, the rivers cray and darent, making a clear fork of shining water, meet together and flow as one stream into the thames. "long reach" tavern, a quaint, solitary place, once much frequented in the old prize-fighting, cockfighting days, by persons who are usually spoken of as belonging to "the sporting fraternity," stands on the flat muddy ground of this estuary of the conjoined rivers; and from this point the river thames bends inland towards dartford, again taking a new direction at ingress abbey, where alderman harmer once lived, in a house built out of the stones of old london bridge. [illustration: at purfleet.] around ingress abbey lies the village of greenhithe, another yachting station, with forty feet of water at the end of the pier at low tide. stone church, said to have been designed by the architect of westminster abbey, and beautiful and elaborate enough in some parts of it to suggest close kinship with that great edifice, stands on a proud eminence above the village, and is visible for miles around. at greenhithe the cement works commence, and extend themselves to northfleet, which is a town perpetually enveloped in a cloud of white smoke, floating over the river in great wreaths, so that tilbury and gravesend, lying only a brief distance away, are in some states of weather completely hidden from sight until northfleet has been passed. to tilbury is now to fall the often forfeited glory of containing the largest docks in the world. the heavy traffic of the thames is gradually being arrested at a lower portion of the river. "one thing hangs upon another," remarks a recent writer, "and just as tenterden steeple is accountable for goodwin sands, so the suez canal is responsible for the albert dock, and for those that are being made at tilbury. the long, weight-carrying iron screws that are built to run through the canal are not adapted for the turnings and windings of father thames in the higher reaches, and so, after the fashion of mahomet, the docks now are sliding down the river to the ships instead of the ships coming up the river to the docks." thus it happened that some years ago the population of gravesend began to be increased by immense gangs of navvies, builders, and masons, who during the day-time were engaged on the tilbury side of the river in digging vast trenches, building huge walls, and scooping out of the peat and clay accommodation for the merchant navy of england. [illustration: erith pier.] the new docks at tilbury are the property of the east and west india dock company, which is forestalling competition by thus competing with itself. they are being dug out of what has for centuries been a great muddy waste. an army of nearly 3,000 labourers has been employed on the excavations. when the docks are completed eight large steamers will be able to take in coal at one time; the largest vessels built will be able to enter the gates with ease; there will be wharves and warehouses capable of accommodating no inconsiderable portion of the entire trade of the thames. branch lines of railway will run along the wharves, and be connected with each warehouse. the main dock occupies fifty-three acres of ground. the jetties surrounding the basins will be forty-five feet wide. at tilbury, it is probable, the great work of furnishing dock accommodation for the shipping using the thames will be finally brought to an end. it is all but impossible to imagine that the time will ever arrive when the albert, and victoria, and tilbury, and east and west india docks, will be too small for the demands of a trade almost inconceivably greater than that which passes through the port of london now. [illustration: tilbury fort.] the proximity of this prodigious undertaking has driven away much of the solitariness which, for some centuries past, has hung around tilbury fort. that renowned but practically valueless fortification is best known through the popular engraving after clarkson stanfield's picture. that artist, however, has used a painter's license to the full. he has given to tilbury fort a massiveness and a dignity to which it can by no means lay claim. it is, on the contrary, rather mean-looking, and is only saved from insignificance by its great stone gateway, which is a sort of loftier temple bar. it was when, in 1539, three strange ships appeared in the downs, "none knowing what they were, nor what they intended to do," that the idea of building a fort at tilbury arose. henry viii., alarmed at possibilities, built bulwarks and block-houses both at tilbury and gravesend. it is stated, on authority which is somewhat doubtful, that queen elizabeth reviewed her troops at this place when the realm was threatened by the spanish armada, and that here she declared that she thought it "foul scorn that the pope or any other foreign prince should dare to interfere with her." on authority that is still more than doubtful, she is said to have slept in the one room over the great gateway. the statement that an irish regiment, stationed here just before the abdication of james ii., crossed the river and burnt and pillaged gravesend, but was afterwards defeated with great slaughter, is more authentic. at tilbury fort, sheridan has laid the scene of the burlesque tragedy embodied in _the critic_, the heroine of that piece being the governor's daughter, who went mad in white satin, to the accompaniment of her faithful friend and companion, who considered it to be part of her duty to go out of her senses in white linen, as became the meaner condition of one who was paid to serve. a great mystery is preserved concerning tilbury fort by the military authorities, and any stray artist found sketching in its neighbourhood is usually treated as if he were making drawings for the advantage of the enemies of his country. and now, having passed the gardens at rosherville, ingeniously constructed out of old chalk-pits, having seen tilbury old and new, and having come to the end of this portion of our journey by water, it is time for us to land at gravesend, where hogarth and his merry companions put up at "mrs. bramble's," and, it is probable, took shrimps and tea. gravesend, let it be said at once, is rapidly losing some of its most pleasant features. coal-staithes and wharves have invaded the picturesque foreshore. very dull and depressing is the entrance to the town, after passing those wonderfully grotesque baths which were built according to the sham oriental taste popularised by george iv., who, as praed says, was renowned "for building carriages and boats, and streets, and chapels, and pavilions, and regulating all the votes, and all the principles, of millions." "the first gentleman of europe," it may be confidently stated, never built a boat half so neat, smart-looking, and handsome as the yachts which, at the proper season, lie in the river in front of those sham oriental baths mentioned above. at gravesend are to be seen assembled the finest yachts which frequent the thames, vessels, some of them with twelve or fourteen stout sailors to man them, and as clean and smart-looking as anything to be seen within the whole compass of the seas. as becomes one of the oldest ports in the kingdom, gravesend--it was called gravesham in domesday book--is a town of narrow streets, of quaint shops and houses, of old-fashioned inns and close courts and alleys. the face which it turns to the river is like that of a battered old sailor--scarred, sun-beaten, weather-worn, but pleasant and honest withal. as in most seafaring towns, there is one long, cramped street, in which the houses seem to elbow each other, running, a little back from the river, almost from end to end! far as it is removed from the sea, there is a fine salt-water savour about gravesend, and it has also the recommendation of being situated in a pleasant country, for, after ascending its steep streets and threading here and there a leafy lane, there bursts upon the sight a glorious stretch of agricultural land, beautifully uneven, with hills of gentle slope, and occasional patches of woodland and garden and copse. of the history of gravesend there is little that need be said. james ii. lived here, as lord high admiral, when he was duke of york, and escaped hence in a girl's clothes when he was flying from his enemies. on a hill behind the town there stands an old windmill, which is also a landmark, and which occupies the site of a beacon, the lighting of which was a call to arms. aymer de valence, one of the heroes of thackeray's boyhood, and of many thousands of other boys of his period, founded and endowed a church just outside gravesend when edward ii. was king. in 1780 five thousand soldiers were marched here to make a sham attack on tilbury fort, and were handsomely refreshed, _at the expense of the general_, when they had energetically stormed that fortification with blank cartridge. about that time, or a little later, there was a great scheme to make a tunnel under the thames, between the town and the fort, which scheme ended in nothing but the formation of a company which appears to have spent fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds to no purpose. [illustration: gravesend.] at the present day gravesend is much resorted to, first for the sake of rosherville gardens, and then for tea and shrimps, for which it has a reputation quite unique. sam weller's pieman could make a beef, mutton, or "a weal-and-hammer" out of the same festive kitten. the good folk of gravesend can serve up shrimps in ways so various, and so tempting, that it is possible to dine off shrimps alone. at gravesend, too, whitebait may be eaten with as much pleasure as at greenwich, and the visitor to one of the inns of the place may watch the boatmen fishing for the whitebait which is shortly to be served up to him hot from the kitchen. it is at gravesend, indeed, that whitebait is now caught in most profusion. the boatmen pursue the dainty little fish in small open boats, and take it in long, peak-shaped nets, very small of mesh and delicate of workmanship. whitebait first became celebrated in connection with the british parliament towards the end of the last century, when sir robert preston, member for dover, was in the habit of asking his friend, mr. rose, secretary of the treasury, to dine with him at dagenham when the session closed. whitebait must have been had at dagenham in plenty, and mr. rose made favourable report of it to mr. pitt; so it came about that the premier was invited to try the whitebait for himself. then it was that an annual ministerial dinner was organised, the scene of the whitebait banquets changing from dagenham to greenwich, with an occasional dinner at blackwall. "yesterday," says the _morning post_ of september 10th, 1835, "the cabinet ministers went down the river in the ordnance barges to blackwall, to the 'west india' tavern, to partake of their annual fish dinner. covers were laid for thirty-five." and for something like that number covers still continue to be laid, though the ministerial whitebait dinner now depends on the taste of premiers, and is no longer _de rigueur_. [illustration: at gravesend.] the whitebait itself has been almost as much the subject of discussion as the origin of salmon. is it the young of herring, or of sprats, or of fish of many varieties? the question would seem easy enough to answer, though it can scarcely be said to have been finally answered even now. the one thing really certain about whitebait is, that it is a very dainty fish, equally good whether white or "devilled," as grateful to the palate whether fried in flour or broiled with a little cayenne. scientific opinion, after once appearing to be convinced that whitebait is young shad, now inclines to the conviction that it is the young of a variety of species. the whitebait itself, however, seems to conspire in the concealment of its identity. kept in captivity on one occasion, it will turn into herring, kept in captivity on another, it becomes the common sprat. some specimens, indeed, have been known to assert themselves as pipe-fish, gobies, and stickleback, so that, though the whitebait fishermen resolutely assert the individuality of the species, it will perhaps be on the whole more safe to take sides with the men of science--and the accomplished cook. [illustration: woolwich to gravesend.] there is, from some points of view, no more interesting spot on the thames than gravesend reach. here, after narrowing for a portion of its distance, the river spreads out again, and proceeds on a perfectly straight course to cliff creek. gravesend reach is three miles and a half in length, and is usually more populous with shipping than any other point between the nore light ship and the pool. all outward bound ships must take their pilots on board at gravesend, and so it frequently occurs that here the last farewells are said and the last kisses are given. in the reach, vessels wait for the changing of the tide, so that at one period of the day it is full of ships with their sails furled, and, at another, of vessels newly spreading their canvas to the wind. a breezy, stirring place is gravesend reach, enthralling at all hours and in all weathers, stormy sometimes, sometimes as calm as a lake on a windless night, but most beautiful on grey, uncertain days, when the light shivers downward through flying clouds, and breaks and sparkles on tumbling crests of wave; when the ships at anchor sway hither and thither on the turbulent waters, and make with their masts and cordage a continuous and confused movement against the sky; when the barges coming up from the medway tear and strain under their canvas like horses impatient of the bit; when the half-furled sail flaps and battles in the wind, and the sea-birds, now darting to the water, now leaping towards the flying clouds, seem to be driven about against their will. gravesend reach, where david copperfield said adieu to mr. peggotty and mrs. gummidge, where little em'ly waved her last farewell, where we lost sight of mr. micawber and the twins, where so many tears have been shed, and so many hearts have seemed to be broken! what a ceaseless current of commerce flows through it, inward to the mightiest of european cities, outward to every country that the sun shines on. whither is bound the vessel that is unfurling its sails yonder? whither! to far cathay, it may be; to obscure ports on the furthermost verges of the world. /aaron watson/. chapter xii. gravesend to the nore. morning on the lower thames--gravesend--pilots and watermen--a severe code--tilbury and its memories--the marshes--wild-fowl shooting--eel boats--canvey island--hadleigh castle--leigh, and the shrimpers--southend and the pier--sailing--sheerness--the mouth of the medway--the dockyard--the town and its divisions--the nore--a vision of wonder--shoeburyness--outward bound. the beautiful stretches of the upper river must always offer an attraction to men who have an eye for colour, and to whom the curious spectacle of cultured wildness is pleasant. but there are some who, while they remember the long reaches where the willow herbs shine and the glassy river rolls, think kindly of the other reaches where the signs of toil begin, and where the great stream pours on between banks that have nothing to redeem them save strangeness of form and infinite varieties of bizarre tints. a voyage in a small boat from the hill where the greenwich observatory cuts sharp against the sky, down to the rushing channels where the black flood flows past the woolwich piers, is always unpleasant to those whose senses are delicate, but as soon as we reach gravesend we come to another region, and there those who care little for brilliance of colour, those who care little for softness of effect, those who care only for stern suggestion, find themselves at home. one of the pleasantest experiences in life is to wake in the early dawn, put sail on a fast yacht, and run on the tide from gravesend, past the grim end of the lower hope. the colliers weigh anchor, the apple-bowed brigs curtsy slowly on the long rush of swelling water, and as you look up from your cabin you receive sudden and poignant suggestions that tell of far-off regions, and that take you away from the grim world that you have just left behind. here is a clumsy black brig bustling the water before her! the ripples fly in creamy rings from her bows; her black topsails, with their queer patches, flap a little as the wind comes and goes, and you hear the hoarse orders given by the man who stands near the helm, and who is in authority for the time. then a great four-master spreads her wings, and while the little tug puffs and frets around her as though there were important business to do, which did not allow of a moment's consideration, the big ship slowly slides away, and gathering power under her canvas, surges into the brown deep, and takes the melancholy emigrants away towards the nore. then the "tramps" of the ocean--the ugly colliers--are not without interest. one of them foams up to you, and you know that the man in command of her has perhaps not slept for seventy-two hours. he has made his wallowing rush from the north country; he has risked all the dangers of fog and darkness and storm, and he has brought his vessel up to the derrick with satisfaction. then in a few hours the swarm of "whippers" have cleared her; the rattle of the great cranes has rung through the night, and the vessel has been emptied in a time that would seem astonishing to those who manage sanitary corporation business on shore, and who condemn us to endure the presence of ghastly stenches and unspeakable sights for hour after hour. the anchors are whipped up and the ocean "tramp" tears away on her trip to the tyne. there is not a single sight or sound that does not convey its own interest. if it is autumn time, the racing yachts are clearing for action, dapper men are bounding hither and thither, as though there were nothing in life to be cared for excepting success in the race that must shortly be begun. the gun fires, and the lazy breeze of the morning strikes the huge spinnakers, while the razor-bowed craft move slowly out, and gradually gather speed until the troubled water foams in crisp whirls and rolls away aft in long creamy trails. the upper reaches of the river are lightsome, and given over wholly to pleasure. every turn conveys the sensation of wealth and comfort; every delicate shallop that floats luxuriously past the locks hints of money acquired in the crush of the great city; but in the lower river any day the story of stress, and struggle, and coarse labour may be read on the spot, and perhaps nowhere in the world--not even in the huge docks of liverpool--can so vivid an idea be gained of the mercantile greatness of england. no attempt is made to disguise the natural ugliness and coarseness of every feature in the scene; steamers surge up at half speed, and the vast waves that they throw curl against the bank and bring away masses of mud; the barges glide lazily, the black shrimpers troop down the current with their ragged sails, and everything speaks of a life given over wholly to rough toil. it is true that many parties come from the city in steamboats, and in the summer evenings the air is full of music, and shrill sounds of laughter ring from the splashing boats as they pass you; but these are only stray visitations, and no one who knows the lower river, no one who has felt the sentiment of the locality keenly, can ever associate it with light-heartedness. gravesend is a pretty town that straggles around the base of a bluff hill. from the summit of this hill you can look far over the plains of kent; you may see the waves coiling and whitening round the nore; you can see the towers of rochester; you can see the great desolate stretches of marsh-lands that lie between malden and wallend. the town is wholly given over to shipping business, and although smart villas display their finery on the outskirts, yet somehow we feel these to be merely excrescences. they are very gaudy, the gardens are oppressively handsome, and the wealth of the owners is undoubted; but the lover of gravesend cares only for the narrow streets that straggle down to the river; for the odd little shops where all requirements of seafarers may be satisfied; for the narrow wharves, past which the tide rushes from northfleet hope. for all who have read nautical literature the place is peopled with memories. here the great indiamen lay, in the times when the long six-months' voyage round the cape had to be taken by officers and civilians. in these narrow, sloping streets the women stood and watched the passing of those they loved as the monster ship slid down on the tide. the very name of gravesend brings up memories that can hardly be put into words; for in old yellow letters, in old books, in old newspapers, the word is always associated with meetings and partings, with great changes of fortune, with the keenest moments in the drama of life. the town has the reputation of being the cockney's watering place, but to those who know it intimately the normal life goes on unaffected by the incursion of the chattering crowds brought down by the steamers. the whitechapel tripper at once betakes himself to the public-house, or to the tea-gardens, or to the dancing-rooms; while the watermen, the seamen, and the shrimpers go on composedly with their old-fashioned tasks. the pilot goes out with his smart cutter. he is a comfortable man, with a healthy air of authority, and there is something in the very roll of his voice that speaks of riches and monopoly. the guild of pilots keep their business very much to themselves. it would be hard to find one of them who is not exceedingly well to do, and any accidents that may happen do nothing to diminish a pilot's means. if on some dark and foggy night he makes a mistake, as some great ship gropes her way down the misty reach, it matters little to him; for even if he cuts down the ship, and drowns the whole crew, he can make himself perfectly easy. his money is settled on his wife, and the cleverest lawyer in the world could not wring anything in the way of composition out of him. the watermen still ply in their flitting wherries, but the glory of their trade is departed. long ago the tilt-boats left for london bridge with every tide bearing their loads of passengers. the sternest rules were made for the guidance of the watermen. there is one curious order made by the court of rulers, auditors, and assistants of the company of watermen, forbidding any indecent behaviour or expression towards their fare, or whilst plying or rowing on the river. it runs thus:- "whereas, several watermen, lightermen, and the apprentices of such, whilst they are rowing, working upon the river thames, and at their several respective places of resort, or plying places, between gravesend and windsor, do often use immoderate, obscene, and lewd expressions towards passengers, and to each other, as are offensive to all sober persons, and tend extremely to the corruption and debauchery of youth. for prevention therefore of such ill-practices for the future, it is hereby declared and ordained by the court aforesaid, that if any waterman or lighterman, after the 16th day of october, 1701, shall upon the said river, or at any place of their resort, as aforesaid, be guilty of using any such lewd expressions, and be thereof duly convicted by one or more witness or witnesses, or by confession of the offender before the rulers of this company, he shall forfeit and pay for every such offence the sum of 2s. 6d. and if any waterman's or lighterman's apprentice shall herein offend, the master or mistress of every such offender (the offender being duly convicted as aforesaid) shall forfeit and pay the like sum of 2s. 6d., and in case of refusal the offender shall suffer correction, as the rulers of this company shall in their discretion think fit and necessary; which said forfeitures (when paid) shall be applied to the use of the poor, aged, decayed, and maimed members of the company, their widows and children." this enactment is two hundred years old, and lasts up to this day. the wherries were regulated with equal strictness. no boat was allowed to take more than seven passengers at a time, and the sum of 2s. 6d. was charged on each passenger embarked over the number. everybody who knows the build of the wherries knows that on the thames it is extremely difficult to turn to windward in a small boat. when the tide is running out it is, of course, impossible to turn at all; but even when the flood is running up it is extremely hard to "beat;" and the wisdom of the old masters is very prettily shown in one enactment, which declares that "if any master carrying passengers to and fro from london to gravesend shall at any time hereafter turn to windward in any of the said boats wherein are any of her majesty's subjects, he shall forfeit and pay for every such offence the sum of 10s." this severity of regulation made the river as safe for the ordinary travellers as it now is for those who use the large steamboats. many persons were drowned first and last, but the number of deaths due to the upsetting of watermen's boats in the whole of the last century did not in sum equal the number destroyed in the massacre which took place when the _bywell castle_ ran into the _princess alice_. the regulations as to fares and fines are all very curious, and a glance at the droll bye-laws of the watermen's company seems to lift a curious veil between us and a dead society. here is one terrible code of punishments:- £ s. d. private watermen reviling passenger 0 2 0 swearing or cursing 0 2 0 towing a boat while carrying a passenger 0 2 6 plying when his boat is not at the stairs 0 5 0 working with a wrong number 0 10 0 marrying in apprenticeship 10 0 0 refusing to carry a fare 0 2 6 bum-boats selling goods before sunrising and after sunsetting are very hardly dealt with. for the first offence the boat forfeits 40s., and for every succeeding offence £4. the fares made for the year 1785 were easy enough. from london to gravesend the figure required was six shillings, and the other fares were proportionately reasonable. thus quiet city men ran down from london bridge on one tide and returned on the next, but the tilt-boat is now as extinct as the caravel. a few smart wherries dodge about the lower reaches waiting for inward bound vessels; but the watermen is no longer jolly, and in a few years it will be found impossible to find a youthful member of the craft, for no parent would apprentice his son to a trade in which few men can earn enough to keep body and soul together. a righteous retribution seems to have doomed a race of harpies to extinction. in the old days, when a towering east indiaman came up the river, and the tanned soldiers and the weary civilians crowded joyously to the side, the watermen pounced on their prey, and each eager passenger had to run the gauntlet of a band of marauders. times have altered, and the keen, ragged men who ply the wherries are only too glad to take a passenger to the nore and back for a sovereign. across the water tilbury fort frowns over the bulge of the reach. the guns command the lower hope, and it would be impossible for an enemy's vessel to sail so far as northfleet without being badly mauled or sunk. the place is associated with the names of a great queen and our greatest soldier. there the fierce amazon mustered her troops and spoke rough words of encouragement to them; there general gordon walked, with his quick, quiet movements, and his curt, low speech. gordon planned the fortifications at the south of the river, but he travelled from bank to bank with that eager activity which marked his every action. his work is masterly in conception and execution, and if the torpedo service is properly organised it is hardly likely that the roar of a foreigner's cannon will ever be heard in london again. a roistering multitude once fluttered the people of the infant village of tilbury, and rioted through the quiet place on the southern shore. the old historian grows quite haughty in his malice as he tells how "a rude rout of rascals, under the leading of wat tyler, a taylor, who commanded in chief, with their grave ministers, john ball, jack straw, a thresher, jack sheppard, of the council of war, under the title of king's men, and the servants of the commonwealth of england, after ransacking and demolishing all the fair structures of the nobility and gentry of the essex side, summoned k. richard ii. to give them a meeting, who accordingly, accompanied with most of his best counsellors, took his barge and went to gravesend, but seeing the rabble so ragged and rogue-like, a company of swabs, composed of the scum of the people; it was held no discretion for the king to venture his person among them, and so returned to the tower from whence he came." poor richard let the "swabs" pass up the north side of the river, and he met them there with a gallantry which is a little unlike the conduct of the driveller who long afterwards fell from the throne which he had covered with dishonour. all the scene is dull and peaceful now. gordon is gone from us, and his name will pass, like that of the "swab" tyler, into the quietude of the history-books. "so much carry the winds away." north of tilbury, and away to the eastward along the essex shore, stretches a strange, level country netted with winding streams. as the tide runs out, the little ditches send down runnels of clear water. charles dickens was always fascinated by this region; but, strangely enough, his works have given everybody a false impression of the whole marsh country. people think of slime, and darkness, and poisonous exhalations, and an atmosphere of horror and crime. they think of the faces of hunted convicts and the grim night-scenes in which joe gargery and his pet took part; but at certain times of the year the marshes are really cheerful--the clear streams glitter in the morning sun, and the larks sing their hearts out high up in the air. the multitudinous notes fall around you from the shining heights like a shower of pearls, and for miles the eye is met by a blaze of colour and dazzling glitter. the ragworts spread in blinding sheets of yellow; the purple stars of the mallow peep modestly out from the coarse grass; and amid all the riot of sound and colour the peaceful cattle stand, and give a sense of homely companionship to the scene. when the tide flows, the river slips into the channels, and the tiny runnels of spring water are driven back to their sources; the ditches fill and overflow; the fishes, in many cases, catch their prey within a yard of where the cattle were feeding; and the grass becomes impregnated by the tide. it is this daily advance of the brackish flood that makes the marshes so valuable as grazing grounds. the cattle eagerly tear at the salty grass, and its nutritive qualities are so great, that it is sometimes found that a whole herd turned out on the marshes within a week or two weigh on the average half a stone more than they did when they first fed on the saltings. in winter, truly, the marshes are bleak and inhospitable; but in the soft, rich mud of the ditches the wild-fowl swarm, and the sportsmen have good times when the weather is frosty. a man who is not greedy, and who will be content with a very moderate bag, can hardly find a better place for exciting sport than within these northern saltings. sometimes a redshank starts up, whistling desperately, and goes off down wind until the charge stops him; the ringed plovers cower low in the ditch, and shoot along under the bank with steady, level flight, until they are forced to sweep out over the grass and give the gunner his chance. at the fall of the evening the wild note of the curlew sounds with piercing cadence. there be many men in london who count benfleet station as the entrance to paradise; and it is a very pleasant sight to see the smart shooters dispersing on a brisk, frosty morning. below canvey island, and over the immense flats of that dismal place, the heaviest bags can be made with a big duck-gun. most of the yachts on the river have a punt with the orthodox engine of destruction attached. there is something murderous and commercial about the duck-gun. to get up to a flock of birds needs a certain cunning and skill, which almost rise to the dignity of a fine art, and the excitement is amongst the keenest forms of pleasure that sport can give; but when the black, screaming flock has risen, and the boom of the huge gun has sent the echoes flying, then the sight of destruction, struggling, and suffering is apt to pain the sentimentalist. an hour's wander with a small gun--an hour that will bring its couple of brace of birds--offers the more artistic form of sport. the shooting country is hardly broken between benfleet and the blackwater. everywhere the eye travels over dark ditches, speckled flats, and stray groups of birds. at times the ground seems to be covered by a struggling army, whereof the squadrons perform strange evolutions. then the wary gunner, watching with his glass from afar off, knows that the troops are on the feed, and takes his measures accordingly. in choosing a boat for the river work, you can hardly do better than follow the model adopted by the waterside folk. right round the coast, the action of years of experience has enabled the inhabitants of every place to choose the exact kind of craft best suited for their locality. in the north the delicate "cobles," with their light draught astern, are adapted for the long, shelving beaches. no fisherman ever thinks of running into the cove without preparing to make for the beach with his craft stern-foremost. the yarmouth men have their stiff "hookers," which draw a good deal of water, and are without the dangerous "crankness" that characterises a "coble." the suffolk men, on the stony stretches of coast between southwold and aldborough, have broad, clumsy, longshore boats, which stand a great amount of knocking about. in this way the unconscious process of adaptation, involving the transmission of hints from one generation to another, has made the thames boats all that can be desired for their work. for all practical purposes a gravesend wherry will see you safely to the mouth of the river, and beyond the nore; while the average thames "hooker," or "bowler" boat, as it is called, will stand up well to any weather that she is likely to encounter. take an ordinary wherry, and an hour's sail from gravesend brings you into a foreign colony. clustered thick in the sheltered haven of the river lies a fleet of vessels, strange in build, startling in colour, outlandish in rig. their bulging bows are like the breasts of some titanic women. the low sweep of their bulwark makes it astonishing that they can ever go to sea without being swept, even when the enormous boards are hung in position to keep out the rush of water and to stiffen the vessel. quiet, good-humoured men lounge on the spotless decks of these ships, and address you in broken english or in a strange tongue. as you walk, you hear the sound of wallowing, and when you look into the gulf of the hold you see a strange, weltering mass of snaky-brown things of which the aspect makes an unaccustomed man shudder. tons of eels welter in these watery caverns, and the landsman sees with astonishment that the sides of the vessel are thickly perforated to allow the rush of the sea, and that each ship is neither more or less than a huge floating sieve. in quiet ponds in holland this harvest of eels is raised, and the vessels go to this point in all weathers. if they sailed past gravesend, not one fish of their cargo would survive; so they remain at the bend where the water is salt, and the thames flows through and through their holds until the last consignment has gone to billingsgate. then the quaint vessels warp themselves out of the haven. with their slow, blundering appearance they always seem as if they must come to mischief, yet somehow or other the quiet, phlegmatic dutchmen make their queer craft do exactly what they wish. these fellows are not fond of the english fishermen, and a fight between the nationalities sometimes enlivens the dreary monotony of the haven; but to any one who boards their ship in a polite manner, and shows signs of good breeding, they are most complacent, and one learns to like their grim simplicity. [illustration: at canvey island.] the river widens sharply out to the eastward of thames haven. on the south the kentish marshes stretch from the bluff of the lower hope to st. james's, and deep creeks run away southward towards cooling, halston, and hoo st. mary. it is very difficult to traverse this huge flat without a guide who knows the place pretty well. men who have shot over the country winter after winter sometimes miss the exact spot at which a ditch may be crossed, and are kept wandering for an hour at a time before they can extricate themselves from the labyrinth of deep, muddy channels. like the essex marshes, the cliff marsh, the halston marsh, the st. mary marsh, and the rest, are the delight of wild-fowl shooters. a dingey can traverse most of the creeks for some distance, and birds may be got in hard weather without adventuring amongst the swamps, where a slip would produce the most unpleasant consequences. like the essex marshes, too, this peninsula, which lies between the medway and the thames, is very beautiful in the summer for those who have learned the true sentiment of the country. rank and luxuriant life spreads everywhere, and although sauntering is not a very pleasant employment, owing to the difficulty of negotiating the ridges between the ditches, yet the blaze of colour, and the jargon of song go on, and very pleasing thoughts come over the mind. the tide has a strong sweep, but a yacht will lie very comfortably clear of the foreshore. there are particular places, which the yachtsmen and bargemen know well, where no possible force of the tide would tear the anchor out of the ground. the present writer has again and again been caught at nightfall by the ebb, but there never was any danger, though the rush of the river went by like a mill-race. on one occasion the steering-gear of a steamer gave way as she was passing down at nightfall, and she plunged in amongst the stray vessels which were anchored alongside of the dreary flats, cutting one ship down, and bringing herself hard on the mud; but a catastrophe of this kind is hardly likely to occur once in twenty years. a small boat soon shoots round the lower hope and into the westerly channel that flows around canvey island. at high tide the boat will travel easily up to the sea-wall, which rears itself like a strong fortification at the innermost edge of the saltings. the wall is overgrown with sea-weed, and the very steps by which one gains the coastguard station are slippery with sea-grass. inside the wall the stretch of the island lies, as it were, in a great basin. corn waves, bright meadows shine in the summer, and marshy streams creep slowly into the channels that cut the weird place away from the mainland. a wild and forbidding place is canvey island. the strong sea-wall is gruesome with its shaggy wreaths of trailing weed. the inner side is well covered with coarse grass, and from thence away to the northward a flat of somewhat repulsive aspect runs as far as benfleet. the island has a peculiar population. the coastguards' hamlet lies close to the wall, and the men are ordinary sailors; but in the villages of canvey, knightswick, panhole, and lovis, there is a scant population of people who have their own ways, their own traditions, and their own methods of regarding a stranger. they are singularly hospitable, for free-handed sportsmen find the island a happy hunting-ground, and the people expect and give kindness. the one little inn by the coastguard station is, perhaps, the quaintest in all essex. memories of smugglers, of desperate water thieves, of old collier sailors seem to hang about its low walls. no one need expect comfort there, but the keeper purveys for all comers with a rude hospitality which is amusing. on the fobbing side of the island the ditches are very deep, and the sides soft and treacherous. once a bird is shot there it is very difficult to recover it. all the dogs kept on the island have a singularly business-like air, but no one would care to let a valuable dog follow his game down these steep, gluey, ramparts. to the east, however, the saltings stretch far towards canvey point; and it is not only safe, but absolutely pleasant to walk over them before the tide creeps through the rough herbage. hardly a shore-bird known in the british islands fails to visit canvey. looking through a telescope from benfleet station, it is easy to pick out the flocks as they consort in their different communities, and squat among the mud, or pick their way carefully through the twining grass. at one time, on a frosty morning, it is possible to see dotterels, plovers, redshanks, gulls, and pipers, all busy on the eastern flats; while to the west the cunning curlews dodge on the slippery banks of the fobbing ditches. the foreshore is perfectly free to strangers; although one proprietor in the island has ventured to dispute the fact. a private grant of the shore was made two hundred years ago, and below the sea-wall no visitor can be considered as a trespasser, while a boat may bring up anywhere in the channel. canvey is not an inviting spot for camping out. on a gusty night, when the rushes moan and shiver, and the great river sounds hoarsely, it is hardly possible to look out into the darkness without feeling a sense of strangeness and even of fear. the island seems to have no salient points; the hill, topped by the house known as the hall, rises a little, but it is more like a cloud than like a solid mound. a shadowy figure from the coastguard's hut sometimes paces up and down, but even this gives none of the refreshment of human companionship. the writer once took refuge in the channel at midnight during very bad weather. the boatmen did not care to land, and we sheltered ourselves as best we could from the storm. the island then showed in all its mystery through the drift of rain and the flying haze. it was an experience never to be forgotten; but no one is recommended to try it. it is better to seek the hospitable shelter of an inn, and put up with rough fare, or any fare, rather than remain in the open amid that abomination of desolation. [illustration: the fringe of the marshes.] [illustration: hadleigh castle.] the sea-wind comes with sharp, stirring breath after we pass the long spit that shoots out from the weird island; the river is still yellow, but when the breezes set the foam dancing the crests of the waves are of pure white. in the reach at erith there is sometimes a heavy roll that travels as swiftly and as high as the jumping seas of the channel, but the curling crests of the waves are yellow, and they hint of foulness beneath. all changes when the estuary fairly breaks open to receive the unchecked wash of the tide, and it is exhilarating to sweep over the full-bosomed river that swells as though it would fain topple across the low rampart of the kentish marshes and flood all the sluggish runlets. we take it for granted that any one who cares to enjoy the sights of the lower thames fully will use a sailing-boat. the discreet navigator may then explore to his heart's content. on the southerly shore there are few buildings which have any interest, but on the essex bluffs there are many places worth going ashore to see. the low hills command a fine outlook to the southward, and every salient point has been selected at one time or another for building purposes. looking northward from the dull level of canvey island, one sees a strong tower that forms a central mark in a pretty landscape. at first sight the building looks firm and uninjured, but when you climb the bosky hillocks upon which it stands, and approach within a hundred yards, you find that the imposing shell is but a ruin after all. this is hadleigh castle, which is said to have been built by the proud favourite hubert de burgh. six centuries, with frost, and fire, and snow have spent their wearing influence on the stately ruin. where once the mad earl of kent held high revel the owl makes her nest and the garrulous jackdaws flutter and babble. "'tis said the lion and the lizard keep their court where famshyd gloried and drank deep." the old story holds true alike on the essex hills and on the plains of persia. where hubert de burgh gloried and drank deep the wild birds harbour and the moaning winds pour unchecked through the desolate towers. hadleigh castle could only have been built by a man who took long views of life, and who felt his hold on his place in life very secure. even now, though the towers are hollow, and the grass makes the battlements shaggy, the castle has an air of grim strength, of steadfast power, that give pause to the mind. all round the grey walls the birds flutter in changing flocks. far down the slope the river rolls and the ships glide without ceasing, while the trees rustle and the grass gleams as the breeze flies over. there is movement and colour everywhere, the trains rush along the embankment just below us, and amid all, scorning change, fronting, incurious of night-time or day, the centuries' enormous weariness, stands the structure that was built in the dark ages. dark ages! can we equal this nobility of outline, this triumphant strength, nowadays? when all the rickety streets of modern london shall have sunk in decay, when perchance the great city is but a fading memory, the rugged castle of hadleigh will remain in disdainful steadfastness--a monument of human pride and skill, and alas! of human folly and failure. elizabeth came here, as did her savage father before her. generations of ladies, gay and courtly knights, met in their turn within those tremendous walls, and now the curious traveller may wander unchecked amid the remnants of magnificence. let no one who sails on the lower river miss seeing hadleigh castle, for it is a worthy example, all mutilated and imperfect as it stands, of a noble school of architecture; and there are no ruins of a finer and grander type even on the storied banks of the many-memoried rhine. the view from a steamer is very well in its way, but the quaint glimpses of mysterious creeks, the chance views of forlorn waterside cottages, the flashes of colour from red-tiled roofs and glowing gardens can only be seen at their best from a stiff boat that can either creep inshore or bowl over the solemn flow of the outer current. leave the chilly stillness of a channel like that which bubbles around canvey island; spread the boat's wings, and in a few minutes you may have the whitening ripples purling clearly along under the quarter, and you see the fleet waves coiling and plashing at the nore. [illustration: leigh.] to the north of canvey point lies the village of leigh, which may be called the yarmouth of shrimpers. the bulk of the village lies close to the water's edge, but the church, with its picturesque tower, crowns the top of the hill, and forms a conspicuous landmark. the black boats bustle out of the haven in swarms, and settle like ungainly sea-fowl as their trawls go down. it appears as though nothing were being done--as though the boats were merely anchored in a clumsy fashion, but, all the time, the brailed-up mainsail is imperceptibly dragging each vessel along, and the nets are gathering their prey from the muddy bottom. solemn, grimy men move listlessly about, or sit amidships, as if they were burdened with misanthropy; the rudder takes its own way, for the drag of the net usually serves to keep the boat on her course; the sail flaps mournfully, and the jar of a shaken block cuts the air like the report of a pistol. yet the lazy-looking craft are busy, and the bubbling boiler amidships is kept always ready. when the haul is made, and the wriggling myriads of shrimps are sorted out, then the boiling-nets come into requisition; the crustaceans are swiftly dipped into hot water, and the impassive fishermen prepare deliberately for another haul. no one who goes down thames should miss landing at leigh, and, if possible, he should contrive to spend a saturday evening with the men. they are a civil race, and they take a stranger's presence as a compliment. many of them are yachtsmen, and the admirable semi-naval discipline of the yachts has leavened the manners of the place. the rough fellows sing their silly songs, and exchange wise remarks about fishing and yachts (which are the only subjects of worldly interest to them), and they are always ready to take a visitor into their confidence. barring the slight polish acquired from mariners who have seen the strange regions of cowes and dartmouth, these villagers are like survivals of a dim past. in fact, so thoroughly marine is the general atmosphere, that shore-going costume seems incongruous in leigh, the presence of a dealer is painful, and one feels as if it were a sin against propriety to wear anything but old-fashioned garments. it is worth while to pay a visit to the station in the evening when the last up-train is about to start; the platform is crowded with hampers of all shapes and sizes. they contain shrimps ready for transmission to the all-devouring metropolis. it is best to run well out to the southward after leaving leigh, for then the pleasant slope of the hills that fringe the northern shore is well seen. stray copses straggle here and there; lines of fir-trees strike against the sky like regiments with arms at the carry, and pleasant houses peep from their pretty perches. southend is already feeling its way toward the west. the central ganglion of the town is perched in its little basin in thick clusters of houses, that seem to climb over the rounded wold; but the stray villas are planted like pioneers, and by-and-by the lines will be completed, and southend will perhaps come to be in touch of london. the magnetic attraction of the great city is felt everywhere. we are so secure now that bodies of men no longer huddle themselves within the solid safety of stone walls. every modern english town has a tendency to sprawl. only cross this river and run southward to the foreland, and you are within sight of quaint old towns that had a serene, corporate existence, and nestled inside their defences like discreet swarms of bees. rye, sandwich, and all the rest, resemble the eyries of seabirds planted safely in snug coves, but this southend sprawls like its own wriggling pier. carlyle foretold the junction of london and reading, and there is a sad probability that this will come about. in the same way southend at last will blend with london, and we may have the jingling horror of a tramway from london bridge to the low bluff that fronts the nore. [illustration: southend and the pier.] as we move eastward a strange serpentine shape rises out of the water. at first it is like a cloud, then it takes on the appearance of a huge centipede with an abnormal number of feelers and a blunt, horned head. that is southend pier, which strikes for a mile and more over the mud-flats. the lighthouse rounds off the end of this odd structure with a somewhat dignified suggestion of solidity, but the long, straggling chain, alas! looks as if it were all unfit to stand the fierce rush of the north sea. it is quite easy to land on the hulk that creaks and sways below the lighthouse, but the present writer never cares to trust a small boat against the outer edge when the river is running hard. there are strong steps at intervals all the way along, and it is best to go round the pier-head and place the boat according to the wind. when once the upper pathway is gained, it seems as though the town were within easy reach. but let no one try fast walking along that treacherous road; it is meant for men who care for gentle pedestrianism, for meditation, for quiet glimpses to seaward, for lazy criticism of passing vessels. indeed, there is enough of interest to take away all desire for hurry. around the piles the grey water laps and swirls, scooping out round holes in which black colonies of mussels nestle. little fish pursue their nervous activities in the clear pools; the scream of sea-birds comes faintly from far away, and the keen breeze makes hoarse noises in the labyrinth of the piles. at low water the flat seems interminable, and it must be owned that it does not look very pleasant. glossy hillocks of mud thrust their shoulders out of stray ponds of salt water, and every hillock seems to be composed of a rather nasty kind of gruel. lumps of sea-weed lie about the greasy surface: they are like currants in a monstrous, uneatable custard. the gulls settle and chatter around the bitter lakelets, and they are the only beings that find the flats easy to walk on. it is hard to say how far one would sink if he were daring enough to adventure himself among the wreathing mazes of mud. perhaps the footing is more solid than it seems, but we never cared to try. slowly and warily the traveller moves over the puzzling planks, and as each new landmark shows itself, the length of the pier impresses itself on the imagination of tired humanity. the men below who wallow in their enormous boots among the oyster-beds take matters easily, and tend their precious charges with deliberate care. they are like wild denizens of the gruesome, glistening waste; and they are as much at their ease as the sea-birds. but the stranger only longs to be rid of the jolting monotony of the cross-planks, and as the town comes sharply into view one is tempted to leave off contemplating the green piles, and the busy fishes, and the long melancholy of the sea-marsh, and the most phlegmatic of new-comers is inclined to break into a trot. the leisurely persons who stroll out to inhale the wind from the nore may take their ease as they will, but, after the first minutes of interested observation, the foreigner longs for human companionship; he longs to be rid of the dominion of this intolerable roadway. the town straggles down a brief, steep bank of clay, and spreads itself over a fine level. it has all the outward appearance of a southern watering-place; the bathing-machines stand along the low sea-wall, the boats repose on the beach, and the strollers wander listlessly over the very narrow border of sand. the old town is quaint and pretty, and the new town is flashily handsome. london has set its mark deeply everywhere, and, from the smart cabmen, who salute with demure shrewdness, to the imposing platform where the band plays, everything tells of city influence. southend is a lesser ramsgate, and, in its way, it is a very fair imitation of that other dependency of cockaigne. when the tide flows, the scene is really pretty. the suggestive flat is so very, very level that the first rush of the tidal wave sends foaming streams careering among the winding hollows and pools. like magic the vanguard of the sea gains the limit, and soon the wide sweep from southend to canvey becomes a shallow dimpled lake. the sense of depth is wanting, but if you only look at the surface, then you may take for granted that you are on the border of a very noble bay. as the tide gains, the little yachts rise from their bed of mud and curtsy at their moorings, the fishing-boats glide in, and the curve of the beach is full of animation. we know nothing of the bathing, but we should incline to think that there may possibly be a good deal of suspended matter in the water. be that as it may, the bathers enjoy themselves mightily, and, even were there no bathing, the compensation offered by the sailing-boats that shoot over the wide bight is worth reckoning. to sail on a water where is depth enough to float you, but hardly enough to drown you, must be pleasing to the non-adventurous mind. southend is very modern, and has not yet gathered any great population; but it is so cheery, and the powers that rule municipal affairs are so firmly resolved on making it "attractive," that it has a promising future. when the thames no longer discharges filth to the sea, and the sands regain their purity, it will be delightful to walk over that noble level; but our generation will hardly see such a blessed transformation. from much experience we can say that, in winter-time, the pier offers very inspiriting views. the waves fly hard over the sands in heavy weather, and their eager rush breaks them into short combers, that strike the piles, and set the timbers quivering. sometimes the spray drives high, and at night the roaring darkness is as wild as the clamorous mystery that meets you as you gaze seaward from the cliffs of bamborough or the wind-swept marshes of southwold. so far as creature-comforts are concerned, the traveller is practically in london. the people have been too wise, so far, to set up as plunderers, and tired brain-workers who wish to escape easily from london for a short time may get a breath of sea air without paying too heavily for the medicine. on the upper river a certain amount of enjoyment may be had by sailing a small centre-board boat; but precisely the same quality of enjoyment may be derived by using the same boat from southend. it is not all whose business will allow them to run to southampton, or brighton, or margate, but every one can easily get to southend, run at intervals into the very midst of the fresh sea-breezes, and return with very little more trouble than is needed to travel from uxbridge road to charing cross. as we have so often insisted, the great blessing of the royal river is, that its pleasures are so easily accessible to the poor man. a sound longboat may always be had at a moderate price in victoria docks, and a fresh-built boat, on the longboat pattern, need not cost more than £30 when the most minute articles employed in fitting are paid for. the exhalations from the kentish and essex marshes, which become unspeakably horrible when mixed with the suspended carbon that floats above the city, are never felt at sea, and the priceless boon of health may thus be had at a less price than that paid by many middle-class families for the ministration of the physician. a splendid run from southend to sheerness may be had in any state of the tide. a yacht must go through the passage called the swashway, where the soundings are deep, but a wherry will easily pass the sands. there is nearly always a good breeze, and when the wind is strong enough to set the scuppers awash, the sensation of skimming from land to land with the speed of a bird is something to be remembered. at first, sheerness is like a low-lying cloud, but gradually the pouring mouth of the medway becomes distinct, and soon the front of the forts is seen, and we realise the full strength of the place of arms, which has been created on an island that once was a dismal swamp. england paid dearly before the value of sheerness as a strong position was recognised. twelve guns were mounted there after the restoration, but the bold ruyter minded the puny armament very little, and destroyed our fleet after passing under the very nose of the batteries. it must have been a wild time when the apple-bowed dutch men-of-war cleared the swashway, and held on straight up the medway. well might the people "think of oliver, and what brave things he did, and how he made all foreign princes fear him." the admiralty showed vigour when the dreaded ruyter was out of sight, and from that day until the present scarcely a year has passed that has not seen some addition made to the colossal works which were begun in the time of pepys. at the latter end of the last century lines of old war ships were formed into breakwaters, and each vessel was utilised as a barracks. chimneys of brick were built on the hulks, and the lines of ships looked like floating streets. under the shelter of these queer barriers the most extensive works were carried on in safety, and there is hardly a spot in the world where the victory of man over dumb obstacles is more triumphantly made apparent than in the monster basins where the war ships rest. a right instinct told our engineers that sheerness protects the heart of the nation, and the energy displayed in building the stone wall, which runs for a quarter of a mile parallel with the pier, was worthy of stephenson himself. after the great dock had been completed, which was to accommodate a dozen first-rates, it was found that, in order to make room for the huge structures, enough soil had been excavated to raise the level of the whole swamp more than fifteen feet. the history of other engineering achievements has been written at a mighty great length, but this--perhaps the most extraordinary feat on record--has met with scant notice. [illustration: sheerness dockyard, looking up the medway.] the age of iron has come in, but memories of the old times hang round the town. here is a burly hulk, moored in the swinging tide. long ago she carried her two tiers of guns; those slovenly sides were polished like a violin, and there was not a reef-point out of place. she could not sail much better than a floating haystack, and her mode of getting through the water consisted of going three miles ahead and two to leeward. but she was good enough to fight anything that she met on blue water, and she took her share of hard knocks in her time. the remnants of the men-of-war meet us everywhere, and whispers of boyish romance come to the mind as we think of their clumsy majesty. but there was not much romance in the life that went on in the ships that made our boast, and no glamour of poetry or rollicking fiction affects the minds of those who know the facts. when towering liners lay in this anchorage, and their strength was the wonder of the foreigner, it was too often true that the life of the men on board was one round of sordid slavery, starvation, and hopeless suffering. the men who fought our battles were fed worse than dogs, and flogged worse than convicts. think of all that happened when the ships were running toward the sea, down this very brave river that we have traced so far. the water-casks were filled from the befouled flood, and in a few weeks the horrible stuff was so putrid that it had to be strained through linen before it could be used, and men turned sick at the smell of the nauseous draught, which was all that they had for drinking and cooking. this unspeakable nastiness was of a piece with the rest of the life on shipboard. the work of the fighting-machine went on smoothly under iron discipline, but in most cases each ship was an abode of vice and random tyranny. we hear ridiculous talk of the great days of the navy. in those great days the men between decks lived in squalor to which paupers from the slums would object; many of them were stolen away from home and from love to go and dwell in that dim quarter among the odious hammocks; they endured shameful stripes, they drank poisonous water, they ate meat that a kennel of hounds would have refused, and they were regarded as having forfeited their manhood. then in time of need they had to stand to their guns and run the chance of being smashed by a french round-shot. truly the romance shines out but dimly when we insist on plain prose truth! [illustration: sheerness dockyard, from the river.] only about ninety years ago sheerness was covered by guns laid by angry mutineers, who had burst into rebellion after suffering wrong unspeakable. had the sailors not held their hand and offered to hear reason, they might have laid the place in ruins, and opened the way to a foreign armada. they had reason enough for anger. cheated of their pay, their food, their clothing, their liberty, imprisoned for years on pestilent foreign stations, crushed under savage discipline, they refused longer to endure a bondage that the very brute beasts would have rejected. then sheerness saw her direst danger, and then england was near a disaster from which she might never have recovered. the whole grim story of the mutiny starts out vividly as we see the very place where the admiralty messengers came in terror, and where the discarded officers were put on shore. here and there we meet with a smart, well-looking seaman, and the very look of him reminds us that the bad days are gone. jack is not like the scarecrows who clamoured for food and justice in the terrible times when sheerness was panic-struck, and gravesend reach barricaded; he looks like a free, independent man; his rights as a citizen are recognised, and no petty tyrant can lay the lash on him. the tendency to dwell on the past is almost irresistible as we move amid the stupendous evidences of modern ingenuity and resource. the clangour of hammers resounds in the dockyard. that monster, over whose iron ribs the swarming workmen clamber like midges, could have steamed quietly among nelson's fleet and sent them all to the bottom in a couple of hours. not one of them could have scratched her, not one could have run away from her, and, supposing that her ram were employed, she could have shorn through the _victory_ from bulwark to bulwark without even running the risk of being boarded. out in the stream lies the rotting hulk which once was regarded as the prime work of the human hand and brain; in dock lies the iron monster that needs neither wind nor tide--the monster which could stand the brunt of the _bellerophon's_ broadside without suffering a dent. so the world changes. it would take a month to describe the dockyard; indeed, in a single day's inspection, it is hardly possible to gain an idea of the magnitude of the place. it is a little world of industry, with a separate constitution, and separate laws. in such a vast organisation it is inevitable that blunders occur, and that woful waste goes on among the incredible masses of material that bewilder the senses. nevertheless, a sight of sheerness dockyard gives a more definite idea of british power than reams of abstract declamation and shadowy description. the town is marked off into strictly defined regions. blue town lies within the garrison limits, and is pervaded by the military. mile town faces toward the nore, and lies within a strong line of fortifications. banks town and marina front the open sea, and are clear of the atmosphere of business. the two last-named quarters form a merry little watering-place, and they are intensely modern. the sea rolls up the beach, pure and clean, and there are few signs of that dubious compound which makes the southend flat a place of fear. there the children build their sand-castles, even as the children did in homer's time by the blue eastern waters; there the enfranchised clerk carries out his peculiar system of enjoyment, and the usual happy, commonplace, invigorating life goes on during the season. if we described marina, we should only describe the typical sea-side places into which the cities empty themselves in the autumn weather. we may leave sheerness. the guide to the docks alone would occupy this book if we only indicated the points of interest. it is best merely to say that, alike to those who know the stirring history of our navy, and to those who are amused by cockney jollity, the place is worth seeing. the striped buoy rises and falls to the rhythm of the short seas, and the waving ball that surmounts the tall pole catches the eye at a long distance either riverward or eastward. this light is one of the marks that englishmen think of wherever they may be on the surface of the globe. not a passenger steamer goes past that light without a tremor of excitement running through all who are on board of her. it seems as though there were magic in the name, and whether for the sailor coming from the east indies, or from round the horn, or the coasters who have merely run down from the tyne, the words, "here we are, abreast the nore!" have a sound that acts like a charm. that worn and battered vessel that trails past you as though she were weary of infinite travel and incessant hard battering amid furious seas, has men aboard her who have chattered for hours together about all they would see and do when once they passed this point. when the seas are crashing down on the forecastle-head, and the falling water sounds like muffled drums; while the stinking lamp gutters in the foul atmosphere, then jack, as he stretches on his squalid bunk, grumbles to his mates about the delight that will come when all this is over, and the buoy heaves up well within sight; and man-o'-warsmen who beat about in rickety gun-boats on the hideous coasts of east and west africa, think with longing of the time when their cruel privations shall be over, and the magic announcement shall be made that sets the pulse of every mariner dancing. to the mere landsmen, the whole stretch of the sea around the light is pleasant to sail over. the fishermen and bargemen say, "you are sure to get a breeze down by the nore!" and there is hardly a day at any season of the year, or in any weather, on which this prophecy is not justified. the yachts that come lazily down, with their huge spinnakers spread like a swan's wing before cat's-paws that merely tremble over the surface of the thames, immediately show signs that the captains are exercising caution when they cross that breezy band. you instinctively expect to see the spinnakers taken in, and to see the swift cutters lie hard over to the mainsail and foresail they sweep round the buoy. once you have sailed to the eastward, you feel as though your craft were suspended between sea and land. on one side you have southend, glittering in colour; on the other, you have the more sombre vision of sheerness. far up the river the rippling flood advances, as it were, in steady ranks upon you; and away to the south-west the marshes glitter, and the far-off hills look cold and blue. between tide and tide a whole day of pleasure may be enjoyed by one who is content to watch merely the changes of sea and sky, and to speculate lazily as to the character of the vessels that pass in long procession. to men into whose spirits the charm of the lower river has entered, there is no form of enjoyment dearer than merely to sail past the nore, run outside near the maplin sands, and there wait until the tide turns and the inward trip can be made with ease. in a small boat it is best to keep slightly out of the track of the vessels that are running into the swin, and to hit the happy medium between those that are going north about and those that are travelling south. the colliers go by flying light; the men on board are tolerably lazy; and as the dirty, rusty hulks lumber by, the seamen wave a kindly greeting. smart, clean-built scandinavian barques claw their way down, and the leisurely barges--which we have mentioned so often--pass by, laden to an extent that excites wonder at the temerity of the cool ruffians who man them. [illustration: mouth of the thames--low water.] amid this unceasing panorama, every separate picture of which tells some fresh and strange story of far-off regions, of grimy labour, of storm and peril, it is easy for men who are content with a day of small things to sit for hours and hours, perhaps only exchanging monosyllabic comments on each new-comer. the most glorious sight of the many that may be seen at the nore comes when some mighty sailing-ship looms to the northward of the marshes, and swims grandly on in the wake of her puffing, fussy little tug. as the two come on in their brief procession the tug represents mind; the vessel represents matter. that great ship that will so soon perhaps be sweeping down the league-long seas southward of the horn trails meekly in the wake of a fat little screw, which could be placed on the deck of the convoy without causing a great deal of inconvenience. the ship is the embodiment of grace--the tug is the embodiment of ugliness; and yet until the river is clear the tug is master. but supposing a fine breeze springs up, then, of a sudden, there is a stir on board the vessel. from afar off you cannot tell exactly what is being done, but you know that presently her white wings will be shaken out; and, sure enough, as the vessel strikes the open, the sails fall--a cloud seems to spring from the water as if from the touch of a magician. then the tug swings discreetly aside. little by little, the wind lays its hand on each of the bellying sails and thrusts them out, till their broad bosoms glint in the sunshine and the hulk lunges and gathers way under their steady pull. the wind gains power, and the ship comes on with a creamy ripple of foam ringing her bows like some dainty ornament; and, with a sweep, she passes you by, leaving a billowy wake behind her; and before your last cheer has died into silence she is away on her journey. when one of the great four-masters glides out under her towers of canvas there is something in the sight that brings one's heart into his mouth. it never grows stale. you see the great hull with a line of wistful faces peering over the bulwark, and you know that you are only gazing upon a common-place emigrant ship. yet the most prosaic of men comes to think of this majestic structure as a living being, and the poorest emigrant that ever wept over his farewells at gravesend acquires a certain dignity from being carried away by her. shore-going folk often wonder at the contented impassivity of seamen who happen to have an idle hour in which to stare at the ships and the water. observe an ordinary east coast seaman spending his leisure. his eyes seem devoid of speculation, he stares sleepily seaward, and when he talks to a companion he uses brief, ill-formed sentences. but his mind is active, and if you listen to his low comments you will find that, in a quiet way, he studies the water and its passing burdens as men study a beloved book. if a ship is detained to wait for a tide or a pilot, the sailors find their pastime in contemplation and rude comment which the landsman does not understand. if that landsman only spent a while in a yacht on the lower river they would learn that the solemn men who look so still and melancholy are probably feeling a placid pleasure, and the fixed silence is the expression of a sober contentment that cannot find expression in words. when our full-rigged vessel goes rolling away with the wind rushing hoarsely out of her courses the sailor feels acute delight; but he only grunts his admiration. the landsman may be excused if he breaks into unwonted ejaculations, and we have recognised our own right to the landsman's privilege. the present writer can never forget the shock of surprise with which he first saw a full-rigged ship slashing seaward from the lower hope. he rose as the dawn was painting the river with flashes of gold, and, lo! to leeward of the yacht, within forty yards, the monster ship was shouldering her way through the dappled flood. the smaller vessel was lying down till her copper gleamed to windward, and the swashing stream surged aft and rolled nearly up to the companion; but the little "floating chisel" could not long hold her own against the cloud-capped castle, and soon we watched her drawing proudly away on her long journey. the trim gardens, the rich air of ordered beauty, the lovely song of birds--all the things that greet the senses on the upper river are pleasant to the senses, but nothing in the gliding shallows that we love so well could equal the majesty, the strength, the glory, of that noble ship; and the sight of her was something to remember in happy nights when one cannot sleep for the delight of living. [illustration: artillery practice at shoeburyness.] sometimes, when loitering northward of the nore, we hear a sullen boom, and feel a tremor in the air. the artillerymen are at work on the ranges at shoeburyness, and some tremendous piece of artillery is pitching masses of iron seaward. there is no danger, for it rarely happens that even an unwary bargeman ventures near the forbidden region. in our time we only remember one accident. the eighty-one ton gun had hurled a shrapnel shell over a distance of about six miles. on the landward side, the whole of the windows within a quarter of a mile were shivered from out the frames, and the officers' quarters were left desolate; while, to seaward, a great massacre took place among a flock of unwary gulls. but this is the only loss of life that has been caused by the projectiles which scream over the broad shallows. to persons of a military turn, shoebury is a most interesting quarter. everything is so trim, so business-like, so ineffably military; and the work goes on so calmly that no one would think that the groups of stern officers and dashing artillerymen were studying the art of destruction. in summer, when the volunteers are encamped, the whole place breaks into merriment as soon as the toilsome competitions are over, and the forts are well worth a visit from a tourist. the picturesque is lacking, but once more, the power--the immeasurable reserve force--of our nation strikes on the mind and wakens a feeling of pride. [illustration: gravesend to the nore.] morning on the upper river is joyous, and all through the bright summer days a sense of keen gladness grows with every hour. the sleepy afternoons, when the silence broods over the reaches like a voice, carry the day-long symphony of gladness through yet another movement; and in the evening, when the clear stars speak silence from their glimmering eyes, and wash the dusk with silver, everything grows beautiful, tender, and kindly to the thoughtful soul. the upper river is like a delicate lady, clad in all daintiness, and beaming with gentle beauty. the lower river is like a burly man, who urges his way through his career with a sense of strength, with a disdain of obstacle, with a brutal persistence that keep up the masculine character. from the places where the ships curtsy at their creaking tiers, to the splendid stretch where the sea-breeze blows shrill, chilly with flecks of foam, every yard is vivid with interest. we believe that no man ever grew tired of the upper river. people haunt its reaches year after year, till it seems as though all the blessed summers were blended into one memory. we cannot think with joy of summer on the lower river; but the bitter winter days, the scream of keen blasts, the monstrous procession that connects the world of the city with the great world of the outer sea--all these things are never-fading when once their impact has fairly gained the recesses of the soul. old sportsmen may still be found who shot over the saltings or glided round the forbidding points of the lower thames in their youth; the habit never leaves them, and, as the seasons roll, these men find their keenest delight from prowling among the shadowy marshes or facing the salt, shrill wind that pulses and beats around the nore. sometimes a cockney sceptic may be found who shudders and speaks of the lower river as a place of horror. he sighs for the glades of clieveden, for the mossy chestnuts of hampton court, for the sloping gardens of sunbury. but let a wise sportsman take the sceptic's education in hand; let his wayward mind be disciplined by merry days among the swarming saltings, and he will acquire a taste that will be lasting. if he is judiciously taught he may come at last to feel the true ecstasy, the mysterious poetry, that touch the soul on shining nights when the moon-silvered roll of the water is gladsome, and the shadowy ships steal away to the sea. then the sordid flats are touched into beauty by the cold gleam, and the winds, and the waters, and the sailing clouds, and the quiet ships pass like a mystic pageant, fleeting, fleeting, ever eastward. the veriest townsman that ever waked the echoes under kingston bridge with his clamour will own at such a time that few sights in england are finer than the noble outflow of our splendid river. /j. runciman/. [illustration: outward bound--passing the nore light.] index. abbey church at dorchester, 72 ---of abingdon, 63 abingdon bridge, 63 ----, abbatial parlours at, 64 ----, environs of, 68 ----, market cross at, 65 ----, market-place of, 64 ----, shrine at, 66 ---to streatley, 62 to 84 ----, town of, 62 abney house, 134 above oxford, 1 to 32 albert bridge, windsor, 169 ---docks, 303, 320 ---embankment, 266 ancient stone cross at abingdon, 65 "angler's rest," the, 176 angling in the thames, 13, 28, 29, 90, 107, 161, 170, 172, 186, 187, 193, 197, 218 ankerwyke house, 173 antiquity of streatley and goring, 87 appleford bridge, 70 apps court at hampton, 200 artillery ranges at shoeburyness, 360 asiatic home, 304 aston ferry, 119 avon canal, 99 b bablock hythe, 24 bampton, 20 bankside, southwark, 282 barges on the thames, 57 barking abbey, 326 ---reach, 327 "barley mow," the, 71 barn elms, 253 barnes common, 248 ----, the village of, 248 basildon ferry, 88 ----, village of, 88 battersea bridge, 258 ---park, 264 ---reach, 257 bear garden, southwark, 282 beauchamp tower, 300 beefeaters and guards at the tower, 301 "beetle and wedge," the, 82 bell weir lock, 173 "bells of ouseley" tavern, 172 belot, the arctic explorer, 316 benedictine novices at oxford, 39 benfleet station, 342, 345 bensington, the village of, 77 ---lock, 78 bermondsey and tooley street, 298 billingsgate fish-market, 291, 292, 294 binsey, the village of, 32 bird life on the thames, 18 birthplace of river thames, 2 bisham and its ghost, 126 ---church, 127 ---house, 125 ---priory, 126 ---woods, 149 bishopric of london and fulham palace, 255 "black cherry fair," 187 blackfriars bridge, 277 blackwall, 319 blenheim park, 27 bolney court, 104 botanical gardens at battersea, 262 boulter's lock, 141 bourne end, 133 boveney lock, 151 boyle farm and the "dandies' fête," 209 boyne hill, 142 bray, 145 bream fishing at dagenham, 325 brentford, town of, 246 brethren of the holy rood and abingdon, 65 bridge at richmond, 235 ---ward without, 282 bridgwater canal, 56 burrow marsh, 103 bushey park, 204, 219 bye-laws of the watermen's company, 340 c canal from birmingham to oxford, 56 canute's country, 21 canvey island, 345 ---point, 345, 349 capital of wessex, the, 73 carp in the river, 111 cassington church, 30 castle eaton bridge, 12 caversham bridge, 94 ---warren, 94 "cawsam hill," 93 chaucer and southwark, 282 chelsea and neighbourhood, 260 ----, cheyne walk, 262 ---don saltero's coffee-house, 262 ----, great cheyne row, 262 ---hospital, 263 ---suspension bridge, 264 chertsey, angling at, 186 to 188 ---bridge, 185 ----, bridge house at, 189 ---church and bell, 186, 188 ---fairs, 187 ---mead, 184 ----, st. ann's hill at, 189 cherwell bridge at oxford, 50 cheyne walk, chelsea, 260, 262 chiltern hills, 86 chilton lodge, 98 chinese barges and weirs, 56 chiswick house, 250 christ's hospital at abingdon, 67 church of old windsor, 170 ---of st. peter ad vincula, 301 ---of st. helen at old abingdon, 68 churn, the, 7, 8 clasper's boathouse, 37 cleeve lock, 82 cleopatra's needle, 274 cliefden house, 136, 138 ---woods, 134, 138 cliff creek, gravesend, 336 clifton bridge, 71 ---hampden, 70 coarse fish in the thames, 109 commercial docks, 307 conservancy of the river, 179 convent at isleworth, 240 ---of sheen, 237 cookham bridge, 135 ---church, 136 cooper's hill, 175 coronation stone at kingston, 214 courses of the thames, the, 34 cowey stakes at walton, 195 cowley's house at chertsey, 108 craven house, 254 cricklade, the town of, 10 crockham hill, 190 cross ness sewage works, 326 crowmarsh gifford, parish of, 78 culham court, 119 ---lock, 69 cumnor, the village of, 24 custom house, 291, 296 d dace and roach in the river, 111 dagenham breach, 325 ---lake, 325 danesfield house, 123 dartford, 330 datchet mead and falstaff, 168, 169 day's lock, 70 denham's description of the thames, 175 deptford dockyard, 211 ---and peter the great, 315 disused weirpools, 23 dock labourers, 314 dominican and franciscan teachers at oxford, 39 don saltero's coffee-house and thomas carlyle, 262 dorchester abbey, 70 dorchester abbey church, 73 dorchester, capital of wessex, 73 duelling at barn elms, 254 dufford ferry, 21 dumb-barges on the river, 312 dyers' company and the swans, 133 e early names of the thames, 4 east india docks, 310, 315 eel boats, 343 eelbucks at chasey farm, 94 eel pie island, 222 egham, town of, 178 english frigate _warspite_, the, 324 environs of abingdon, 68 epitaphs in bensington churchyard, 78 erith, 327, 329 erkenwald's monastery at chertsey, 186 essex marshes, 342 eton, 151 ----, chapel at, 164 ---college buildings, 162 ----, founder of the chapel, 165 ---montem, 166 ---or waterton, 164 ----, provosts at, 163 ----, rouse's scholarships at, 163 ----, speech day at, 165 exciting race from cookham to marlow, 147 eynsham bridge, 27 ---cross, 27 ----, the village of, 27 ---weir, 25 f fairford and the coln, 13 "fair mile," the, 115 famous grotto at twickenham, 222 farringdon, the town of, 20 fawley court and its history, 117, 118 first lock, 14 fish at billingsgate, 294, 295 ---in the thames, 13, 28, 29, 76, 99, 161, 170, 172, 193, 194, 197, 218 fishers' row, 34 fishmongers' hall, 288 ---procession, 291 fish street hill, 294 "flash" locks, 55 flyfishers' club at hungerford, 98 fly-fishing in the river, 111 flooding the river, 56 flowers, some thames, 16 folly bridge, 32 ------lock, 55 fords at shefford, 21 foreign cattle market at deptford, 316 four noted abbeys, 95 ---streams, the, 35 franciscans at medmenham, 120, 121 ---and the monkey, 121 francis rouse and eton, 163 "french horn" inn, 100 freshwater wharf, 291, 292 frogmore, 159, 167 fulham and its market gardens, 256 ---and putney, 254 ---church, 256 ---palace, 255 g garrick's villa at hampton, 198 girls rowing and steering, 150 godstow nunnery, ruins of, 31 ----, the village of, 30 goring church, 87 ---mill, 86 ---toll-gate, 87 ---weir, 86 great marlow, 129 -------, the church and its "curiosities," 129 -------, the deanery at, 130 ------weir and locks, 131 gravesend reach, 336 ----, the town of, 333 ---to the nore, 337 to 362 grayling in the kennet, 98 greenhithe, 327, 328, 330 greenwich hospital, 316 ---observatory, 319 ---park, 318, 319 grotto at goring, 88 ---at oatlands, 191 groves at bisham, 132 ---of kew, the, 241 gudgeon in the thames, 176, 177 guild of pilots at gravesend, 339 h hadleigh castle, 348 halliford bridge, 194 ham, village of, 225 ---weir, 12 hambledon lock and its islands, 119 hammersmith suspension bridge, 251 hampton court, 201, 202 ------bridge, 200 ------chestnut avenue, 204 -------, christmas at, 207 -------, english brickwork at, 203 -------, fountain court, 206 ------great hall, 204 -------, painted windows in great hall, 205 -------, park at, 207 -------, picture gallery at, 206 ------to richmond, 211 to 228 hampton house, 198 ---wick, 213 hannington bridge, 12 hardwicke house, 91 hart's weir, 17 ---wood, 88 hedsor park, 136 hennerton backwater, 104 henley and its natural scenery, 113 ---bridge and its builder, 115 ---church, 114 ---races, 115 ---regatta, 117 ----, the riparian metropolis, 107 ---to maidenhead, 113 to 142 ----, town of, 113 hinksey stream, the, 37 history of kew gardens, 241 hogarth's frolic, 289 holme park woods, 100 houses of parliament, the, 267 howberry park, 78 hungerford, famous for trout, 98 hurley and its islands, 123 hurlingham, 257 hythe bridge, 34 i iffley lock, 55 ---mill, 54 inglesham weir, 13 ingress abbey, 330 inns at rotherhithe, 307 inscriptions in bensington church, 78 invention of rowing, 54 isis, the head of the, 3 ---and the thames, the, 72 isle of dogs, 308, 310 ---of osney, 37 ---of thorns, the, 186 isleworth, town of, 239 izaak walton at datchet, 169 j jesus hospital at bray, 146 k kempsford, 12 kennington, the village of, 58 kentish marshes, 344 keston heath, 316 kew bridge, 246 ---churchyard, 246 ---foot lane, 227 ---gardens, 237, 239, 241 -------, chinese pagoda in, 245 -------, palm-house in, 243 ---green, 246 ---observatory, 237, 239 ---palace and the "dutch house," 241, 242 kingston-on-thames, 212, 215 ---bridge, 211 ---church, 206, 215 ----, coronation stone at, 214 kingston, rowing clubs at, 211 king's weir, 30 kitcat club, the, 253 l lady place and its history, 123 laleham and dr. arnold, 182 ---church, 183 ---ferry, 182 ---house, 183 lambeth, borough of, 264 ---palace, 266 -------, archbishop laud and, 267 langley or ridge's weir, 23 lechlade, the town of, 14 leigh, the village of, 349 limehouse church, 308 little marlow, 132 littlecote park, 98 littlemore, the village of, 58 lollards' tower, lambeth, 266, 267 london bridge and its history, 284, 286 ---and its traffic, 284 ---docks, the, 303 "long reach" tavern, 329 long walk at windsor, 167 lower hope, the, 341 ludgate hill and the temple of diana, 278 m magna charta island, 174 maidenhead or maidenhithe, 141, 143, 145 ---bridge, 145 main stream for barges at oxford, 37 mapledurham house, 93 ---mill and weir, 92 maplin sands, 357 market cross of abingdon, 65 marking swans, 133 marlborough, the town of, 99 marlow bridge, 130 marsh lock, 105 medley weir, 32 medmenham abbey, 120 middle temple hall, 277 millbank prison, 264 millwall docks, 310, 312 mongewell house, 80 monkey island, 151 monument, the, 291 morning on the lower thames, 337 mortlake and its history, 247 moulsey hurst, 199 moulsford bridge, 80 mysteries of fly-fishing, 111 n names of boat landings and stairs, 307 national society's training college at battersea, 260 navigation of the iffley, 55 newbridge, 22 newbury, the town of, 99 newton murren, church of, 80 new battersea, 264 noah's ark weir, 23 nore, the, 357 northfleet, 330 ---hope, 339 north woolwich gardens, 324 ------pier, 324 nuneham lock, 55 ----, heights of, 59 ---reach, 61 nunnery of sion, the, 237 o oatlands and its history, 192 ---grotto, 191 ---palace and park, 190, 191 "ocean tramps," 338 ock street at abingdon, 68 old buscot, the village of, 16 "old chelsea bun-house," 262 ------church, 260 "old crabtree inn," 252 old london bridge and its history, 285 ----------, nonsuch house on, 286 ----------, st. thomas's chapel on, 286 ---------traitors' gate on, 286 ------theatres, 282 old navigation stream, 35 old st. paul's church, 280 old windsor, 170 oldest stone bridge, the, 22 origin of "the merry wives of windsor," 159 osier farm on the thames, 88 osney abbey, 39 oxford to abingdon, 33 to 61 ----, architectural revival at, 47, 50 ----, austin friars at, 39 ----, black friars of, 38 ---canal, 37 ----, carmelites or white friars at, 39 ----, chapel of brasenose at, 49 ----, church of st. martin at carfax at, 40 ----, college of st. mary winton, 43 ----, colleges at, 42 ----, degrees at, 42 ----, disputations at, 48 ----, early colleges at, 43 ----, eleanor cross at, 51 ----, grey friars of, 38 ----, halls at, 43 ----, houses of the friars at, 34 ----, lincoln college of priests at, 46 ----, magdalen bridge, 50 -------, college at, 44 ----, mendicant order of friars at, 38 ----, midnight at, 54 ----, oriel barge at, 57 ----, preacher's pool at, 38 ----, sheldonian theatre at, 40 ----, the buildings of, 37 ----, the town of, 33 ----, trill mill stream at, 38 ----, undergraduate revival at, 52 ---university and parish churches, 38 p pacey's bridge, 35 palace of richmond and its history, 233, 234 ---of westminster, 268, 270 pangbourne, village of, 89 park place and its history, 105 paul's walk, 279 "pedlar's acre," lambeth, 266 penton hook lock, 181 "perdita's" grave, 169 petersham park, 226 phillimore island, 104 picnic island, 175, 176 pike and perch fishing, 110 pilots and watermen, 339, 340 pimlico, district of, 264 pink hill lock, 27 ------weir, 27 pleasant pictures at bray, 150 plumstead marshes, 326 "pool," the, 301, 302 pope's villa at twickenham, 222 porch house, chertsey, 188 port meadows, 32 prisoners at windsor, 158 prize-fighting at moulsey, 199 pudding lane, 294 "puppy pie" at marlow bridge, 130 purfleet, town of, 328 purley hall, 93 ----, the village of, 93 putney and fulham, 254 ---bridge, 255 ---heath, 255 q quarry woods, 131 queen bess and the custom house, 297 "queen's tobacco pipe," the, 305 queenhithe and the tax on fish, 294 r racing yachts on the thames, 338 radcot bridge, 18 radley, the village of, 58 ramsbury manor, 98 ranelagh club, barn elms, 254 ---gardens, 263 ratcliff highway, 305 ray mead, 141 reaches on the river, 309 reading abbey, 95 ---at the time of the plague, 96 ----, the town of, 95 rearing ponds at sunbury, 197 "red lion" at henley, 115 regatta island, 117 relics of "roman london," 292 remenham hill, 114, 119 rewley abbey, 39 richmond, 227 ----, asgill house, 230, 232 ---bridge, 229 ---church, 234 ---green, 232, 234 ----, mansfield house at, 228 ---old deer park, 237 ----, old palace of sheen, 230 ---palace, 231 richmond, queensberry house, 232, 234 ----, "star and garter" hotel, 227 ----, the hill at, 227 ----, trumpeters' house, 232 ----, water supply of, 235 river churn, the, 8 ---cole, the, 13 ---coln, the, 13 ---cray, the, 329 ---darent, the, 329 ---evenlode, the, 27 ---iffley, 54 ---isis, the, 11 ---kennet, the, 95, 97 ---lea, the, 319 ---lech, the, 16 ---loddon, the, 102 ---ravensbourne, the, 316 ---windrush, the, 21 ---witham, the, 34 riverside amusements, 115 ---inns, 180 ---solitude, 72 roach, dace, and gudgeon in the river, 111 romantic episodes, 154, 157 roman fortifications at dorchester, 73 romney island, 165 rose isle, 58 rosherville gardens, 333 rotherhithe, 306 ---railway station, 307 round house at inglesham, 13 rowdyism on the thames, 144 rowing clubs at kingston, 211 ---on the river, 54, 146 royal albert dock, 320 ---gardens at kew, 239, 243 ---naval college, greenwich, 317 ---river, the, 241 rules of the company of watermen, 339 runnymede, 174, 175 ruscombe, the village of, 105 rushy lock, the, 20 s sailors and their ways, 306 sailors' home, 304 salesmen's cries at billingsgate, 295 salmon in the thames, 109 salt hill, 166 sandford mill, 58 st. helen's church at abingdon, 66 st. katharine's docks, 303 st. magnus' church, billingsgate, 291 st. nicholas' church at abingdon, 64 st. olave's church, bermondsey, 298 st. patrick's stream, 103 st. paul's cathedral, 277, 278 ---"paul's walk" in, 280 st. saviour's church, southwark, 283 st. stephen's chapel at westminster, 270 st. thomas's hospital, lambeth, 266 scenery at pangbourne, 90 sewage of london, 316 ---pumping stations, 316 sewer works at barking, 326 seven springs, the, 6 severn canal and thames, 9 shakspeare and windsor, 159 shelley and great marlow, 129 sheerness and its history, 353 ---dockyard, 356 shepperton, village of, 194 shillingford bridge, 76, 77 shiplake lock, 104 shipping in the pool, 290, 291 shoeburyness, 360 shrimps at gravesend, 334 shrimp hampers at leigh, 350 shrine at abingdon, 66 skinner's weir, 27 silvertown, the colony of, 322 sinking of the cambridge boat, 250, 251 sinodun hill, 72, 76 sion house, 239 somerford keynes, 10 somerset house, 274 sonning bridge, 100 sonning-on-thames, 100 source of the thames, 1 southend, the town of, 350 ---pier, 350 southley, 167 southwark bridge, 280 spawning season, 109 spring well at goring, 87 staines "deep," 179 ----, linoleum works at, 178 ----, village of, 178 stanton harcourt, 25 state barge at teddington, 218 steam launches on the thames, 29, 110, 144, 167, 170 stepney, 308 stoke ferry, 81 stone church at greenhithe, 330 strange names of places, 298 strathfieldsaye park, 102 strawberry hill at twickenham, 220 streatley hills, 80 ---mill, 83, 86 ---the mecca of painters, 85 ---to henley, 85 to 112 ---tower, 84 ---weirs, 83 sundial at kew, 243 supposed site of saxon palace, 171 surbiton, 211 surley hall, 151 surrey docks, 308 swallowfield, 103 "swan," the, thames ditton, 209 swans on the thames, 133 swashway, the, 353 t "tabard" inn, southwark, 282 tadpole bridge, 20 tapestry works at windsor, 171 taplow court, 141 ---woods, 141 teddington, 215, 218 ----, state barge at, 218 ----, "the anglers" at, 216 ----, tombs in church at, 219 ---weir, 14, 218 temple, the, 276 temple bar, 167 ---gardens, 276 temple's (sir w.) orangery at sheen, 239 tenfoot weir, 21 thames angling, 107 ------preservation society, 108, 197 ---and severn canal, 8, 9 ---and the isis, 72 ---at windsor, 161 ----, birthplace of, 2 ---commission, 56 ---conservancy board, 179 ---ditton, 207 ----, early names of, 4 ---embankment, 277 ---flowers, 16 ---haven, 344 ---head, 2 ---parade, 101 ---sailing club, 211 ----, source of the, 1 ---street, 294 ---subway, 299 ---swans, 133 ---trout, 109 ---tunnel, 306 ---valley, the, 62 ------church, 209, 210 ---watermen, 288 the upper and lower river, a comparison, 361 tilbury and its memories, 331, 341 ---docks, 330 ---fort, 332, 341 ---marshes, 330, 342 tithing salmon, 186 tooley street and the three tailors, 298 tower hill, 299 ---of london, 299 training ships on the thames, 329 traitor's gate, 286 "tramps," the, of the ocean, 338 trewsbury mead, 8 trill mill stream at oxford, 38 trinity house, 299 tripcock reach, 327 trout-fishing on the thames, 13, 90, 109 "trout" inn at lechlade, 15 ---stream at pangbourne, 90 twickenham, 220 ----, orleans house, 223 ---parish church, 222 ----, pope's tomb, 223 ----, pope's villa at, 222 ----, strawberry hill at, 220 ----, york house, 223 u university barge, the, 57 ---boat club at oxford, 55 ---boat race, the first, 118 ---------on the thames, 250 upper, lower, and middle pools, 302 v vale of the kennet, the, 99 vauxhall, 264 victoria bridge at pimlico, 264 ---dock at blackwall, 303, 320, 321 ---embankment, 274 vintners' company and the swans, 133 w walker's picture of the "harbour of refuge," 146 wallingford castle and museum, 79 ----, the town of, 78, 79 walton-on-thames, 195 ----, ashley park at, 196 ----, cowey stakes at, 195 ----, the bridge at, 194 ----, the scold's bridle at, 196 wandsworth brewery, 257 wapping, 308 ---old stairs, 301, 308 wargrave hill, 104 water-fowl at penton hook, 181 water gate of inigo jones, 275 water hay bridge, 10 waterloo bridge, 275 watermen's company, rules of, 339, 340 west india docks, 314 ---mill at somerford, 10 westminster, city of, 267 ---abbey, 269, 270, 271 ---bridge, 273 ---hall, 269, 270, 272 ----, history of, 270 ---palace, 268, 270 weybridge, 190 ---green, 192 whitchurch lock, 89 whitebait fishing at gravesend, 334, 335 white friars or carmelites at oxford, 39 white place, near cliefden, 139 wild-fowl shooting, 342, 344 willow-peeling, 89 windsor, albert bridge at, 168 ---castle and its history, 152 ---castle as a palace and as a prison, 158 ----, great park at, 159, 160, 166 ----, herne's oak at, 166 ----, home park at, 166 ----, long walk at, 167 ----, queen's walk at, 167 ----, round tower at, 158 ----, st. george's chapel at, 154 ----, the merry wives of, 159 ----, town of, 159, 160 ----, victoria bridge near, 169 wine cellars of the london docks, 304 witham hill, 28 wittenham clump, 70 wolsey's, cardinal, college at oxford, 66 ---tower at henley, 114 wolvercott, village of, 31 woodstock, the town of, 27 woolwich arsenal, 323 ---barracks, 322 ---church, 322 ---dockyard, 323 ---reach, 322 wraysbury church, 173 ---village of, 174 y yachting at gravesend, 333 york house, 274 table of distances _taken, by permission of the author, from taunt's "guide to the thames."_ ==================================================== _m_. _f_. _yds_. thames head to cricklade 11 6 2 seven springs " 20 4 0 ==================================================== above oxford. _m_. _f_. _yds_. cricklade to oxford 43 7 2 water eaton bridge to oxford 41 7 152 castle eaton bridge " 39 3 44 kempsford " 37 7 0 rannington bridge " 36 5 88 inglesham round house " 33 2 0 lechlade bridge " 32 4 88 st. john's " 31 7 0 buscot lock " 30 5 170 hart's weir " 29 3 20 radcot bridge " 26 2 100 old man's bridge " 25 1 110 rushy lock " 23 0 110 tadpole bridge " 22 1 54 tenfoot bridge " 20 3 0 duxford ferry " 18 4 59 new bridge " 15 1 166 ridge's weir " 14 0 104 bablock hythe ferry " 11 4 34 skinner's weir " 9 7 0 pinkle lock " 8 7 0 eynsham bridge " 7 2 193 king's weir " 4 4 32 godston lock " 3 2 99 medley weir " 1 7 36 osney lock " 0 7 0 ==================================================== oxford to putney. -------------------------+----------------+----------------+--------------- | from place | from oxford | from london | to place. |(folly bridge). | (putney br.). -------------------------+----------------+----------------+--------------- |_m_. _f_. _yds_.|_m_. _f_. _yds_.|_m_. _f_. _yds_. oxford bridge | 0 0 0 | 0 0 0 |104 3 66 iffley lock | 1 3 150 | 1 3 150 |102 7 136 rose island | 0 6 124 | 2 2 54 |102 1 12 sandford lock | 0 6 166 | 3 1 0 |101 2 66 nuneham bridge | 2 5 160 | 5 6 160 | 98 4 126 abingdon lock | 1 7 60 | 7 6 0 | 96 5 66 abingdon bridge | 0 3 211 | 8 1 211 | 96 1 75 culham lock | 2 0 0 | 10 1 211 | 94 1 75 appleford railway bridge | 1 2 76 | 11 4 67 | 92 6 219 clifton lock | 1 4 54 | 13 0 121 | 91 2 165 clifton bridge | 0 3 140 | 13 4 41 | 90 7 25 day's lock | 2 4 40 | 16 0 81 | 88 2 205 junction of river thame | 0 6 180 | 16 7 41 | 87 4 25 keen edge ferry | 1 0 140 | 17 7 181 | 86 3 105 shillingford bridge | 0 6 100 | 18 6 61 | 85 5 5 benson lock | 1 2 30 | 20 0 91 | 84 2 195 wallingford bridge | 1 2 0 | 21 2 91 | 83 0 195 nuneham ferry | 0 4 70 | 21 6 161 | 82 4 125 stoke ferry | 2 1 0 | 23 7 161 | 80 3 125 moulsford railway bridge | 0 5 46 | 24 4 207 | 79 6 79 moulsford ferry | 0 5 64 | 25 2 51 | 79 1 15 cleeve lock | 1 2 78 | 26 4 129 | 77 6 157 goring lock | 0 5 0 | 27 1 129 | 77 1 157 basildon railway bridge | 1 2 61 | 28 3 190 | 75 7 96 gate hampton ferry | 0 2 66 | 28 6 36 | 75 5 30 whitchurch lock | 2 4 33 | 31 2 69 | 73 0 217 mapledurham lock | 2 2 70 | 33 4 139 | 70 6 147 the "roebuck" | 0 7 145 | 34 4 64 | 69 7 2 caversham bridge | 2 6 206 | 37 3 50 | 67 0 16 caversham lock | 0 4 120 | 37 7 170 | 66 3 116 river kennet's mouth | 0 5 120 | 38 5 70 | 65 5 216 sonning lock | 1 7 28 | 40 4 98 | 63 6 188 sonning bridge | 0 2 60 | 40 6 158 | 63 4 128 shiplake lock | 2 4 66 | 43 3 4 | 61 0 62 shiplake ferry | 1 0 38 | 44 3 42 | 60 0 24 boulney ferry | 1 0 44 | 45 3 86 | 58 7 200 marsh lock | 0 4 78 | 45 7 164 | 58 4 122 henley bridge | 0 7 109 | 46 7 53 | 57 4 13 hambledon lock | 2 2 35 | 49 1 88 | 55 1 198 medmenham ferry | 2 0 66 | 51 1 154 | 53 1 132 hurley lock | 1 4 168 | 52 6 102 | 51 4 184 temple lock | 0 5 23 | 53 3 125 | 50 7 161 marlow bridge | 1 3 201 | 54 7 106 | 49 3 180 marlow lock | 0 1 107 | 55 0 213 | 49 2 73 spade oak ferry | 2 0 205 | 57 1 198 | 47 1 88 cookham bridge | 1 5 66 | 58 7 44 | 45 4 22 cookham lower ferry | 0 4 110 | 59 3 154 | 44 7 132 cliefden ferry | 0 3 44 | 59 6 198 | 44 4 88 boulter's lock | 1 3 178 | 61 2 156 | 43 0 130 maidenhead bridge | 0 5 70 | 62 0 6 | 42 3 60 bray lock | 1 3 152 | 63 3 158 | 40 7 128 monkey island | 0 4 128 | 64 0 66 | 40 3 0 boveney lock | 2 5 0 | 66 5 66 | 37 6 0 windsor bridge | 1 7 90 | 68 4 156 | 35 6 130 romney lock | 0 3 96 | 69 0 32 | 35 3 34 victoria bridge | 0 6 34 | 69 6 66 | 34 5 0 albert bridge | 1 3 6 | 71 1 72 | 33 1 214 old windsor lock | 0 6 214 | 72 0 66 | 32 3 0 magna charta island | 1 3 0 | 73 3 66 | 31 0 0 bell weir lock | 1 3 157 | 74 7 3 | 29 4 63 staines bridge | 0 7 195 | 75 6 198 | 28 4 88 penton hook lock | 1 6 168 | 77 5 146 | 26 5 140 laleham ferry | 0 6 140 | 78 4 66 | 25 7 0 chertsey lock | 1 1 4 | 79 5 70 | 24 5 216 shepperton lock | 1 7 183 | 81 5 33 | 22 6 33 halliford point | 1 2 33 | 82 7 66 | 21 4 0 walton bridge | 0 6 156 | 83 6 2 | 20 5 64 sunbury lock | 1 5 130 | 85 3 132 | 18 7 154 hampton ferry | 2 0 110 | 87 4 22 | 16 7 44 moulsey lock | 0 6 110 | 88 2 132 | 16 0 154 thames ditton | 1 0 209 | 89 3 121 | 14 7 165 kingston bridge | 1 7 55 | 91 2 176 | 13 0 110 teddington lock | 1 6 88 | 93 1 44 | 11 2 22 eel pie island | 1 1 22 | 94 2 66 | 10 1 0 richmond bridge | 1 4 140 | 95 6 206 | 8 4 80 kew bridge | 2 7 124 | 98 6 110 | 5 4 176 barnes railway bridge | 2 0 178 |100 7 68 | 3 3 218 hammersmith bridge | 1 5 196 |102 5 44 | 1 6 22 putney bridge | 1 6 22 |104 3 66 | 0 0 0 between putney bridge and london bridge. _m_. _f_. putney bridge to london bridge 7 3-1/2 battersea railway bridge " " 5 5 battersea bridge " " 5 0 chelsea bridge " " 4 0 vauxhall bridge " " 2 7-3/4 lambeth bridge " " 2 3-1/4 westminster bridge " " 1 7-3/4 charing cross railway bridge " " 1 4-3/4 waterloo bridge " " 1 2-3/4 blackfriars bridge " " 0 6-1/4 southwark bridge " " 0 2-1/2 cannon street railway bridge " " 0 1-1/4 ===================================================== below london bridge. _m_. _f_. thames tunnel to london bridge 1 4 deptford dockyard " " 3 5 deptford creek " " 4 2 blackwall pier " " 5 7 woolwich arsenal " " 9 3-1/2 barking creek " " 11 1 erith " " 15 6 dartford creek " " 17 3 greenhithe " " 20 4 grays thurrock " " 22 3-1/2 gravesend " " 25 1 mucking creek " " 30 5 yantlet creek " " 40 3-1/2 yantlet creek to the nore 5 miles (nautical) /printed by cassell & company, limited, la belle sauvage, london, e.c./ footnotes: [footnote 1: on this subject _see_ goldie: "a bygone oxford;" and fletcher: "the blackfriars in oxford."] [footnote 2: macray: "notes from the muniments of st. mary magdalen college, oxford."] [footnote 3: wordsworth: "scholæ academicæ."] [footnote 4: macaulay, "history of england."] [footnote 5: the old "garter" inn stood in the high street, nearly facing the castle hill, and adjoining the site of the present "white hart" hotel. "annals of windsor" (tighe & davis).] [footnote 6: pennant's "history of london."] [footnote 7: tennyson's "lotos-eaters."] 