EDITOR'S NOTE: Charles Mackay's route is
UPSTREAM from London Bridge to the Sources;
and then DOWNSTREAM from London Bridge to the Sea ending with the River Medway
and then a final chapter on the FROST FAIRS.
The banks of our river abound with scenes
which are hallowed by the recollections of history, romance, and poetry; and to recal these
recollections in the very spots where the events
occurred, to jog his reader's memory, and to
act the part of a gossiping, not a prosy, fellow
traveller, has been the design of the author in
the following pages.
He hopes that in the
prosecution of this design, if he be not found
learned, he will not be considered dull.
He
may have dwelt upon familiar things; but the
man whose object is to remind, rather than to
instruct - to suggest what may have been for
gotten, rather than to tell what is new, could
not well do otherwise.
In a work of this kind, complete accuracy is
unattainable; but the author has endeavoured
to be as near to it as the most diligent and untiring research could bring him.
Those who
are acquainted with similar studies, and who
know the immense number of volumes that are
often to be consulted upon some trivial point,
will make allowances for any occasional lapses
which they may discover; and those who do
not know, because they have never tried how
difficult it is to be exact amid a great variety
of subjects and of authorities, will accept this
as an excuse if they should light upon any
omission, taking the author's word for it, that
he has striven hard to be accurate.
In conclusion, he can only say with the accomplished
author of the "Pleasures of Memory,'' in the
introduction to his "Italy", - "That wherever
he came, he could not but remember, nor is he
conscious of having slept over any ground that
had been 'dignified by wisdom, bravery, or
virtue.' "
The author takes this opportunity of making
his acknowledgments to Mr. J. Gilbert, the
artist, and Mr. T. Gilks, the engraver, for their
elegant designs for the frontispieces of these
volumes, and for the charming wood engravings that are so liberally interspersed.
August 19th, 1840.
MAN speaks of the "Mother
Earth", from whence he came,
and whither he returns; but,
after all, the honour of his
maternity belongs to Water.
Earth is but the nurse of another's progeny;
she merely nourishes the children of a more
prolific element, by whom she herself is fed
and clothed in return.
Water is the universal
mother, - the beneficent, the all fructifying,
- beautiful to the eye, refreshing to the touch,
pleasant to the palate,, and musical to the
ear.
What should we be without her? We
have only to imagine the condition of the
moon, and the question is answered.
Men
with great telescopes, who have looked over
her surface, and examined every hole and
cranny in her, have decided that, for want
of water, she is nothing but a dry and uninhabitable rock.
There is neither salt water
nor fresh in all her extent.
She is the
abode of no living thing, - the Gehenna of
desolation, - the mere skeleton of a world,
which the sun may light, but cannot warm.
No wonder that she looks so pale and woe
begone as she sails along the sky, and that
lovers and poets, ignorant of her peculiar misfortune, have so often asked her the reason of
her sorrow.
I' faith, they would be sorry too,
if they had no more moisture in their composition than she has.
We may pity the idolatry, but cannot condemn the feelings, which led mankind in the
early ages to pay divine honours to the ocean
and the streams.
It was soon recognised that
water was the grand reservoir of health, the
source of plenty, the beautifier, the preserver,
and the renovator of the world.
Venus, rising
from the sea-froth in immortal loveliness, typifies its uses and beneficence: water was the
first parent of that goddess, who was after
wards to become the mother of love and the
emblem of fruitfulness.
Poseidon in the Greek,
and Neptune in the Roman mythology, ranked
among the benevolent gods; and the ocean queen Amphitrite was adorned with a love
liness only second to that of Venus.
In other
parts of the world, Ocean, from its immensity,
was more an object of terror; but rivers have
everywhere been the objects of love and adoration.
A sect of the ancient Persians reverenced
them so highly, that they deemed it sacrilege
to pollute them.
For countless ages the dwellers by the Ganges have looked upon it as a
god, and have deemed it the summit of human
felicity to be permitted to expire upon its
banks.
The Egyptian still esteems the Nile
above all earthly blessings; and the Abyssinian
worships it as a divinity.
Superstition has
peopled these and a thousand other streams
with a variety of beings, or personified them
in human shapes, the better to pay them
homage.
Rivers all over the world are rich in remembrances.
To them are attached all the poetry
and romance of a nation.
Popular superstition
clings around them, and every mile of their
course is celebrated for some incident, - is the
scene of a desperate adventure, a mournful
legend, or an old song.
What a swarm of
pleasant thoughts rise upon the memory at
the sole mention of the Rhine! - what a host
of recollections are recalled by the name of the
Danube, the Rhone, the Garonne, the Meuse,
the Seine, the Loire, the Tagus, the Guadalquiver! -
even the low-banked and unpicturesque Elbe and Scheldt are dear as household things to the neighbouring people.
Their
praises are sung in a hundred different idioms;
and the fair maidens who have dwelt upon
their banks, and become celebrated for their
beauty, their cruelty, or their woe, have had
their names mingled with that of the river in
the indissoluble bands of national song.
To the man who has a catholic faith in poetry, every river in Scotland may be said to
be holy water.
Liddell, and Tweed, and Dee,
- Tiviot, and Tay, and Forth, and doleful
Yarrow, sanctified by a hundred songs.
Poetry
and romance have thrown a charm around
them, and tourists from every land are familiar
with their history.
Great writers have thought
it a labour of love to collect into one focus all
the scattered memoranda and fleeting scraps of
ballads relating to them, until those insignificant streams have become richer than any of
our isle in recollections which shall never fade.
"And what has been done for these, shall
none be found to do for thee, O Thames? "
said we to ourselves, as we thought of these
things, one fine summer morning.
"Art thou
of so little consequence among the rivers, that
no one will undertake to explore thee from
Cotteswold to the sea, and in a patient but
enthusiastic spirit gather together all thy memorabilia?"
There being no person present,
we looked round our study with an air of satisfaction, and exclaimed,
"We will do it.
We have been cabined and cribbed amid smoke too
long: we pine for a ramble among the hills,
and a gulp of the sweet air.
We will go, in
search of wisdom and of health, along the
banks of the Thames, and drink, its pure water
from its fountain-head among the hills of
Gloucestershire".
It is in this pilgrimage, O gentle reader,
that we ask thee to accompany us.
We will
be as entertaining a cicerone as we can.
We
will not bore thee, if we can help it, by telling
thee too many things that thou knowest already; and if we do now and then touch upon
them, we may take a different view of them
from any thou hast yet been accustomed to,
and throw a new light upon an old picture.
If thou art a lover of poetry, a delighter in
old songs, thou art a reader after our own
heart, and thou shalt be as pleased with us as
we are with thee.
If thou art an antiquary,
we also have some sneaking affection for thy
hobby, and will now and then throw thee a
tit-bit for it.
If thou art an angler, and fishest
with a rod, we will show thee all the best places
in the river from Vauxhall Bridge to Cricklade; or, if thou preferest to cast thy nets, we
will accompany thee from London Bridge to
Margate.
If thou lovest water-sports, we will
discourse to thee on that subject, and tell thee
a thing or two worth knowing about river pageants, boat-races, and sailing-matches, and
something also about some rare old games of
the water, which have now fallen into disuse.
If thou art a mere skimmer of books, a lover
of small talk and pleasant gossip, even in that
case we shall not be caviare to thee.
And
last of all, if thou art an Utilitarian and a Political Economist, which we hope not, we may
take it into our heads to throw a crumb of
comfort even to thee, and furnish thee with
a fact or two for thy edification, wherewithal
thou mayest build up a theory if thou feelest
inclined.
Not only do we propose to explore Thames,
"Great father of the British floods",
but all his tributary streams,
The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crowned:
Coin, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent stained with Danish blood";
and other rivers, which did not come within
the circuit of Pope's song;
the Medway, whose bridal is so sweetly sung in the "Faerie
Queene", and who is also celebrated in the
Polyolbion, with
"Teise, clear Beult, and Lenn, who bear her limber train:"
and many others, which contribute their mingled waters to the Thames.
This, O reader, is our intent.
We go as an
inoffensive tourist, in search of traditions, in
search of antiquities, in search of poetry, in
search of fresh breezes, in search of fish.
Sometimes we may travel at railroad speed, and at
others linger about for days in one spot, sauntering over the hills, sitting under trees by
the river side, but conning all the while some
thing for thy edification and amusement.
Being, for our sins, a dweller among the
smoke, our journey must perforce commence
from London.
From London Bridge, then,
we shall proceed upwards to the hills of Cotteswold, availing ourselves of the steam-boat as
far as it will carry us, but, for the most part,
tramping it leisurely and independently, after
the old fashion, with our stout shoes on, and
an oaken cudgel in our fist, a miniature edition of the Fairy Queen in one pocket, and
Shakspeare's neglected but delicious poems
in the other.
When we have in this manner
explored Thames and all his tributaries to the
west, we shall return eastward, taking another
glimpse of London, and follow his windings
to the sea, diverging to the right hand or to
the left, wherever there is a pleasant view to
be had, a relic to be seen, or an old ballad to
be elucidated.
And now, reader, thou hast only to fancy
thyself at London Bridge, on board the Richmond steam-boat, awaiting the bell to ring
as the signal for starting.
Here we are, then,
over the very spot where the old bridge stood
for nearly a thousand years.
The waters roll
over its site, steam-boats, barges, and wherries
are moored over its foundations, and its juvenile
successor, a thing of yesterday, rears its head
proudly, close alongside.
In the interval of
time that separates the erection of the two
structures, how vast are the changes the world
has seen! The physical world has seen none;
the tides still roll, and the seasons still succeed
each other in the same order; but the mind
of man - that world which rules the world -
how immense the progress it has made! Even
while that old bridge lasted, man stepped from
barbarism to civilization.
Hardly one of the
countless thousands that now pour in living
streams from morning till night over the path
way of its successor, has time to waste a thought
on the old one, or the lesson it might teach
him.
Its duration was that of twenty generations of mankind; it seemed built to defy
time and the elements, and yet it has crumbled
at last.
Becoming old and frail, it stood in
people's way; and being kicked by one, and
insulted by another, it was pulled to pieces
without regret, twenty or thirty years, perhaps, before the time when it would have
fallen to ruin of its own accord.
All this
time the river has run below, unchanged and
unchangeable, the same as it flowed thousands
of years ago, when the now busy thorough,
fares on either side were swamps inhabited
only by the frog and the bittern, and when
painted savages prowled about the places
that are now the marts of commerce and the
emporium of the world.
A complete resumé of the manners and character of the people of England might be
made from the various epocha in the age
of the old bridge.
First, it was a crazy
wooden structure, lined on each side with rows
of dirty wooden huts, such as befitted a rude
age, and a people just emerging from barbarism.
Itinerant dealers in all kinds of goods,
spread out their wares on the pathway, making
a market of the thoroughfare, and blocking
it up with cattle to sell, or waggon-loads of
provender.
The bridge, while in this primitive state, was destroyed many times by
fire, and as many times built up again.
Once,
in the reign of William Rufus, it was carried
away by a flood, and its fragments swept into
the sea.
The continual expense of these renovations induced the citizens, under the su
perintendence of Peter of Colechurch, to build
it up of stone.
This was some improvement;
but the houses on each side remained as poor
and miserable as before, dirty outside, and pestilential within.
Such was its state during the
long unhappy centuries of feudalism.
What
a strange spectacle it must have afforded at
that time! - what an emblem of all the motley
characteristics of the ruled and the rulers!
Wooden huts and mud floors for the people, -
handsome stone chapels and oratories, adorned
with pictures, statues, and stained glass, for
the clergy, - and drawbridges, portcullises, and
all the paraphernalia of attack and defence at
either end, to show a government founded upon
might rather than right, and to mark the general
insecurity of the times; while, to crown all, the
awful gate towards Southwark, but overlooking the stream, upon which, for a period of
nearly three hundred years, it was rare for the
passenger to go by without seeing a human
head stuck upon a pike, blackening and rotting
in the sun.
The head of the noble Sir William Wallace
was for many months exposed from this spot.
In 1471, after the defeat of the famous Falconbridge, who made an attack upon London,
his head and nine others were stuck upon the
bridge together, upon ten spears, where they
remained visible to all comers, till the elements
and the carrion crows had left nothing of them
but the bones.
At a later period the head of the pious
Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was stuck up
here, along with that of the philosophic Sir
Thomas More.
The legs of Sir Thomas Wyatt, the son of
the well-known poet of the same name, were exhibited from the same spot, during the reign
of Mary.
Even the Mayors of London had
almost as much power to kill and destroy as
the Kings and Queens, so reckless was the age
of the life of man.
In 1335, the Mayor, one
Andrew Aubrey, ordered seven skinners and
fishmongers, whose only offence was rioting
in the streets, aggravated by personal insult
to himself, to be beheaded without form of
trial.
Their heads were also exposed on the
bridge, and the Mayor was not called to account for his conduct.
Jack Cade, in the hot
fervour of his first successes, imitated this fine
example, and set up Lord Saye's head at the
same place, little thinking how soon his own
would bear it company.
The top of the gate
used to be like a butcher's shambles, covered
with the heads and quarters of unhappy
wretches.
Hentzner, the German traveller, who
visited England in the reign of Elizabeth,
states that, in the year 1598, he counted no
less than thirty heads upon this awful gate.
In an old map of the city, published in the
preceding year, the heads are represented
in clusters, numerous as the grapes upon a
bunch! The following is a view of the gate
as it appeared previous to its demolition in 1757.
How different are the glories of the new
bridge.
It also is adorned with human heads,
but live ones, thousands at a time, passing
and repassing continually to and fro.
Of the
millions of heads that crowd it every year,
busy in making money or taking pleasure, not
one dreads the executioner's knife.
Every
man's head is his own; and if either King or
Lord Mayor dare to meddle with it, it is at
his peril.
We have luckily passed the age
when law-makers could be law-breakers, and
every man walks in security.
While these
human heads adorn, no wooden hovels disfigure the new bridge, or block up the view
of the water.
Such a view as the one from
that place was never meant to be hidden.
The "unbounded Thames, that flows for all man
kind",
and into whose port "whole nations
enter with every tide",
bearing with them
the wealth of either hemisphere, is a sight
that only needs to be seen to be wondered at.
And if there is a sight from John o' Groat's
house to the Land's End of which an English
man may be proud, it is that.
Other sights
which we can show to the stranger may reflect
more credit upon the land, but that does honour to the men, and is unequalled among any
other nation on the globe.
The history of the New Bridge is soon told.
The narrowness of several of the arches of the
old bridge - it contained nineteen in all - caused
the tide to flow through them with a velocity
extremely dangerous to small craft, and accidents were of daily occurrence.
It was at first
contemplated to repair the bridge and throw
two or three of these small arches into one, but
this idea was soon abandoned, and it was resolved to build a new one.
On the 6th of
June 1823, the House of Commons voted the
sum of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds
for the purpose, and an extra tax of six
pence per ton having been imposed upon all
coals entering the port of London, to provide
additional funds, the works were soon afterwards commenced.
The plan of Mr. Rennie,
was adopted, and the foundation-stone was
laid with all the pomp usual upon such
great occasions, by the Lord Mayor, Mr.
Garratt, in the presence of the Duke of
York and a great assemblage of distinguished
persons, and all the city functionaries.
The bridge was completed in six years, and was
opened in great state by King William the
Fourth on the 1st of August 1831.
The King
was accompanied by his Queen Adelaide, by
her present Majesty, then Princess Victoria;
and her illustrious mother, the Duchess of
Kent, the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland,
the Duke of Sussex, the Duke and Duchess
of Gloucester, the Duke of Wellington, and
a long array of noble and celebrated individuals.
A short detail of the ceremonies observed may not be uninteresting.
Every vessel in the river, every steeple, every house-top,
every eminence that commanded a view was
crowded with spectators, and to increase the
beauty of the scene, the day was remarkably
fine.
When the King and Queen arrived on
the bridge they were met by the Lord Mayor
and the Lady Mayoress, the former of whom
presented his Majesty with the Sword of State,
the Lady Mayoress at the same time present
ing the Queen with a flower.
According to
the old formality, the Lord Mayor was desired
to keep his sword, as it was in such good
hands, and the procession began.
Preceded by
the Duke of Devonshire (the Lord Chamber
lain) walking backwards according to the etiquette, his Majesty arm-in-arm with the Queen,
and followed by the royal family, the great
officers of state, and his court, the members of
the corporation of London, and the ambassa
dors, or other illustrious visitors, walked slowly
over the bridge to the Southwark side, amid
the firing of cannon, and the joyous ringing of
all the bells in the metropolis.
Here his Majesty witnessed the ascent of a balloon, and
then returned to the city side to a pavilion
erected on the bridge, where a sumptuous collation was prepared at the expense of the City.
After the repast, and when the usual toasts
had been given, the Lord Mayor, with a suit
able address, presented the King with a golden
cup; on receiving which his Majesty made the
following short but very appropriate speech:
"I cannot but refer on this occasion to the
great work which has been accomplished by
the city of London.
The city of London has
ever been renowned for its magnificent im
provements; and we are commemorating a
most extraordinary instance of their skill and
talent.
I shall propose the source from which
this vast improvement sprung - The trade and
commerce of the city of London".
The toast, of course, was enthusiastically honoured, and
soon afterwards the festivities terminated.
His
Majesty then entered the barge prepared for
him, and was rowed up the river to Somerset house, where he disembarked.
The demolition of the old bridge was immediately commenced, and within a few months
not a vestige of it remained.
But the signal-bell has rung, and our steam
boat proceeds up the ancient highway of the
city towards Westminster, in the track of all
the Lord Mayors since Norman, in the year
1454.
This worthy functionary was very fond
of the water, and first began the custom, regularly continued since his day, of proceeding to
Westminster Hall by water, with a grand city
pageant.
The boatmen took him in great affection in consequence, and one of them wrote
a song upon him, the burden of which was,
"Row thy boat, Norman, Row to thy Leman".
What a formidable array of steeples is to
be seen as we get out of sight of the shipping!
No city in Europe can show such a forest of
ships, or such a forest of steeples, as London.
The most prominent object in the view is St.
Paul's, rearing his head, as fat and saucy as if
he were a bishop with forty thousand a-year.
Around him are gathered the inferior dignitaries of the Church, some of them looking in
good condition enough, but most of them as
tall and thin as if they had a wife and six
children, and only a curacy of eighty pounds
a-year to support them.
What a contrast there is now, and always
has been, both in the character and appearance
of the two sides of the river.
The London
side, high and well-built, thickly studded with
spires and public edifices, and resounding with
all the noise of the operations of a various in
dustry; the Southwark and Lambeth side, low
and flat, and meanly built, with scarcely an
edifice higher than a coal-shed or timber-yard,
and a population with a squalid, dejected, and
debauched look, offering a remarkable contrast
to the cheerfulness and activity visible on the
faces of the Londoners.
The situation upon
the low swamp is, no doubt, one cause of the
unhealthy appearance of the dwellers on the
south of the Thames; but the dissolute rakehellish appearance of the lower orders of them
must be otherwise accounted for.
From a
very early age, Southwark and Lambeth, and
the former especially, were the great sinks and
common receptacles of all the vice and immorality of London.
Up to the year 1328, South
wark had been independent of the jurisdiction
of London, - a sort of neutral ground, which
the law could not reach, - and, in consequence,
the abode of thieves and abandoned characters
of every kind.
They used to sally forth in
bands of one and two hundreds at a time, to
rob in the city; and the Lord Mayor and
Aldermen for the time being had not unfrequently to keep watch upon the bridge for
nights together, at the head of a troop of
armed men, to prevent their inroads.
The
thieves, however, upon these occasions took
to their boats at midnight, and rowing up the
river, landed at Westminster, and drove all
before them with as much valour, and as great
impunity as a border chieftain upon a foray
into Cumberland.
These things induced the
magistrates of London to apply to Edward
the Third for a grant of Southwark.
The
request was complied with, and the vicious
place brought under the rule of the city.
Driven in some measure from this nest, the
thieves took refuge in Lambeth, and still set
the authorities at defiance.
From that day to
this the two boroughs have had the same character, and been known as the favourite resort
of thieves and vagabonds of every description.
It was here, under the jurisdiction of the Bishop
of Winchester, that all the stews existed for
centuries, being licensed by that prelate for a
fee.
Their inhabitants and frequenters were long
known in London as the "Bishop of Winches
ter's birds".
Players also, then ranking with
these and similar characters, under the common
designation of "vagabonds", flocked to the
same spot, together with fraudulent bankrupts,
swindlers, debtors, and all men who had misunderstandings with the law, and were fearful
of clearing them up, lest their goods and
bodies might be demanded in expiation.
Here, in former days, stood the privileged
"Mint"and "Clink"; and here in the present
day stands the privileged "Bench", within
whose "Rules"are congregated the same vicious and demoralized class of people that always inhabited it.
Stews also abound, though
no bishop receives fees from them; and penny
theatres, where the performers are indeed vagabonds, and the audience thieves.
But the low shore of Southwark has more
agreeable reminiscences.
It was here, near the
spot still called Bankside, that stood the Globe
Theatre at the commencement of the seventeenth century;
- the theatre of which Shakspeare was in part proprietor, where some of his
plays were first produced, and where he himself
performed in them.
It was of an octagonal form,
partly covered with thatch, as we learn from
the account of Stowe, who says, that in the year
1613, ten years after it was first licensed to
Shakspeare and Burbage, and the rest, the
thatch took fire by the negligent discharge of a
piece of ordnance, and in a very short time the
whole building was consumed.
The house was
filled with people to witness the representation
of Henry the Eighth, but they all escaped unhurt.
This was the end of Shakspeare's theatre.
It was rebuilt, apparently, in a similar
style, early in the following year.
Besides this, there were three other theatres
on the Bankside, called the Rose, the Hope,
and the Swan.
These appear to have been, for
some undiscovered reason, called private theatres.
There was this difference between them
and the Globe and other public theatres; the
latter were open to the sky, except over the
stage and galleries; but the private theatres
were completely covered in from the weather.
On the roof of all of them, whether public
or private, a flag was always hoisted to mark
the time of the performances.
Two other places of amusement on the
river-side deserve to be mentioned; the Paris
Garden, and the Bear Garden, in which, besides dramatic entertainments of an inferior
class, there were combats of animals.
Ben
Jonson is reproached by Dekker, with having been so degraded as to perform at Paris
Garden.
These places always seem to have
been in bad repute, even when they flourished
most.
Crowley, a rhymer of the reign of
Henry the Eighth, thus speaks of Paris Garden.
What folly is this to keep with danger
A great mastiff dog and foul ugly bear,
And to this anent, to see them two fight
With terrible tearings, a full ugly sight;
And methinks these men are most fools of all
Whose store of money is but very small,
And yet every Sunday they will surely spend
One penny or two, the Bearward's living to mend.
At Paris Garden each Sunday a man shall not fail,
To find two or three hundred for the Bearward's vale,
One halfpenny a piece they use for to give,
When some have not more in their purses, I believe.
Well, at the last day their conscience will declare,
That the poor ought to have all that they may spare;
If you, therefore, go to see a bear fight,
Be sure God his curse will upon you light.
Pennant, who quotes these verses, seems to
consider the last two lines as a prophecy of the
calamity that happened at the Garden in the
year 1582.
An accident, Heaven directed, says
he, befell the spectators; the scaffolding, crowded with people, suddenly fell, and more than a
hundred persons were killed or severely wounded.
The Bear Garden, notwithstanding its
name, was chiefly used for bull-baiting.
Sailing onwards to the Southwark or ironbridge we pass on the Middlesex shore many
places, now wharfs and warehouses, which were
formerly the abodes of nobles, or palaces and
fortresses.
Here stood the famous Baynard's
Castle, where Richard the Third pretended
such coyness to accept the crown;
Cold or Cole Harbour, the residence of the celebrated Humphrey de Bohun Earl of Hereford and Essex,
in the reign of Edward the Third; of the
Earls of Huntingdon, in the time of Richard
the Second; and of the Earls of Cambridge
shortly afterwards.
It was also inhabited by
Henry the Fifth when he was Prince of
Wales, and by Tonstal Bishop of Durham, in
the reign of Henry the Eighth.
Not a vestige
of it now exists.
Dowgate Hill, near this spot,
was formerly the port or water-gate of the city,
where, in the Saxon times, all vessels pro
ceeded to unload their cargoes.
As early as
the time of the Romans there was here a gate
for passengers who wanted to cross the ferry.
The little rivulet of Walbrook, clear in the
days of barbarism, but rendered filthy as London grew civilized, runs into the Thames
at this place.
It takes its rise to the north of
Moorfields, and gives its name to one of the
most considerable streets of ancient London.
Near Dow-gate stood the ancient palace, called
for distinction the Erber or Harbour; a corrup
tion, probably, of Herberge, an inn.
It was a
large building, inhabited in the reign of Edward the Third by the noble family of Scroope,
from whom it came into the possession of the
as noble family of Neville.
The Earl of Salisbury, father-in-law to Warwick, the "king
maker", lodged here with five hundred of his
retainers, in the famous congress of the barons,
after the defeat of the Lancasterian party at
the battle of St. Alban's, when Henry the
Sixth was deposed and Edward the Fourth
ascended the throne in his stead.
It was in
the latter reign inhabited for a short time by
George Duke of Clarence, brother of the king,
and the same whose death in the butt of
malmsey in the Tower, has rendered his name
and title familiar to all the readers of history.
After his murder the palace reverted to the
crown, but it was restored by Henry the
Eighth to the unfortunate daughter of Clarence, Margaret Countess of Salisbury, who
was beheaded in the Tower in her old age, for
the crime of being mother to Cardinal Pole.
The building was, after a long interval, purchased by the Drapers' Company, but has been
long since pulled down.
AFTER passing the Southwark iron-bridge, completed in the year 1818, -
we arrive at Doctors' Commons, - famous as the
residence of ecclesiastical lawyers, and the seat of the ecclesiastical judges.
It was at one time in contemplation to
have pulled down all the houses between
the river and St. Paul's church at this spot,
and to have thrown open that magnificent
edifice to public view from the stream.
If the project had been carried into effect, the
improvement to the banks of the Thames
would have been great, and a beautiful prospect would have been obtained.
But as the
projectors, in answer to the "cui bono", of the
capitalists, had no other reply than "beauty",
the project soon fell to the ground.
It was
found to be expensive, and not likely to be
productive.
One cannot, however, help regretting that so
fine a project was not carried into execution.
The beautiful Cathedral is not at present to be
seen from a favourable point of view in any
part of London, either by land or water.
The
most favourable is from Blackfriars' Bridge.
Shall we linger to describe an edifice that
all the world is acquainted with?
Shall we dilate upon the glories of its architecture; the
fame of the great statesmen, orators, patriots,
and poets, whose monuments are within its
walls?
Shall we remind the passer-by of the fine
thought to the memory of its great builder,
"Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice?"
or expatiate upon things connected with the
history of this edifice, that are familiar, or
ought to be, to every Englishman?
No; we will pass on with silent admiration, or perhaps,
a reiteration of our regret that so magnificent a
building, and so hallowed a site, should be shut
from the sight, when at an expense, inconsiderable in comparison with the vastness of
the improvement, a view might be obtained,
worthy alike of this great capital, and of the
finest Protestant church in the world.
Close adjoining to Blackfriars' bridge - the
dirtiest of the tributaries of the Thames runs
into the sovereign river - the Fleet - formerly
called a river itself, but now and for ages past
degraded to a ditch; covered over in all its
course through London, as something too of
fensive to be seen.
Pope in his Dunciad has
celebrated it in the following lines.
Fleet Ditch with disemboguing streams
Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames.
The king of dykes! han whom no sluice of mud
With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
At the time when Pope wrote, the ditch was open to the gaze of all the world, and it is said the corporation were so shamed by the verses, that they soon afterwards carried into effect the improvement, of arching it over and forming Fleet Market - the present Farringdon Street - upon its site; a plan which had been for years in contemplation, but continually postponed upon one pretence or another.
A little further up the stream, to the west of
Blackfriars' Bridge, stands the precinct of the
White Friars, the ancient "Alsatia"of the
thieves and debtors, and famous to most readers, from the graphic and entertaining description given of it by Sir Walter Scott.
It is
now chiefly inhabited by coal-merchants, and
retains not one of its former privileges.
We next arrive at a different scene.
A plot of
fresh green grass - an oasis of trees and verdure
amid the wilderness of brick and mortar that
encompass it on every side.
The houses that
form this pleasant square are high and regular,
and have a solemn and sedate look, befitting
the antiquity and historical sanctity of their
site, and the grave character of the people that
inhabit them.
Here are the Temple Gardens,
sacred to the Goddess of Strife.
Their former
occupants, the Knights Templars, were quarrelsome folk enough, God knows; and the new
tenants of their abode keep themselves respectable out of the proceeds of quarrels, fatten upon
quarrels, and buy themselves wigs and gowns
out of them.
Woe betide the wight whom they
entangle in their meshes! They will put the
vulture of litigation in him to gnaw out his
entrails, and will tie a millstone round his neck,
which they call "costs", to drag him down to
ruin.
In those gloomy chambers, so pleasantly
situated, sits Law, as upon a throne.
Sweet
are all the purlieus of the spot: - flowers blossom, trees cast a refreshing shade, and a fountain maketh a pleasant murmur all the year;
but each room in that precinct is a den inhabited by a black spider, who sucks the blood
of foolish flies who, by quarrelling and fighting, struggle themselves into the toils.
It is
fair outside, to make the world believe that it
is the abode of justice and equity; but its
beauty is but a cheat and a lure, to hide from
too common observers the revenge, rapacity,
and roguery that lie beneath the surface.
Hoity toity! - quoth we to ourselves - what
a fuss about nothing! What a gross injustice
we have given utterance to! What a foul libel
we have penned upon that learned and eminent
body! - and all for the sake of - what? For the
mere sake of saying something pungent or ill natured, which with many people is all the
same.
Forgive us, O shades of learned Sir
Thomas More, of upright Sir Matthew Hale,
of philosophic Lord Bacon! - forgive us, spirits
of Clarendon, Camden, and Mansfield! - forgive
us, living Denman, Tindal, Brougham, that we
should have so slandered the profession of
which ye have been or are the ornaments!
Wit, worth, and wisdom are associated with
your names, and with hundreds of others, both
alive and dead, whom we could specify, if
there were any need for it.
"We never were known for a railer,
In fun all this slander we spoke;
For a lawyer, as well as a sailor,
Is not above taking a joke".
It is in these gardens that Shakspeare, in the First Part of his Henry the Sixth, has laid the scene of the first quarrel of the rival houses of York and Lancaster, and where the red and the white roses, the badges afterwards of bloody wars, were first plucked, and where Warwick is made to prophesy,
The brawl today
Grown to this faction in the Temple garden,
Shall send between the red rose and the white,
A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
Whether the immortal bard had the authority of any tradition current in his day, or whether the scene was thus laid with the licence usually claimed by, and allowed to, poets, is not known with certainty.
Sailing onwards from the Temple we arrive
opposite Arundel Street, leading down from
the Strand.
Here formerly stood Hampton
Place, the Episcopal residence of the Bishops
of Bath and Wells.
It was granted by King
Edward the Sixth to his uncle, Lord Seymour
of Sudely, who changed its name to Seymour
Place.
Upon his attainder and execution it
was purchased by the Earl of Arundel, who
once more changed its name.
It then came by
marriage into the possession of the family of
the Duke of Norfolk.
It was in his time "a
large and old-built house, with a spacious yard
for stabling towards the Strand, and with a
gate to enclose it, where there was a porter's
lodge, and a large fair garden towards the
Thames".
When the great Duke de Sully,
then Marquis de Rosny, was ambassador in
England, this house was set apart for his accommodation, and he mentions it as one of
the finest and most commodious in London.
The house was pulled down about the middle
of the seventeenth century.
The family name
and titles are still retained for the streets which
arose upon its site; Norfolk Street, Surrey
Street, and others.
A short distance beyond is Somerset House,
a large pile of building, chiefly used now as
government offices, except one wing, recently added, which is occupied by the officers and
scholars of King's College, London.
Somerset
House took its name from the Duke of Somerset, Lord Protector during the reign of
Edward the Sixth; it is not, however, the
building erected by that princely nobleman,
but a mere modern edifice erected in the
reign of George the Third, under the superintendence of Sir William Chambers.
The
architect of the original fabric was John of
Padua.
After the attainder of Somerset it
devolved to the crown, and Queen Elizabeth
frequently inhabited it.
Anne of Denmark,
Queen of James the First, held her court here,
and so did Catharine, Queen of Charles the
Second.
It at last became appropriated of
right to the Queens Dowager, and was frequently appointed for the reception of ambassadors, whom the monarchs delighted especially
to honour.
The Venetian ambassador made a
grand public entry into old Somerset House in
1763, a short time before it was pulled down.
In the quadrangle opposite the Strand entrance, stands the gigantic piece of bronze executed by Bacon, the principal figure of which
is an allegorical representation of the Thames.
Immediately adjoining is Waterloo Bridge,
the finest of the many fine structures that span
the bosom of the Thames within metropolitan
limits.
Around its arches clings half the romance of modern London.
It is the English
"Bridge of Sighs", the "Pons Asinorum", the
"Lover's Leap", the "Arch of Suicide", and
well deserves all these appellations.
Many a
sad and too true tale might be told, the beginning and end of which would be "Waterloo Bridge".
It is a favourite spot for love assignations; and a still more favourite spot
for those who long to cast off the load of
existence, and cannot wait, through sorrow,
until the Almighty Giver takes away his gift.
Its comparative loneliness renders it convenient
for both purposes.
The penny toll keeps off
the inquisitive and unmannerly crowd; and the
foolish can love or the mad can die with less
observation from the passers than they could
find anywhere else so close to the heart of
London.
To many a poor girl the assignation
over one arch of Waterloo Bridge is but the
prelude to the fatal leap from another.
Here
they begin, and here they end, after a long
course of intermediate crime and sorrow, the
unhappy story of their loves.
Here, also, wary
and practised courtezans lie in wait for the Asini,
so abundant in London, and who justify its
appellation of the Pons Asinorum.
Here fools
become entrapped, and wise men too some
times, the one losing their money, and the other
their money and self-respect.
But, with all its
vice, Waterloo Bridge is pre-eminently the
"Bridge of Sorrow".
There is less of the ludicrous to be seen from its smooth highway than
from almost any other in the metropolis.
The
people of London continually hear of unhappy
men and women who throw themselves from
its arches, and as often of the finding of bodies
in the water, which may have lain there for
weeks, no one knowing how or when they
came there, - no one being able to distinguish
their lineaments.
But, often as these things
are heard of, few are aware of the real number
of victims that choose this spot to close an unhappy career, - few know that, taking one year
with another, the average number of suicides
committed from this place is about thirty.
Notwithstanding these gloomy associations,
Waterloo Bridge is a pleasant spot.
Any one
who wishes to enjoy a panoramic view unequalled of its kind in Europe, has only to
proceed thither, just at the first faint peep of
dawn, and he will be gratified.
A more lovely
prospect of a city it is impossible to imagine
than that which will burst upon him as he
draws near to the middle arch.
Scores of tall
spires, unseen during the day, are distinctly
seen at that hour, each of which seems to
mount upwards to double its usual height,
standing out in bold relief against the clear
blue sky.
Even the windows of distant
houses, no longer, as in the noon-tide view,
blended together in one undistinguishable
mass, seem larger and nearer, and more clear
ly defined; every chimney-pot stands alone,
tracing against the smokeless sky a perfect
outline.
Eastward, the view embraces the
whole of ancient London, from "the towers of
Julius"to its junction with Westminster at
Temple Bar.
Directly opposite stands Somerset House, by far the most prominent, and,
the most elegant building, St. Paul's excepted,
in all the panorama; while to the west rise the
hoary towers of Westminster Abbey, with,
far in the distance, glimpses of the hills of Surrey crowned with verdure.
The Thames, which
flows in a crescent-shaped course, adds that peculiar charm which water always affords to a
landscape.
If the visiter has time, he will do
well to linger for a few hours on the spot till all
the fires are lighted, and the haze of noon approaches.
He will gradually see many objects
disappear from the view.
First of all, the
hills of Surrey will be undistinguishable in the
distance; steeples far away in the north and
east of London will vanish as if by magic;
houses half a mile off, in which you might at
first have been able to count the panes of
glass in the windows, will agglomerate into
shapeless masses of brick.
After a time, the
manufactories and gas-works, belching out volumes of smoke, will darken all the atmosphere; steam-boats plying continually to and
fro will add their quota to the general impurity of the air; while all these mingling
together will form that dense cloud which
habitually hangs over London, and excludes
its inhabitants from the fair share of sunshine
to which all men are entitled.
While thus gossipping with thee, O reader,
we have passed under the arch, and arrived
at a spot which was once famous in the annals
of England.
A number of coal-wharfs mark
the site of the palace of the Savoy, the residence of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster,
and the poet Chaucer.
The building was pillaged by a London mob in the year 1376,
when the Duke narrowly escaped with his life.
It was during the excitement occasioned by
the citation of Wickliffe, when John of Gaunt,
on account of the disorderly behaviour of the
Londoners, had moved in Parliament that
there should be no more a Lord Mayor of
London, and that the government of the city
should in future be delivered over to the military, and for the time being to Lord Percy,
the Chief Marshal of England.
The Londoners immediately arose in arms, destroyed
the Marshalsea, where Lord Percy resided, and
then proceeded to the Savoy, swearing to take
the life of the Duke of Lancaster for threatening their liberties, and insulting their bishop in
St. Paul's church, in the matter of Wickliffe.
They threw all the costly furniture into the
river, made a complete wreck of the building,
and killed, in a very barbarous manner, a priest
whom they mistook for Lord Percy in disguise.
Percy himself and the Duke of Lancancaster were dining that day at the house
of a rich merchant named John of Ypres, and
escaped to Lambeth, by rowing up the river,
at the very time that the populace were seeking them in every corner of the Savoy.
Five
years afterwards the Savoy was attacked by
the rebels under Wat Tyler, and reduced
to ashes with all its valuable furniture.
In
the reign of Henry the Seventh, an hospital
was founded here; it was dedicated to St.
John the Baptist, and consisted of a master
and four brethren, who were to be in priest's
orders, and officiate alternately, by standing at
the gate and looking out for objects of charity,
who were to be taken in and fed.
To travellers they were bound to afford one night's
lodging, a letter of recommendation to the next
hospital on his road, and as much money as
would enable him to reach it.
This hospital
was suppressed by Edward the Sixth, and the
furniture given to the Hospitals of Bridewell
and St. Thomas.
It was restored by Queen
Mary to its original uses, and more liberally
endowed than ever it had been before.
In the
first year of Queen Anne, commissioners, consisting of seven temporal and seven spiritual
lords, were appointed to visit the hospital and
report upon it.
By their recommendation the
brethren or chaplains were dismissed, and the
hospital dissolved.
According to the plates
published by the Society of Antiquaries in
1750, the building was large and commodious.
The front towards the Thames contained several projections and two rows of angular mullioned windows.
To the north was the Friary;
a court formed of the walls of the body of the
Hospital, whose ground-plan was in the shape
of the cross.
At the west end was a guard-house, used for many years afterwards as a
receptacle for deserters, and the quarters for
thirty men and non-commissioned officers.
This was secured by a strong buttress, and
had a gateway embellished with the arms of
Henry the Seventh.
The descent from the
Strand was by two flights of stone steps,
nearly to the depth of three stories of a dwell
ing-house.
The approaches to the Waterloo
Bridge cleared away a great part of it.
The
chapel still remains, having been substantially
repaired by King George the First, in the
year 1721, at his sole expense.
Cowley the
poet was long a candidate for the mastership
of the Hospital, but he never obtained it.
The
foregoing is a view of it as it stood in Cowley's
time.
At a few yards distant are Cecil and Salisbury
Streets, leading from the Strand to the Thames.
They are the site of Salisbury House, built
by Sir Robert Cecil, created Earl of Salisbury
by King James the First.
The edifice, which
was very large, was afterwards divided into
two parts, the one called Great, and the other
Little Salisbury House; the first being inhabited by the Earl and his family, and the
latter being let out to different persons.
An
other part, next Great Salisbury House, was
converted into an Exchange in the time of
George the First and Second, consisting of
one long room, extending from the Strand to
the river; with shops for the sale of fancy
goods on each side.
At the end there was a
handsome flight of steps to the water.
The
place, somehow or other, acquired a bad name;
our ancestors chose it as a spot for assignations
with frail fair ones; and all the respectable
inhabitants in a short time deserted it.
In the spot, where now a long dirty lane
wends its obscure course from the Strand to
the Thames, stood, in the reign of Henry the
Eighth, a magnificent palace, called Durham
Place.
The modern range of the Adelphi
Terrace also occupies a portion of its site.
In
the year 1540 a grand tournament was held
at Westminster under the auspices of the King,
who had sent challenges and invitations to all
the doughtiest knights of France, Flanders,
Scotland, and Spain, to be present at the sports.
After the diversions of each day, the King, with
his newly married and already hated Queen,
Anne of Cleves, repaired to Durham Place,
where a magnificent feast was given.
On the
last day not only the combatants and all the
lords and ladies of the court, but the members
of both Houses of Parliament, the Lord Mayor
and Aldermen of London, and all foreigners
of distinction were invited.
The King gave to
each of the challengers and his heirs for ever
in reward of his activity and valour, a yearly
revenue of one hundred marks out of the
lands pertaining to the hospital of St. John
of Jerusalem.
Edward the Sixth appointed it as a mint
for the coinage of money under the manage
ment of Sir William Sherington, and the influence of the ambitious Lord Seymour of
Sudeley.
It was one of the charges brought
against the latter that he intended to coin
money here for his own purposes, and to aid
him in his designs upon the throne.
The
place afterwards became the residence of the
equally ambitious Dudley, Earl of Northumberland; where, in the year 1553, he solemnized,
with the greatest magnificence, the marriages of three of his family: Lord Guildford
Dudley, his son, with the unfortunate Lady
Jane Gray; Lady Katharine Dudley, his daughter, with the Earl of Huntingdon; and Lady
Katharine Gray, sister of Lady Jane, with the
Lord Herbert, son of the Earl of Pembroke.
The fate of nearly all these personages was to
perish upon the scaffold, the prime cause of
their ill fortune being the ambition of their
father; whose own sire, Dudley the extortioner, died a similar death.
Durham Place
was one of the palaces occasionally inhabited
by Queen Elizabeth.
She granted the use of
apartments in it, for a time, to Sir Walter Raleigh, who is said to have composed here some
chapters of his famous History of the World.
Part of the stables connected with this
building were taken down in the early part
of the reign of King James, and an Exchange
upon the plan of the Royal Exchange, called
Britain's Burse, erected upon the site.
It became a place of fashionable resort until the
reign of Queen Anne.
In her time it was
the scene of a romantic incident, which created
much interest and conversation.
The chief
walk was appropriated to milliners and sempstresses, and one of them, a new-comer, was
observed for several days to appear always
dressed in white, and wore a white mask.
The fashionable loungers, whose curiosity was
excited by the mystery, endeavoured in vain
to obtain a sight of her face, and all the town
talked of "the White Milliner".
It was afterwards discovered that she was the Duchess of
Tyrconnell, widow of Richard Talbot, Lord
Deputy of Ireland under King James the
Second, who being reduced to great distress,
had endeavoured to support herself by the
little trade of the Exchange.
As soon as her
condition was ascertained, her relations appeared and provided otherwise for her.
Nearly all the ancient structure of Durham Place was pulled down, and the Messrs.
Adam, four brothers, builders, erected the Terrace and the neighbouring streets, which
is called after them, the AdelphI.
Adjoining is the site of York House, inhabited, formerly, by Charles Brandon, Duke
of Suffolk, and the Lord Chancellor Bacon.
It afterwards became the residence of the famous George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,
who rebuilt it in a more magnificent manner.
The gateway still standing at the end of Buckingham Street, a full view of which is obtained from the river, is the only remnant of
the palace.
It was built by Inigo Jones, and
is much admired.
The palace was bestowed
by the Long Parliament upon General Fairfax, whose daughter and heiress marrying the
second George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,
it was thus restored to the family of its original proprietors.
It was soon afterwards disposed of and pulled down, and several streets
laid out upon its site, and named after one
or other of the words in the name and title
of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham;
there being George Street, Villiers Street, Duke
Street, Of Alley, and Buckingham Street.
In
a large house at the corner of Buckingham
Street, then called York Buildings, resided the
Czar Peter the Great, when he visited London in 1698, and where he and the Marquis
of Carmarthen, Lord President of the Council,
used to spend their evenings in drinking "hot
pepper and brandy.'.'
Nearly opposite, on the site now occupied
by the timber-wharfs of the Belvidere Road,
formerly stood a celebrated place of public re
sort, called Cuper's Gardens, famous, at the
end of the seventeenth and beginning of the
eighteenth century, for its grand displays of
fire-works.
It was not, however, the resort of
respectable company, but of the abandoned of
both sexes.
The place took its name from one
Boydell Cuper, who had been gardener in the
service of Lord Arundel, and who rented the
ground of his lordship.
When Arundel House
was pulled down to make way for the street of
the same name, already mentioned, a number of
the statues which had once adorned that edi
fice, but which had been accidentally or other
wise mutilated, came into the possession of
Cuper, who set them up in different parts of
his gardens.
In the river opposite was moored an immense barge, by some said to have been as
bulky as the hull of a man-of-war, which was
known by the name of "The Folly".
It was
the resort of even a worse description of persons than those who frequented the Gardens
on shore.
In one of Tom D'Urfey's songs called "A
Touch of the Times", published in 1719, the
Folly is thus mentioned: -
When Drapers smugg'd 'Prentices,
With Exchange Girls mostly jolly,
After shop was shut up,
Could sail to the Folly".
In a MS note in Sir John Hawkins's own
copy of his History of Music, now in the British Museum, it is stated that "this edifice was
built of timber, and divided into sundry rooms,
with a platform and balustrade at top, which
floated on the Thames above London Bridge,
and was called the Folly: a view of it, anchored opposite Somerset House, is given in
Strype's Stow, Book 4th, p.
105; and the Humours of it were described by Ward in his
London Spy.
At first it was resorted to for
refreshment by persons of fashion; and Queen
Mary with some of her courtiers, had once the
curiosity to visit it; but it sunk into a receptacle for companies of loose and disorderly people,
for the purposes of drinking and promiscuous dancing; and at length becoming scandalous, the building was suffered to decay, and
the materials thereof became fire-wood".
Passing Hungerford Market, and Northumberland House, the residence of the present
Duke, and the only one remaining of the old
noble residences that formerly skirted the
Thames, we arrive at a pleasant green spot,
rising like another oasis amid surrounding
dust.
It is a fair lawn, neatly trimmed, and divided into compartments by little walls.
In
the rear rises a row of goodly modern houses,
the abodes of ministers, and ex-ministers, and
"lords of high degree".
But it is not so much
for what it exhibits, as for what it hides,
that it is remarkable.
The row of houses
screens Whitehall and its historical purlieus
from the view.
Just behind the house with
the bow-windows, inhabited by Sir Robert
Peel, is the spot where Charles the First was
beheaded.
In a nook close by, as if purposely hidden from the view of the world,
there is a very good statue of a very bad
King.
Unknown to the thousands of London, James the Second rears his brazen head
in a corner, ashamed apparently, even in his
effigies, to affront the eyes of the nation he
misgoverned.
The Banqueting House of Whitehall stands
on the site of York House, chiefly famous as
having been the town residence of Cardinal
Wolsey.
It was originally erected by that
powerful nobleman, Hubert de Burgh, Earl of
Kent and Lord High Justiciary of England,
in the troublous times of Henry the Third.
It was bequeathed by him to the Black Friars
of Holborn; and, after a short interval, sold
by them to the Archbishop of York.
It remained the residence of the prelates of that
see, and bore their name, until the time of
Wolsey; after whose fall it was seized by the
all-grasping Henry, and made an appendage to
the royal palace of Westminster, which extended, along the banks of the river, from
hence to the Houses of Parliament.
In Elizabeth's time there were great doings
here on several occasions, as the curious reader
may see in the pages of Holinshed and Stowe.
Fortresses and bowers were made for this
"perfect beautie", - a red-haired woman of
forty-nine, - which were vigorously attacked
by knights representing Desire, typical of the
great admiration her personal charms, more
than the majesty of her station, excited.
Tournaments were also instituted, together
with maskings and revels, and various other
mummeries.
In the time of her successor the old palace
had become so ruinous that it was determined
to rebuild it.
James the First intrusted the
design to Inigo Jones, who built the edifice
now known by the name of the Banqueting
House, a representation of which is given
below, and which was only intended as a part,
and a very small one, of a more magnificent
conception.
The palace was to have consisted
of four fronts, each with an entrance between
two square towers.
Within were to have been
one large central court and five smaller ones,
and between two of the latter was to have been
a handsome circus, with an arcade below.
The
whole length of the palace was to have been
1152 feet, and its depth 874 feet.
The times
which succeeded those of James were not favourable for such designs and expenses as
these, and the palace was never completed.
Still sailing up the stream, we
next pass under the arches of
Westminster Bridge.
This edifice was commenced in 1738, and
finished in 1750.
The Corporation of London
had a notion that it would injure the trade of
the city; and while the bill relating to it under
went discussion in the legislature, they opposed
it by every means in their power.
For many
years afterwards, London aldermen thought it
pollution to go over it, and passed by it as
saucily and with as much contempt as a dog
would by a "stinking brock".
So highly was
the bridge esteemed by its projectors, that
they procured the admission of a clause into
the act of Parliament, by which the punishment of death without benefit of clergy was
declared against any one who should wilfully
deface or injure it.
Dogs also were kept off
it with as much rigour as they are now excluded
from Kensington Gardens.
It does not appear,
however, that dog or man was ever hanged
either for defiling or defacing the precious
structure.
O happy age! O good old times gone by!
Even dogs might howl, and pipe their sorrowing eye,
Were ye restored!"
And now we are clear of the bridge, the
river opens out before us in a longer sweep,
and we arrive in front of the open space opposite to Westminster Hall, known by the name
of Palace Yard, so called from its having
been the court of the old palace of Westminster.
Of all the remarkable sites in England,
this and its neighbourhood is doubtless the most remarkable; and no other place
upon the Thames, not even the princely towers
and purlieus of Windsor itself, can vie with
these in the recollections they recall or the
emotions which they excite.
There stands yet
- survivor amid calamity - the elegant Hall
and the entrances to the Chief Courts of Justice of this kingdom, - courts in which Gascoigne, More, Hale, Bacon, Camden, Holt,
Coke, Mansfield, Eldon, Brougham, and a host
of other eminent and learned men, have presided.
There also are the ruins of the Houses
of Lords and Commons, burnt down in the
year 1834, where the liberties of England were
gained, gradually but surely, through long centuries of doubt and darkness.
There began the
struggle for freedom, which never ceased till its
object was won.
There was heard the eloquent
patriotism of all the patriots that have arisen
in our land since the days of Pym, Holies, and
Hampden; - there was tyranny resisted by the
tongue and the vote, stronger weapons in a
right cause than the glaive[sic (sword)] or the gun; -
there was the right established - the wrong
cast down - civilisation extended - and slavery
abolished.
There, in former days, were to
be seen and heard a Cranmer, a Strafford,
a Laud, and a Cromwell.
Nearer our own
age, a Marlborough, a Harley, a Walpole,
a Bolingbroke, and a Chatham.
Nearer still, a
Pitt, a Fox, a Burke, a Grattan, and a Sheridan; and (men of yesterday) a Canning, a
Mackintosh, a Wilberforce, and a Romilly;
with many others who have written their
names for good or for evil on the page of history.
And here too, in our own day, walking
and breathing among us, are to be seen, in their
appointed season, a Wellington, a Brougham, a
Denman, a Melbourne, a Russell, a Durham, a
Peel, and an O'Connell, with hundreds more of
great, though of lesser, note, whose names are
inscribed already in the great book of history,
but whose deeds are not yet ended; and who
are destined, perhaps, hereafter to make a still
greater figure in the annals of the mightiest
empire the world ever saw.
Great was the sorrow of every lover of his
country when the ancient seats of the British
legislature were destroyed - though they were
but stones, and brick and mortar, and wood,
they were hallowed in the hearts of English
men.
Who could help regretting that the very
boards upon which Chatham and Pitt and Fox
and Burke and Canning trod could never more
be trodden by the admirers of their worth, -
and that the walls that re-echoed to their words,
or to the approving cheers of their delighted
auditory, had crumbled in the flame? Not
one, who had a thought to bestow upon the
matter
.
The legislature now assemble in that heavy looking building, something like a barn, the
top of which may be seen from the river as we pass.
Hundreds of workmen are, however,
busily employed in preparing the terrace, -
taken from the bed of the river, - upon which
the future Houses of Parliament are to stand.
The design of Mr. Barry is worthy of its
object; and, when completed, promises to be
a fit seat for the British legislature.
This spot was, originally, the most desolate
and barren of any in the neighbourhood of
London.
In the time of the Romans, it was
a waste, overgrown with weeds and thorns,
bounded on two sides by a dirty stream, afterwards called the Long Ditch.
One of the first
buildings erected upon it was a minster, undertaken by the converted King Sibert, in the
year 610.
To this minster the now famous
city of Westminster owes all its greatness,
and even its name.
The seat of a bishop, it
soon drew a busy population around it, who
built upon and cultivated the waste, and in
process of time filled up the ditch.
King
Rufus was the next to add to its dignity by
the erection of his handsome banqueting-hall,
where he used to keep his Christmas in great
style with his court and retainers.
Then the
Judges began to hold their sittings there, and
finally the Parliaments, until, in the course
of time, all these advantages made Westminster the first city of the empire.
A good story
is related of James the First and one of the
Lords Mayor, in reference to the prosperity
of the twin cities, and which, for its happy
quiet laudation of the Thames, it would be
unpardonable to omit.
James being in want
of twenty thousand pounds, applied to the
corporation of London for a loan of that sum.
The corporation refused, upon which the King
in high dudgeon sent for the Lord Mayor and
some of the aldermen, and, rating them in
severe terms for their disloyalty, insisted upon
their raising the money for him.
"Please your majesty", said the Lord Mayor, "we
cannot lend you what we have not got".
"You must get it", replied the King.
"We cannot", said the Lord Mayor.
"I 'll compel you", rejoined the King.
"But you cannot compel us", retorted the Lord Mayor.
"No!" exclaimed the King; "then I'll ruin your
city for ever.
I'll make a desert of Westminster.
I'll remove my courts of law, my parliament, and my court to York or to Oxford, and then what will become of you?"
"Please your Majesty", rejoined the Lord
Mayor, meekly, "you may remove yourself
and your courts wherever you please; but
there will always be this consolation for the
poor merchants of London, - you cannot take
the Thames along with you".
How shall we speak of the venerable Abbey?
A recent author says, in his admiration, that
the fabric, or at least that part of it known as
Henry the Seventh's Chapel, appears to have
been put together "by the fingers of angels,
under the immediate superintendence of Omnipotence!"
Without being so sublime, or
so ridiculous, we must allow the beauty of the
edifice, and be impressed with a solemn and
religious veneration at the thought of the uses
to which it has been applied, the great events
of which it has been the witness, and the ashes
of the illustrious dead which have mouldered
within its walls.
Here are crowned the monarchs of England; and here, all their pomp
and power and vanity away, they moulder like
their subjects.
Not to mention earlier monarchs,
here, side by side, lie Elizabeth and Mary - the
oppressor and the oppressed, the destroyer and
her victim.
Here, a few feet apart, are the
funeral mementos of Fox and Pitt.
Here, by
their graves, is the place of which Scott sings,
in strains which would have immortalized his
memory had he written nothing else: -
"Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand and still the tongue
Of those who fought and spoke and sung;
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke again
'All peace on earth, good will to men',
If ever, from an English heart
O here let prejudice depart.
Genius and Taste and Talent gone,
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,
Where - taming thought to human pride -
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
T'will trickle to his rival's bier;
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry -
'Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom
Whom Fate made brothers in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like again?'
Here also lie the ashes of many of the lights
of song; and here stand the monuments which
a grateful and admiring posterity has erected
to them, and to many more whose bones crumble in other earth, rendering the corner in
which they are a holy spot, only to be entered
with love and reverence.
The most conspicuous are those of Shakspeare, Chaucer, Spenser,
Ben Jonson, Milton, Butler, Addison, Prior,
Dryden, Rowe, Gay, Thomson, West, Goldsmith, and Gray; besides those of Handel and
Garrick, who may also claim to rank among
the poets; the first, from the sisterhood of his
art; and the second, as being in soul a poet, or
he could not have been a great actor.
But we must leave Westminster and all its
reminiscences behind us, - for they are too many
for our purpose, and would occupy as much
space as we have to bestow upon the Thames
itself,
and continue our course upward to Vauxhall Bridge.
On the left, is the grey and venerable palace of Lambeth, the residence of the
Archbishops of Canterbury almost ever since
the Norman Conquest.
How many recollections are excited by the mention of this spot!
Here Wat Tyler vented his fury.
Here
were the Lollards imprisoned in the tower
which still bears their name.
Here the unfortunate Earl of Essex was imprisoned by Queen
Elizabeth, before his final commitment to the
Tower.
Here also Archbishop Laud was
attacked by the riotous London 'prentices, a
short time before his execution.
At this
place also the bigots under Lord George Gordon vented their insane fury.
Close by the
same spot, under the walls of St. Mary's
Church, the unfortunate Mary D'Este remained
hidden, with her infant son, in the midst of
the bitter storm of the 6th of December 1688,
for a whole hour, awaiting a coach to convey
her, a fugitive and an outcast, from the land
where she had reigned as a queen; an incident
which gave occasion to the following ballad.
THE FLIGHT OF MARY D'ESTE.
Cold was the night, and dark the sky,
And thick the rain did fall,
When a lady waved her hand, and cried
To a boatman at Whitehall,
"Oh, speed thee, boatman, speed thee well
Across the stormy Thames,
And bear me safely from the foes
Of me, and my young James.
"Oh, speed me safely from their spite;
I'll give a golden fee
If this poor baby at my breast
Be still preserved to me !"-
"I'll take thy fee, O lady bright,
And all my best employ,
Part for thy sake, part for thy fee,
Part for thy pretty boy.
"'Tis true, the night is dark and cold,
And winds and waters roar;
But, were it ten times wilder still,
I'd row you safe ashore".
The lady thanked him with her eyes,
From which the tears fell fast,
And the boatman wrapp'd her in his cloak,
To shield her from the blast.
Away they went, through driving sleet,
Across the angry Thames,
While still she sobb'd and sigh'd, "Alas!
God help unhappy James!
"God help thee, also, O my son,
And thy poor mother, too,
Sad outcast from the regal halls,
And heritage thy due.
"The bitter winds that round us blow
Are not so rude and chill
As wrath of foes, and scorn of friends,
Conspiring to our ill.
"Oh, speed thee, boatman, speed thee well,
And should we reach the shore,
For the dear sake of this poor
I'll thank thee evermore".
Amid the pelting rain at last
They near'd the 'bishop's wall,
And as the lady stepp'd on land
Still did her tears down fall.
She look'd around her anxiously
Some shelter to obtain,
Then clasp'd her infant closer still,
To shield it from the rain.
Alas, poor mother! far nor near
A shelter could be seen;
Beggars were snug that bitter night,
But houseless was the Queen.
And still she made a piteous moan,
"Unkind, ye storms! ye be;
But not so cruel as my foes
To my young James and me.
"Oh, who would wish to fill a throne,
To be cast down so low?
Oh, who would wear a monarch's crown,
At the price of so much woe?
"Would that I were but safe again
On France's ocean strand,
I 'd never quit that shore again
To come to cold England".
Thus underneath the churchyard wall,
All drenched to the bone,
The Queen of England sat an hour,
Sighing, and making moan;
But God, that hears the wretch's cry,
Did not forsake her quite;
And friends were found that saw her safe,
Before the morning light.
On good ship-board, at Gravesend moor'd,
She lay, with her young James,
While a fair fresh gale fill'd every sail,
And bore them from the Thames.
On the right of us now is the singular-look
ing Church of St.John the Evangelist; of
which Lord Chesterfield used to say that
"it put him in mind of an elephant thrown on its
back, with its four feet erect in the air".
The late Charles Mathews had a similar saying,
which perhaps he borrowed from the simile of
Lord Chesterfield, which was, that
"it put him in mind of a large dining-table turned upside
down, with its four legs and castors in the air".
A short distance beyond this abused building
is the gloomy Penitentiary of Milbank, destined for the reception and reformation of convicts, -
the most dreary, desolate-looking building to be seen on the banks of Thames, in all its
course from Coteswold to the Nore.
On the other side of the stream are the low shores
of ancient Lambeth.
How squalid and how
miserable they look! -
and how well do the lines of Pope, written more than a hundred
and twenty years ago, describe their present
appearance: -
In every town where Thamis rolls his tide
A narrow pass there is, with houses low,
Where ever and anon the stream is dyed,
And many a boat soft sliding to and fro, -
There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall -
And on the broken pavement here and there
Doth many a rotten sprat and herring lie;
A brandy and tobacco shop is near,
And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;
And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry.
At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry,
Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between -
Scold answers foul-mouth'd scold: bad neighbourhood I ween.
Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town;
Woolwich, and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth -
The years that have rolled by since the time
of Pope, have made little or no difference in the
habits or habitations of the poor.
The progress
of civilisation does nothing for them.
Noble
mansions may lift themselves on either side,
bridges may be built, railways constructed;
but the dwellings of the poor experience no improvement.
A thousand years effect nothing
more for them than to change the wigwam
into the hovel, and at the latter point they
stop.
It is hard to say whether their change
of habits is even so much in their favour.
As
"noble savages", they had at least the advantages of health and fresh air; as independent
labourers, doomed to the gas-work or the factory, they have neither, - besides wanting the
contentment which was the lot of their naked
progenitors of the woods and wilds.
However,
this is merely a hint for the political economists,
and has nothing to do with Vauxhall,
at which point we have now arrived, and caught, for the
first time since we left London Bridge, a view
of the green fields and the open country.
Of
Vauxhall itself there is little to say, except that
in its churchyard are buried the Tradescants,
so well known, in the seventeenth century, for
their museum.
But its Gardens, - a glimpse of
whose tree-tops we can just obtain from the
river, - how shall we describe them? Where
in all England is there a spot more renowned
among pleasure-seekers than
"This beauteous garden, but by vice maintained",
as Addison, paraphrasing Juvenal, expresses it?
Famous is Vauxhall in all the country round
for its pleasant walks, its snug alcoves, its
comic singers, its innumerable lamps, its big
balloons, its midnight fireworks, its thin slices,
its dear potations, its greedy waiters, and its
ladies fair and kind, and abounding with every
charm, except the greatest which can adorn
their sex, and the want of which renders their
beauty coarse, their kindness selfish, and their
very presence an offence to the well-minded.
Pepys, in his "Diary", under date of 1667, says,
"I went by water to Fox-hall, and there walk
ed in Spring Gardens.
A great deal of company; the weather and gardens pleasant, and
cheap going thither; for a man may go to
spend what he will, or nothing; all is one.
But to hear the nightingale and other birds,
and here fiddles and there a harp, and here
a Jew's trump and here laughing, and there
fine people walking, is very diverting".
In Addison's time, Spring Gardens, as they were still
called, continued to be noted for their nightingales and their sirens; and Sir Roger de
Coverley is represented as having wished there
were more of the former and fewer of the
latter, in which case he would have been a
better customer.
But in our days there are no
nightingales, and the sirens have it all to them
selves.
But let that pass.
If the age will
not mend its manners, it is no fault of ours;
and we must take Vauxhall, like other things,
as we find it.
Sterner moralists than we are,
or wish to be, have thought it a pleasant place,
and the old guide-books invariably designate it
"an earthly paradise".
Addison called it a Mahometan paradise, - choosing the epithet, no
doubt, from the numerous houris before mentioned, and the admixture of sensual and intellectual enjoyments which it afforded.
In our
day its claim to so high a character cannot be
supported: it is the paradise only of servant
girls and apprentices.
On the opposite bank of the river the country is open, and we obtain a view of the
western suburbs of the great capital.
Further
up the stream, to the left, we arrive opposite to
the Red House, Battersea Fields, a spot which
is noted for amusements of a very different
kind.
Here men assemble frequently during
the summer months and murder pigeons, calling it sport.
These fields also are the scene of the marvellous adventure which befell Evans the astrologer, in the year 1663,
as related in Lilly's Memoirs of his Life and Times.
This Evans resided in the Minories, and being visited one
day by Lord Bothwell and Sir Kenelm Digby,
was desired by them to raise a ghost.
Evans
drew the magic circle accordingly, and stepping
inside with his visiters, commenced his invocations.
"Not having", quoth Lilly, "made any
suffumigation, the spirits were vexed", and resolving to punish him for his neglect, whisked
him out of the circle in an instant, carried him
up the chimney, over the houses, over St.
Paul's, over Westminster Abbey, and right
over the Thames, until they arrived at Battersea Causeway, where they bumped him down
from the height of a few hundred feet, and left
him to die or recover, as he thought best.
He
chose the latter course, and was found the next
morning by a countryman, of whom he inquired where he was, and how far from London? On being informed, he explained that
he had been drinking with some friends in
Battersea the previous night; that he had got
drunk, and did not know what he did with
himself afterwards; - an explanation which was
perfectly satisfactory to the countryman, and
will, no doubt, be so to the modern reader.
It was not satisfactory, however, to Lilly, who
was a great stickler for the truth of the supernatural version of the story.
On the opposite shore of the river stands Chelsea Hospital, the last refuge of the old soldier.
Englishmen are justly proud of this establishment, though being a sea-faring people they
rank it after Greenwich Hospital, which holds
the first and highest place in their affections.
It is a plain brick building, and occupies three
sides of a spacious quadrangle, which is open
on the south side, and in the centre of which is
a statue of Charles the Second, in very inappropriate Roman costume.
The ordinary number of in-pensioners is four hundred and seventy-six, consisting of twenty-six captains,
thirty-two sergeants, thirty-two corporals, six
teen drummers, three hundred and thirty-six
private soldiers, and thirty-four light horsemen.
The number of out-pensioners is unlimited,
having pensions varying from three shillings
to a guinea per week.
The average number is
about eighty thousand, who are dispersed over
the three kingdoms, exercising their usual occupations, but liable to be called upon to perform garrison duty in time of war.
The history of this building is odd enough.
The college, founded by a charter of James
the First, in the year 1610, was intended as
a seminary for polemical divines, who were to
be employed in opposing the doctrines of papists and sectaries.
Skilful combatants they
were in the war of words; but fate had decreed the spot as a dwelling-place for combatants of another description.
A king might
intend it for a nursery to train up men in
the art of opposing his enemies by the arguments of the tongue and the pen; but fate
had said it should be the nursery of those
who had employed their lives in using the
arguments of the sword and the gun.
The
original scheme was not productive of much
benefit; and the college having become tenantless, it was granted in the year 1669 to the
Royal Society.
It was again tenantless in
the year 1680, and was fixed upon as the site
of the present edifice.
The foundation-stone
was laid by Charles the Second, in 1682, and
it was built from the design of Sir Christopher Wren.
There is a tradition that it was
owing to the influence of the beauteous Eleanor
Gwynne that Charles the Second was induced
to establish this institution, and the old soldiers to this day speak of her memory with
the utmost respect.
The village of Chelsea abounds in reminiscences, having been the residence of Sir
Thomas More, of Holbein, of Pym, of St.
Evremond, of Sir Robert Walpole, of Addison,
of Sir Hans Sloane, and also of Nell Gwynne
and the Duchess of Mazarin, the mistresses
of Charles the Second, with a hundred other
personages, celebrated for their virtue, their
genius, their patriotism, their benevolence, or
their beauty.
There is an air of antiquity
and sobriety about that portion of it which
is seen from the river that is highly pleasing.
The solemn, unassuming church, the sedate
houses, and the venerable trees on Cheyne
Walk, (so named from Lord Cheyne, formerly
Lord of the Manor,) throw a charm around it quite delightful to the eye, which has dwelt too
long upon the flaunting elegance of modern
buildings, and the prim precision of new streets,
that never by any chance afford room for a tree
to grow upon them, and rarely within sight
of them.
The visitor's eye cannot fail to remark about the middle of the walk a tavern,
inscribed with large letters along its front,
"Don Saltero's - 1695".
This is the place celebrated in No.34 of the Tatler, which was
opened in the year above-mentioned by one
Salter, a barber, made a don by the facetious
Admiral Munden, who, having cruised for a
long period on the coasts of Spain, had contracted a habit of donning all his acquaintance,
and putting a final o to their names.
This
barber had a taste for natural history, and
adorned his coffee-room with stuffed birds,
reptiles, and dried beetles; and the singularity
of his taste, for a person in his condition of
life, drew him many customers.
The Tatler
describes the room as being covered with
"ten thousand gimcracks on the walls and ceiling",
and Don Saltero himself as a sage-looking
man, of a thin and meagre aspect.
Its appearance is somewhat different now.
The
gimcracks, the old curiosities of the don, have
dwindled away to two, which still ornament the walls, - an old map of London and its environs; a painting of a ferocious Welshman
with a Bardolphian nose riding on a goat, and
armed with a leek and a red-herring, instead
of sword and gun; and a label here and there
about ginger-beer and soda-water.
Instead of
the meagre-looking sage, a bluff waiter enters
at your summons, upon whose character you
cannot speculate, so dull is he, and so like the
thousands you may daily meet.
The old host
offered, on the contrary, a very fertile subject
for the theorist.
"Why", said the Tatler,
"should a barber, and Don Saltero among the
rest, be for ever a politician, a musician, and
a physician?"Ah, why, indeed? - who can
tell?
To this day the barber is still the same.
Go into a barber's anywhere, no matter in what
district, and it is ten to one you will hear the
sounds either of a fiddle or a guitar, or see the
instruments hanging up somewhere.
You will
also find him a politician, or if not a politician,
a great friend and small critic of the drama.
Had we the space, and it were a part of our
subject, we could discourse upon this matter,
lengthily if not learnedly, and also upon an
other question equally luminous, which has
puzzled philosophers for many ages, "Why
do all old women wear red cloaks?"
But we refrain, and continue our reminiscences
of Chelsea.
In a house fronting the river, and on the
site of the present Beaufort Buildings, Sir
Thomas More resided in the year 1520.
Erasmus, who was his frequent guest, describes it as having been "neither mean
nor subject to envy, yet magnificent enough.
There he conversed with his wife, his son, his
daughter-in-law, his three daughters and their
husbands, with eleven grandchildren.
There
was not any man living", continues Erasmus,
"who was so affectionate to his children as
he; and he loveth his old wife as well as if
she were a young maid".
Here Holbein shared
this great man's hospitality for three years; and
here also the royal brute his master, when he
was in the mood to do him honour, came in
regal state, and sometimes privately, to dine
with him.
Here also the noble-minded daughter of the philosopher buried the grey head of
her unfortunate father, after having at the risk
of her life stolen it, or caused it to be stolen,
(stealing in this case was a virtue,) from the
pike on which it was fixed at London Bridge,
by order of Henry the Eighth.
If there are
occasions in which the insensible sod can become hallowed and consecrated, an incident
like this ought in all true hearts to render it
holy for evermore.
The head remained there
for a few hours only in a leaden box, and was
removed by his daughter to the family vault
of her husband, Mr. Roper, at St.Dunstan's,
Canterbury.
The body was buried at Chelsea,
in the south side of the chancel.
The house
in which this great man resided was pulled
down by Sir Hans Sloane in 1740.
In a place now called the Stable Yard, Nell
Gwynne formerly resided.
It was afterwards
inhabited by Sir Robert Walpole.
The premises were bought by Government in the year
1808, and pulled down.
The infirmary, an
adjunct to the Royal Hospital, built from the
design of Sir John Soane, now stands upon
the site.
Close by resided the Duchess of
Mazarin, where she gave those famous dramatic and musical entertainments to all the gay,
the witty, and the gallant of the age, which
became the first precursors of the Italian
Opera.
It should not be forgotten that Chelsea also was the site of the well-known Ranelagh Gardens, where our ancestors used to
congregate for amusements something similar
to those which are now to be seen at Vauxhall.
The first regatta that ever took place on
the Thames, was exhibited in front of Ranelagh Gardens on the 23rd of June 1775.
The public papers of that day speak of it as an
entirely novel species of amusement in England, recently introduced from Venice, and
which attracted a vast crowd of spectators.
The second regatta took place fourteen days
afterwards, at Oatlands, near Weybridge, then
the seat of the Duke of Newcastle, at which
the Prince of Wales, the Princess Amelia, and
a great number of fashionable personages attended.
We should not omit to state that at Chelsea, fronting the river, and just at the beginning of Cheyne Walk,
are the celebrated Botanic Gardens of the Apothecaries Company,
established in the seventeenth century, and of
which frequent mention is made in Evelyn's
Diary.
When Doctor, afterwards Sir Hans
Sloane, purchased the manor of Chelsea from
Lord Cheyne, in the year 1712, he received
the rent for these gardens as part of the property; but a few years afterwards he generously
settled them upon the society, in perpetuity, at the nominal rent of five pounds per
annum, upon the following conditions, that it
should at all times be continued as a physic
garden, for the manifestation of the power,
wisdom, and goodness of God in creation, and that the apprentices might learn to distinguish
good and useful plants from hurtful ones resembling them; also that fifty specimens of
different plants should be delivered annually
to the Royal Society, until they amounted
to two thousand; in default of which, the
Royal Society might appropriate the whole
ground to their own use at the same rent, and
on delivering the specified number of plants
to the College of Physicians.
A handsome statue of Sir Hans Sloane, the
great benefactor of Chelsea, and of his country too, as his Museum (the origin of the
British Museum) will testify, was executed
by Rysbrach, in 1737, and placed in the centre walk of the gardens, facing the building, by order of the society.
Sir Joseph
Banks is said to have studied the first principles of Botany in this garden.
When he was
a young man, and resided at Chelsea with his
mother, he used to spend the early morning,
from five to eight o'clock, when others, less
intent on self-improvement, were in bed and
asleep, in trying experiments on various aquatic and other plants.
Renown was at last the
reward of his perseverance.
Of the bridge connecting Chelsea with Battersea, useful, no doubt, but certainly not very ornamental, it is unnecessary to say more than merely mention the fact of its existence.
Battersea, whose simple unpretending church steeple peeps modestly from amid surround
ing houses, requires more notice.
Here at one
time Pope had a favourite study fronting the
Thames, in which he composed his "Essay on
Man"; and here was born the celebrated
Lord Bolingbroke.
At the east end of the
church is a window in which are three portraits, all of the family of St.John, the ancestors of the Bolingbrokes.
Among them
is no less a personage than Queen Elizabeth,
whose relationship to the family is thus explained.
The father of Anne Boleyn, Thomas
Earl of Wiltshire, was great grandfather of the
wife of Sir John St.John, the first baronet!
Truly the relationship is not very close, but
it is quite sufficient for vanity to make a
boast of.
Among the monuments in the church is one
to the memory of the great Lord Bolingbroke,
finely executed by Roubilliac, the epitaph upon which mentions, "his zeal to maintain the
liberty and restore the ancient prosperity of
Great Britain".
Another monument, with a
singular inscription, is to the memory of one
Sir Edward Winter, an East India Captain
in the reign of Charles the Second, who seems
to have outsamsoned Samson in his exploits.
Being in the woods in India he was attacked
by a tiger, when placing himself on the edge
of a deep pool of water, he waited quietly
till the beast sprang at him, when he caught
him in his arms, fell back with him into the
water, then stood upright upon him and kept
him under water till he was drowned.
Nor
was this his only feat, if his epitaph speak
truly in the following lines: -
Alone, unarm'd, a tiger he oppress'd,
And crush'd to death the monster of a beast;
Thrice twenty mounted Moors he overthrew,
Singly on foot - some wounded, some he slew,
Dispersed the rest - what more could Samson do?
The etymology of the word Battersea has
often puzzled commentators.
Doctors have
differed as to whether St.Patrick or St.Peter,
or plain Batter Pudding, or even butter, should
have the honour of bestowing a name upon
the village.
Aubrey derives it from St.Patrick, it having, in William the Conqueror's
time, been written Patrice-cey, afterwards Battrichsey, and then Battersea.
Lysons battles
in favour of St.Peter, and the etymology
seems plain enough; - Petersea, Pattersea, Battersea; which is rendered more likely to be
the true one, by the manor having once be
longed to the abbey of St.Peter's, at Chertsey.
This village used to be famous for asparagus.
The following song was written in praise of a
bright-eyed daughter of the spot: -
Of all the broad rivers that flow to the ocean,
There's none to compare, native Thames! unto thee;
And gladly for ever,
Thou smooth-rolling river,
I'd dwell on thy green banks at fair Battersea.
'Twas there I was born, and 'tis there I will linger,
And there shall the place of my burial be,
If fortune, caressing,
Will grant but one blessing,
The heart of the maiden of fair Battersea.
I seek not to wander by Tiber or Arno,
Or castle-crown'd rivers in far Germanie;
To me, Oh! far dearer,
And brighter, and clearer,
The Thames as it rimples at fair Battersea.
Contentment and Hope, spreading charms all around them,
Have hallow'd the spot since she smiled upon me
O Love! thy joys lend us,
O Fortune, befriend us,
We'll yet make an Eden of fair Battersea.
A little farther on to the left, a small stream
discharges itself into the Thames.
This is the
Wandle, the "blue transparent Vandalis "of
Pope, and famous for trout.
Pleasant places
there are on its banks, between Carshalton and
Wandsworth, where the angler may take his
station, and be rewarded with something more
substantial than mere nibbles.
The stream is
also renowned for the great number of dyehouses and manufacturing establishments upon
its banks.
Poetry, too, has striven to celebrate
it.
Witness the following ditty, made upon
some charmer, whose beauty seems to have
been the only witchcraft that she used: -
Sweet little witch of the Wandle!
Come to my bosom and fondle;
v
I love thee sincerely,
I'll cherish thee dearly,
Sweet little witch of the Wandle"
Sweet little witch of the Wandle!
All our life long let us fondle;
Ne'er will I leave thee,
Ne'er will I grieve thee,
Sweet little witch of the Wandle!
Close by Wandsworth is a long lane, the
name of which has become famous in all the
country, since Foote wrote his admirable burlesque, "The Mayor of Garratt".
Garratt Lane runs parallel for a considerable distance
with the river Wandle, and used to be the
scene, in former years, of the election of a
mock member of parliament, whenever there
was a general election.
The Mayor of Garratt
was the name given to their president by a
club of small tradesmen, who had formed an
association about the year 1760, to prevent
encroachments upon the neighbouring common.
Both before and after Foote had given
celebrity to the name, a mayor was elected
by all the ragamuffins of the vicinity, who
assembled in a public-house for that purpose;
and later still, a member of parliament was
elected instead of the mayor.
Upon these
occasions, there was generally a goodly array
of candidates, who had their proposers and
seconders, and made long burlesque speeches
in the regular form.
Thousands of persons
from London used to meet in the lane, to
the great profit of the innkeepers, who willingly paid all the expenses of flags, placards,
and hustings.
But these proceedings, which
commenced in good humour, ended very often
in broken heads and limbs; and the magistracy, scandalised by the scenes of debauchery,
drunkenness, and robbery that were so frequent, determined to put a stop to the exhibition; and it was finally suppressed about
the year 1796.*
{ * A full account of all the ceremonies may be found in
Hone's Every Day Book.}
The next place we arrive at is Putney,
famous as the head-quarters of Cromwell's
army, when the royal forces were stationed
at Hampton Court.
Putney was also the
birth-place of the other and less celebrated
Cromwell, Earl of Essex, whose father was a
blacksmith in the village.
Drayton, in his
Legend of Thomas Cromwell, says, there was
an unusual tide of the river at his birth, which
was thought to predict his future greatness: -
Twice flow'd proud Thames, as at my coming woo'd,
Striking the wondering borderers with fear,
And the pale Genius of that aged flood
To my sick mother, labouring, did appear,
And with a countenance much distracted stood,
Threatening the fruit her painéd womb should bear.
There used to be a ferry at Putney in very
early ages.
It is mentioned in Domesday
Book as yielding an annual toll of twenty
shillings to the lord of the manor.
When
the bridge was built in 1729, the ferry yielded
to the proprietor about four hundred pounds
per annum, and was sold for eight thousand
pounds.
The spot has always been famous
for its fishery, and, according to Lysons, is
mentioned as early as the time of the Conquest.
In 1663, the annual rent of the fishery
was the three best salmon caught in the
months of March, April, and May.
When
the estates of Sir Theodore Janssen, the noted
South Sea director, and lord of the manor of
Putney, were sold, the fishery was let for six
pounds per annum.
It is still a favourite spot
for anglers.
The salmon are not reckoned very
plentiful now-a-days; but there are great quanities of very fine smelts, as well as shad, roach,
dace, barbels, gudgeons, and eels.
It was formerly the custom for persons travelling to the west of England from London to
proceed as far as Putney by water, and then
take coach.
We learn from Stowe, that when
Cardinal Wolsey was dismissed from the chancellorship, he sailed from York Place (Whitehall) to Putney, on his way to Hampton Court,
to the great disappointment "of the wavering
and newfangled multitude", who expected that
he would have been committed to the Tower.
So great was the crowd when he embarked at
Privy Stairs, that, according to Stowe, a man
might have walked up and down on the
Thames, so covered was it with boats filled
with the people of London.
The scene that
took place on his arrival will always render
Putney a memorable spot.
As he mounted
his mule, and all his gentlemen took horse to
proceed to Hampton, he espied a man riding
in great haste down the hill into the village.
The horseman turned out to be one Master
Norris, charged with a message from the King
to the Cardinal, bidding him be of good cheer,
for that his present disgrace was not so much
the result of the King's indignation as a measure of policy to satisfy some persons, over
whose heads he should yet arise in new splendour.
"When the Cardinal", to use the quaint
and forcible language of Stowe, "had heard
Master Norris report these good and comfortable words of the King, he quickly lighted
from his mule all alone, as though he had
been the youngest of his men, and incontinently kneeled down in the dirt upon both
his knees, holding up his hands for joy of the
King's most comfortable message.
Master
Norris lighted also, espying him so soon upon
his knees, and kneeled by him, and took him
in his arms and asked him how he did, calling
upon him to credit his message.
'Master
Norris,' quoth he, ' when I consider the joyful
news that you have brought me, I could do
no less than greatly rejoice.
Every word
pierces so my heart, that the sudden joy surmounted my memory, having no regard or
respect to the place; but I thought it my
duty, that in the same place where I received
this comfort, to laud and praise God upon
my knees, and most humbly to render unto
my sovereign lord my most hearty thanks for
the same.'
And as he was talking thus upon
his knees to Master Norris, he would have
pulled off a velvet night-cap, which he wore
under his black hat and scarlet cap, but he
could not undo the knot under his chin:
wherefore with violence he rent his laces off
his cap, and pulled the said cap from his
head, and kneeled bareheaded.
This done, he
mounted again on his mule, and so rode forth
the high way up into the town".
But we must conclude the story.
When they
arrived at Putney Heath, Master Norris presented the Cardinal with a ring, telling him
that the King had sent it as a token of his
good will.
"Oh!"exclaimed the ambitious
old man, "if I were lord of all this realm,
Master Norris, the one half thereof would be
too small a reward to you for your pains and
good news".
He then presented him with a
gold chain which he usually wore round his
neck, with a gold cross, in which was inclosed
a small fragment of the true cross on which
Jesus was crucified.
"Wear this about your
neck continually for my sake", said he, "and
remember me to the King when ye shall see
opportunity".
Upon this, Master Norris took
his departure; but the Cardinal was still unsatisfied, and before he was out of sight sent
one of his gentlemen in all haste to bring him
back again.
"I am very sorry", said he,
"that I have no token to send to the King;
but if you will at my request present the King
with this poor fool, I trust he will accept
him, for he is for a nobleman's pleasure, for
sooth, worth one thousand pounds".
"So Master Norris "[we again quote Stowe,]
"took the fool, with whom my lord was
fain to send six of his tallest yeomen to help
him to convey the fool to the court: for the
poor fool took on like a tyrant, rather than
he would have departed from my lord.
But,
not withstanding, they conveyed him, and so
brought him to the court, where the King
received him very gladly".
This fool, from
the value set upon him, appears to have been
a fool after the fashion of him in Shakspeare,
whom Jacques met in the forest,
"A fool - a fool - a motley fool -
A noble fool - a worthy fool".
The Cardinal, for aught we know to the contrary, might have concealed a deep meaning
under his present: "You will not take wise
men into your favour, O King, therefore take
this fool".
The fool's head, however, we are
justified in believing, would not have been
of much worth, if Henry had perceived the
satire.
At all events, the fool showed that he
had some sense, by his dislike to enter the service, of a King whose propensity to taking off
heads was so remarkable.
Among other reminiscences of Putney, we
must not omit that it was the birth-place of
the great historian Gibbon, and that Pitt died
on Putney Heath.
Here also, in a small house
near the bridge, resided the novelist Richard
son, and here he wrote part of "Sir Charles
Grandison".
The churches of Fulham and
Putney, which look meekly
towards each other from the
two sides of the river, are
said to have been built by
two sisters.
This, however, is but a foolish
tradition.
Grose, in his Provincial Glossary,
says, the story was, that they had but one
hammer between them, which they interchanged by throwing it across the river, on a
word agreed upon between them.
She on the
Surrey side made use of the words,
"Put it nigh!"
and she on the opposite shore,
"Heave it full home"
whence the churches, and from
them the villages, were called
"Putnigh" and "Fullhome",
since corrupted to "Putney" and "Fulham".
Both churches are of great antiquity; and,
although it is not easy to fix precisely the date
of their foundation, it is probable that it was
shortly after the Conquest.
The stone tower
of Putney church is supposed to have been
erected in the fifteenth century.
Fulham has
been known since the Conquest as the manor
and residence of the Bishops of London, many
of whom lie buried in the church.
There are
several monuments here to the memory of
men who were celebrated in their day for their
piety or their learning.
There is also one to
the memory of Dr.Butts, physician to King
Henry the Eighth, who is known neither for
his learning nor his piety, but who is familiar
to the reader of Shakspeare from the part he
plays in the drama of that name.
Such is the
influence of genius, - such is the homage that
some enthusiastic hearts are ever ready to pay
it, - that Fulham has had its pilgrims for no
other reason than this.
The mention made of
Dr.Butts by the great bard is small enough,
but is sufficient with these to draw them hither,
as to a shrine.
From Fulham the Thames bends towards
Hammersmith, and as we sail upwards we pass
through lines of tall trees, and through banks
all covered with clusters of wild flowers to the
very edge of the water.
On the Surrey shore
is Barn, or Barnes, Elms, famous as having been
the residence of Sir Francis Walsingham, of the
unfortunate Earl of Essex, of Cowley, and of
Tonson the bookseller.
The latter built a gallery here for the accommodation of the Kit-cat
Club, and adorned the walls with their portraits, which have, however, been since removed.
The poet Hughes, a man who in his
day boasted many admirers, but whom three
good judges, Pope, Swift, and Dr. Johnson,
classed as "one of the mediocribus", strove to
celebrate the noble trees that give name to this
place by some encomiastic verses.
A taste of
their quality is afforded by the concluding lines.
Ye verdant elms, that towering grace this grove,
Be sacred still to beauty and to love,
Nor thunder break, nor lightning glare between
Your twisted boughs - - -
The grateful sun will every morning rise
Propitious here, saluting from the skies
Your lofty tops, indulged with sweetest air,
And every spring your losses he'll repair,
Nor his own laurels more shall be his care".
It says but little for the taste of the age that
such twaddle as this should ever have been
considered poetry.
We of this [19th] century are
more difficult to please in the matter; and
Master Hughes, had he lived among us, would
not have been considered one of the second,
but of the seventh-rate poets.
We are, however, approaching a part of the
Thames that teems with reminiscences of true
poets.
For the next fifteen or twenty miles
of our course, there is hardly a spot on either
shore which is not associated with the names
of Cowley, Denham, Pope, Gay, Collins,
Thomson, or the predecessors and contempora
ries of these writers.
The very stones and
trees on the Thames' banks "prate of their
whereabouts", and whisper in the ear of the
lover of song, "Here Cowley lived", - "here
Pope wrote, or here he took the air in a boat",
- "here is Thomson buried", - or, "here Denham stood when he imagined the beautiful
eulogium upon the river, which has been
so often quoted", - and here King William
"showed Swift how to cut asparagus in the
Dutch way".
We must not, however, digress, but mention all these things in their
proper places.
As we draw near to the elegant suspension
bridge of Hammersmith, we pass the site
of the once celebrated Brandenburg House,
where the luckless consort of George the
Fourth ended her unhappy life.
Here, during
the popular excitement occasioned by the trial
in the House of Lords, thousands of persons
proceeded daily to carry their addresses of confidence or of sympathy.
Sometimes as many
as thirty thousand people were known to set
out from London on this errand, in carriages,
on horseback, and on foot, preceded by bands
of music, and bearing banners, or emblems of
the various trades that formed the procession.
After her death, the place, odious in the eyes
of George the Fourth, was purchased by that
monarch, and razed to the ground.
Some
traces of the wall and a portion of the gate
alone remain to mark the place where it stood.
It was once the property of Prince Rupert,
by whom it was given to the beautiful Mrs.
Hughes, an actress, by whose charms his heart
was captured.
It was also inhabited at one
time by the Margravine of Anspach.
Hammersmith is famous for a nunnery established in the seventeenth century.
About fifteen years ago, the place was noted in London
as the scene where an awful ghost played his
antics, to the great alarm of many silly people.
At the end of the last century, Loutherbourg
the artist resided here, and drew great crowds
to his house by an exhibition something akin to
the mummeries of animal magnetism as now
practised.
He pretended to cure all diseases
by the mere laying on of the hands, aided by
prayer; and it is mentioned that as many as
three thousand people at a time waited around
his garden, expecting to be relieved of their infirmities by this wonderful artist.
But of all
the reminiscences attached to Hammersmith,
the most interesting is, that Thomson the poet
once made it his dwelling-place, and composed
part of his "Seasons"there, in a tavern called
the Dove Coffee house.
Thomson, for the last
twenty years of his life, was a constant haunter
of the Thames; he lived, died, and was buried
on the banks of his favourite river.
It may be
said, indeed, without any disparagement to the
Thames, that it killed this sweet poet and amiable man; for he caught a severe cold upon the
water, when sailing in an open boat from London to Kew, which, being neglected, proved
fatal a short time afterwards.
Chiswick is the next place we arrive at, - Chiswick, the burial place of Hogarth, and where a monument is raised to his memory, for which his friend Garrick wrote the following inscription: -
Farewell, great painter of mankind,
Who reached the noblest point of art;
Whose pictured morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart.
If genius fire thee, reader, stay;
If nature move thee, drop a tear;
If neither touch thee, turn away,
For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here".
This epitaph has been very much admired, but
it is by no means a favourable specimen of that
kind of composition.
The first two lines are
tame and prosaic, and the word "farewell" is
inappropriately made use of.
To say "farewell" to the ashes of the dead is natural to
those who look for the last time on the face of
one they loved; but the object of an epitaph
being merely to inform the reader of the great
or the good man who moulders below, there is
no necessity for the word of leave-taking.
The thought in the last stanza is much better,
and, were it not for the unreasonable request
that we should weep over the spot, would be
perfect.
Men cannot weep that their predecessors have died.
We may sigh that neither virtue nor genius can escape the common lot of
humanity, but no more.
We cannot weep.
Admiration claims no such homage; and, if it
did, we could not pay it.
In this churchyard are buried also, Mary, the daughter of Oliver Cromwell; Ugo Foscolo; Barbara Villiers Duchess of Cleveland; Judith, the wife of Sir James Thornhill, the painter; their daughter, married to the immortal Ho garth; Loutherbourg, the magnetiser and artist, already mentioned; and Kent, the famous architect and gardener.
A little further up the stream stands Chiswick House, the seat of the Duke of Devon
shire, almost hidden from the view by the tall
trees amid which it is embowered.
From this
point upwards there is a constant succession of
elegant villas, only to look at which is enough
to satisfy the traveller that he is indeed in
England.
Such neatness, such cleanliness,
such taste, such variety of flower and tree
peeping from hehind or springing on either
side; such ivy-covered walls, and such comfort
visibly dwelling over all, meet the gaze of the
passer-by nowhere else but in England.
We
have sailed up other rivers in our time, have
seen the castles of the Rhine, the chateaux of
the Seine, and the villas of the Elbe, the
Scheldt, and the Meuse; but never have we
met with scenes of such elegant luxury as all
England is dotted with.
There is more appreciation of the simple loveliness of nature here
than in any other country in the world; even
our poorest cots embellish their poverty, and
render it more endurable by nicely-trimmed
gardens both in front and rear.
Flowers and
trees are the poor man's luxuries in England.
The gew-gaws of art are beyond his reach; but
roses and lilies, violets, hyacinths, blue-bells,
anemones, and all the tribes whose very names
are pleasant, adorn his humble windows, and
show the taste of the indweller as well as the
rich vases, golden time-pieces, or choice paint
ings, that solicit our admiration in the chambers
of the rich.
How different it is in most of
the countries on the Continent, especially in
Germany, France, and Belgium! There, neither rich nor poor have that love for verdure
and flowers, which is so characteristic of all
classes of Englishmen.
Their rivers show no
such embowered villas and cottages on their
banks as ours; the country-houses of their
gentry are naked and tasteless in comparison,
and their cottages are miserable huts, around
whose doors or windows the honeysuckle
never crept, and where even a flower-pot is
an unusual visiter.
We shall not attempt here to point out all
the villas that adorn the Thames; for we have
not undertaken these rambles to make a mere
guide-book.
Now and then we shall signalize
some among them, which are dear to the me
mory of all friends of their country, from their
having been inhabited by the great statesmen,
historians, or poets of time gone by, but no
more.
All the rest we shall pass with silent
admiration, leaving those whose curiosity may
not be satisfied until they know the name of
every tenant of every house they see, to consult
the pages of some accurate guide-book.
We
sail in search of more hidden things, of reminiscences of poetry and the poets, of scraps of
legendary lore, and the relics of antiquity.
We
go also in search of rural nooks, where we may
inhale the fresh breezes, and, by filling our ears
with the sweet song of the birds, and the murmur of the trees and waters, get rid of the eternal hum of the crowded thoroughfares we have
left.
We go to satisfy the longings we had
formed
In lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities:
for, (to continue the fine lines of Wordsworth, written also upon revisiting a river,) we are among the number of those who are
The lovers of the meadows, and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive -
And see; - our style is as rambling as our subject, and we have wandered away from Chiswick House and the villas near it, without mentioning the fact that on that spot died two of the most illustrious men of modern history. Charles James Fox and George Canning both expired within its walls, and both in their life time passed many hours in its elegant retirement.
The cluster of houses immediately past the
wall of this domain is the hamlet of Strand-on the-green, where Joe Miller, the putative father
of thousands of other men's jokes, resided and
died.
His remains, however, are not interred
here, but in the burial-ground of St.Clement
Danes, in Portugal-street, London.
On the other side of the river are the adjoining villages of Barnes and Mortlake.
In the
churchyard of Barnes is a tomb, which is a singular example of the fond follies that men
sometimes commit in death, and strive to perpetuate beyond it.
It is to the memory of one
Edward Rose, a citizen of London, who died
in 1653, and left twenty pounds for the purchase of an acre of land for the poor of the village,
upon condition that a number of rose trees should be planted around his grave, kept
in flourishing condition, and renewed for ever.
May his roses flourish! All we can say is,
that we can but smile or sigh, or both, to think
that even death cannot put conceit out of countenance.
The village of Mortlake is celebrated as having been the residence of one of the most singular characters of the sixteenth century.
Dr.
John Dee, the astrologer and alchymist, and
one of the pioneers of the Rosicrucian philosophy, (if philosophy so wild and visionary a system can be called,) lived here for many years,
and was buried in the chancel of the church.
The ancient people of the village more than a
century after his death, which took place in
1608, pointed out the exact spot where his ashes
lay; but the curious inquirer would now seek
in vain to discover it.
Queen Elizabeth always
treated Dr.Dee with marked consideration,
and, when she ascended the throne, sent her
favourite Dudley, afterwards Earl of Leicester,
to consult him on a lucky day for her coronation.
She occasionally visited him at Mortlake, and is once said to have expressed a desire
to be instructed by him in the secrets of astrology and alchymy.
She devoutly believed that
he would one day discover the philosopher's
stone, - an object to which all his abilities, and
he was not without a good portion, were directed.
All the money he gained by telling
fortunes, predicting lucky and unlucky days,
and casting nativities, was melted away in his
furnaces, in the futile search for the stone, or
the elixir, which was to change pokers and
tongs, pots and kettles, and even the pump in
his back-yard, into pure gold.
Thus, though
he gained immense sums of money, he was always poor; and when Count Laski, a wealthy
Pole, who was travelling in England, desirous
of making his acquaintance, sent him word that
he would come and dine with him, Dee was
obliged to apply to Queen Elizabeth to borrow
money to treat the stranger with becoming
hospitality.
Elizabeth sympathised with his
distress, and sent him twenty pounds immediately.
It was shortly before he received this visit
that he made a grand discovery.
He firmly
believed that by means of a small black stone
with a shining surface, and cut in the form of
a diamond, which he possessed, he could hold
converse with the elementary spirits, and be
instructed by them in all the secrets of science,
and all the mysteries of nature.
He has himself left a most extraordinary narrative of his
conversations with the spirits; part of which
was published after his death by Dr.Casaubon,
and the remainder of which may still be seen
among the manuscripts in the British Museum.
He says, that as he was one day in November,
1582, sitting in his study at Mortlake, engaged
in fervent prayer, the angel Uriel appeared at
his window, and gave him a translucent stone,
with which he might summon the angels, and
ask them questions whenever he pleased.
He
also says that an angel appeared to him in the
form of a beautiful little maiden, who slid gracefully and fluttered her wings among the leaves
of his books.
The conversations which, as he
informs us, he held with this and with many
other spirits, were of the most puerile kind,
but in Dee's opinion they were full of truth,
wisdom, and philosophy, and contained precepts
which, if the world had followed, would have
saved it from the horrors of many bitter and
bloody revolutions.
He soon found that he
could not converse with his attendant spirits
and note down at the same time what they said,
and he therefore engaged another fortune-teller
and alchymist, named Kelly, to act as his seer,
and converse with the spirits, while he devoted
himself to reporting their heavenly talk.
Kelly
humoured the whim or the insanity of his
principal, and soon rendered himself so necessary that Dee received him into his family,
esteemed him as his friend, and was proud of
him as his disciple.
When Count Laski came, the two worthies
showed him all their wonders.
The Pole was
highly delighted with the conversation and acquirements of the doctor, and listened with
eagerness to his promises that he would find
the philosopher's stone for him, and make him
the wealthiest man the world ever saw.
The
doctor was as much pleased with his guest,
whom he knew to be rich and powerful; and
he and Kelly formed the design of fastening themselves upon him, and living
sumptuously at his expense until they found the philosopher's stone.
Laski, after great pretended
difficulties, was admitted to the conversations
with the spirits, and finally impressed with such
high notions of the learning and genius of
both Dee and Kelly, that he invited them to
reside with him on his estates near Cracow.
The astrologers desired nothing better; and
Dee especially was anxious to quit England,
where he imagined he was not safe, the mob a
short time before having threatened to break
into his house, and destroy his library, and all
his philosophical apparatus.
This threat, we
may mention by the way, was afterwards carried into execution.
They all left England secretly - Dee being
afraid of offending Elizabeth, - and reached
the estates of Laski in safety.
The astrologers resided with him for no more than
a month; for his finances were in such a
state of disorder, and they were such expensive guests that he could not maintain them;
and, as he soon abandoned his hopes of the
philosopher's stone, he took the earliest opportunity of sending them about their business.
They next fastened themselves upon
the Emperor Rudolph, and afterwards upon
Stephen, king of Poland.
They drew considerable sums from the exchequer of the latter,
leading him on with false hopes of inexhaustible wealth and boundless dominion, until he
grew weary of seeing such vast outlay, and
receiving no return for it except in empty
promises.
Elizabeth felt the loss of her astrologer, and sent for him at various times during
the six years that he was on the Continent.
At last his affairs beginning to look gloomy,
having quarrelled with Kelly, offended or disgusted all his former patrons, and more than
once run the risk of perpetual imprisonment,
he closed with her offers, and determined to
return to England.
He set out from Trebona
in the spring of 1589, travelling in great splendour, with a train of three coaches, and a large
quantity of baggage.
Immediately on his arrival, Elizabeth gave him audience at Richmond, and promised to see to his fortunes.
Little, however, was done; for, sanguine as
the queen may at one time have been that
Dee would discover the philosopher's stone,
she soon saw reason to doubt his capabilities.
But she never wholly withdrew her favour
from him, and, on his repeated applications
for relief, appointed a committee of the privy
council to inquire into the state of his affairs,
and see what could be done for him.
Dee
then made a claim for the destruction of his
books and implements by the mob at Mortlake
soon after he took his departure, and further
more stated that he considered the Queen his
debtor for the expense of his journey home
from the Continent, which he said he would
not have undertaken unless at her special command.
Elizabeth, however, would not acknowledge her liability, but sent Dee a small sum
by way of charity.
He at last, upon his representation that he was starving, obtained of
her the Chancellorship of St.Paul's Cathedral,
which office he held for one year, and then exchanged for the wardenship of the College at
Manchester.
He was now more than seventy
years of age; and, becoming unable to perform
with any activity the duties of his station, he
resigned it after seven years, hoping that a
pension would be granted to him.
In this
hope he was disappointed.
He then retired to
Mortlake, and lived upon the bounty of the
Queen.
After her death he tried to propitiate
King James I.
; but that monarch took no notice of him whatever, and he died in 1608 in a
state but little removed from absolute penury.
His companion Kelly did not live so long;
but, being sentenced to perpetual imprisonment
by some German potentate, who by that means
attempted to extort from him the pretended
secret of gold-making, he endeavoured to escape from his dungeon by leaping from a high
window, and killed himself by the fall.
In Mortlake churchyard also lies interred
another singular character; no less a man than
the famous Partridge, the almanack-maker,
whose death was so pleasantly predicted by
Swift under the name of Bickerstaff, and so
logically and valiantly maintained to be true,
in spite of the assertions of the party most
concerned that he was "still alive and kick
ing".
Partridge, as is well known, was originally a cobbler, and a very ignorant man;
but his reputation was great among a certain
class of people, and his predictions, both of
the weather and of events in general, were
looked to with great respect and anxiety.
Swift's wit about this fellow kept the town
in a good humour for a long time, to the great
mortification and anger of Partridge.
Let us
hear how Swift maintained the living man to
be dead, and how logically he proved it.
"An
objection has been made", quoth he, "to an
article in my predictions, which foretold the
death of Mr. Partridge to happen on March
29, 1708.
This he is pleased to contradict absolutely in the almanack he has published in
the present year, and in that ungentlemanly
manner (pardon the expression) as I have above
related.
In that work he very roundly asserts, "that he is not only now alive, but was
likewise alive upon that very 29th of March
when I foretold he should die."
This is the
subject of the present controversy between us,
which I design to handle with all brevity, perspicuity, and calmness.
In this dispute I am
sensible the eyes, not only of England but of
all Europe, will be upon us; and the learned
in every country will, I doubt not, take part
on that side where they find most appearance
of truth and reason.
My first argument
is this.
Abovea thousand gentlemen having
bought his almanack for this year, merely to
find what he said against me, at every line they
read they would lift up their eyes, and cry out,
betwixt rage and laughter, "They were sure
no man alive ever wrote such damned stuff as
this!"
Now I never heard that opinion disputed.
So that Mr. Partridge lies under a
dilemma, either, of disowning his almanack, or
of confessing himself to be "no man alive".
But now, if an uninformed ignorant carcase
walks about, and is pleased to call itself Partridge, Mr. Bickerstaff does not think himself any way answerable for that.
Secondly,
Mr. Partridge pretends to tell fortunes, and
recover stolen goods, which all the parish says
he must do by conversing with the devil and
other evil spirits; and no wise man will ever
allow that he could converse personally with
either till after he was dead.
Thirdly, I will
prove him to be dead out of his own almanack, and from the very passage which he
produces to make us think he is alive.
He
there says that "he is not only now alive, but
was also alive upon that very 29th of March
which I foretold he should die on."
By this
he declares his opinion, that a man may be
alive now who was not alive a twelve month
ago.
And indeed there lies the sophistry of
his argument.
He dares not assert that he
was ever alive since the 29th of March, but
that he is now alive, and so was on that day.
I grant the latter, for he did not die till night,
as appears by the printed account of his death,
in "a letter to a lord"; and whether he is since
revived, I leave the world to judge.
This, indeed, is perfect cavilling, and I am ashamed
to dwell any longer upon it.
Fourthly, I will
appeal to Mr. Partridge whether it be probable I could have been so indiscreet as to begin
my predictions with the only falsehood that
was ever alleged against them, and this in an
affair at home, where I had so many opportunities to be exact, and must have given such
advantages against me to a person of Mr. Partridge's wit and learning".
There is one objection against Mr. Partridge's death
which I have sometimes met with, though
indeed very slightly offered, that is, that he
still continues to write almanacks.
But this
is no more than what is common to all of
that profession: Gadbury, Poor Robin, Dove,
Wing, and several others, do yearly publish
their almanacks, though several of them have
been dead since before the Revolution.
One
cannot help thinking that Partridge was a
most incredulous man to have refused belief
in his own death after such proofs as these.
But argument was thrown away upon him;
and to give Bickerstaff the lie direct, he actually knocked down and beat in the street,
opposite his own door, a poor fellow who was
crying about the town a ballad entitled, "A
full and true account of the death of Dr.Partridge".
Alas! poor Partridge! he is now
dead enough - a mere lump of clay in the
churchyard of Mortlake - the gibes of a thousand Swifts can trouble him no more.
A
stronger adversary has silenced the arguments
both of him and his tormentor, and the ashes
of the quack and cobbler have mouldered away
like those of the wit and the philosopher, and
he who should compare the two would find no
difference between them.
The "grim foe", as
he is wrongly called, has settled the dispute,
and reduced them both to that equality, a
knowledge of whose inevitable approach exalts
the humble and pulls down the proud.
And
yet, after all, how impotent is death! Swift
and Partridge are gone, but their thoughts
are with us still.
Even in this world, which
may be called Death's own domain, man sets
his dart at defiance.
The minds of the living
can hold converse when they please with the
minds of the dead.
Their thoughts die not
with them, nor ours with us; and, in spite of
death, we can call them from their "misty
shrouds", to instruct us with their wisdom, or
amuse us with their wit.
But we are again rambling, and, i' faith,
writing a homily, instead of looking at both
banks of the Thames, and pointing out the memorabilia of each spot as we pass it.
Our digression has brought us to Kew Bridge, and,
begging the reader's indulgence, we proceed
with our task.
This handsome bridge, first
opened in 1790, was built from a design of
Mr. Paine, who was also the architect of some
other bridges over the river.
It contains seven
stone arches.
Kew church was erected in the
reign of Queen Anne, when Kew, anciently
called Kayhough, and a hamlet to Kingston,
was united to Petersham, with which it now
forms one vicarage.
In the cemetery lie the
remains of the celebrated Gainsborough, the
artist, who died in 1788, and also those of
the equally celebrated Zoffany, who died in
1810.
The chief attractions of Kew at the present
time, are the palace and gardens.
The palace
is in the nominal occupation of the King of
Hanover, who retains it as an appendage to
his British Dukedom of Cumberland.
The
palace first came into the occupation of the
royal family of England in the reign of George
the First.
The Prince of Wales, afterwards
George the Second, then took a long lease of
it, from Mr. Molineux, who had been his private secretary.
The Prince frequently resided
in it during the summer months, and Thomson, the poet, then an inhabitant of his favourite Richmond, about three quarters of a
mile distant, was always welcome to his table.
Sir William Chambers, the architect of Somerset House, laid out the grounds and formed
the Botanic Garden and Conservatory for the
Princess Dowager of Wales, the mother of
George the Third, about the year 1760.
Here this Princess ended her days; upon which
occasion the poet Goldsmith wrote an ode, entitled "Threnodia Augustalis", in which occur
the following lines in praise of the scenery of Kew: -
Fast by that shore where Thame's translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast;
Where splendid as the youthful poet's dream
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest.
Where sculptured elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place,
While sweetly blending, still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green,
While novelty with cautious cunning
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene".
George the Third himself afterwards resided
here occasionally, and here George the Fourth,
when a child, received the first rudiments of
his education under the superintendence of
Dr. Markham, afterwards Archbishop of York.
In this house also, the aged Queen Charlotte,
his mother, died in 1818.
Besides the palace
there is another smaller mansion on Kew
Green, inhabited by his Royal Highness the
Duke of Cambridge.
The pleasure gardens, which are opened for
public inspection on Sundays only, contain
several handsome buildings.
The principal
and most prominent is the Chinese Pagoda,
ten stories high, of an octagonal shape, and
built after the models of similar edifices in
China.
The whole height is nearly one hundred and sixty-three feet; and the top commands a very extensive and beautiful view
of the surrounding country.
Closely adjoin
ing is the mosque, another octagonal build
ing ornamented with a large dome, and containing three entrances, over each of which
is inscribed an extract in Arabic from the
Koran, in characters of gold.
Various other
fantastical buildings are dispersed in various
parts of the grounds, the chief of which are
the Temple of Bellona, the Temple of Pan, the
Temple of Eolus, and the Temple of Solitude.
There are also the House of Confucius, the
Theatre of Augusta, and the Temple of Arethusa.
On a hill stands a small building called
the Temple of Victory, erected in commemoration of the battle of Minden in 1759.
The
Conservatory, a large and handsome structure,
contains a choice collection of indigenous and
exotic flowers and plants.
Immediately through the [Kew] bridge there is a
lovely ait, or island, behind which is dirty
Brentford, the county town of Middlesex, situated upon the little river Brent, from which
it takes its name.
Gay, in his epistle to the
Earl of Burlington, celebrates it as -
Brentford, tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legged chickens known;
and Thomson in his "Castle of Indolence", as
Brentford town, a town of mud,
where pigs driven to market could find abundance of congenial mire to sport and wallow in.
A common saying relative to this
town, is to say of a man with a very red face,
that he is like the Red Lion of Brentford;
an allusion to the sign of the principal inn,
where the lion is "exceedingly red", as lions
upon sign-posts generally are.
This place is
chiefly famous for a severe skirmish which was
fought here in 1642 between the Royal and
Parliamentary armies, in which the former were
victorious.
George the Second admired Brentford greatly; it was so dirty and ill paved, that
it put him in mind of the towns in his native
country.
"I like to ride dro' Brentford", said
his Majesty, "it ish so like Hanoversh!"
On the left of us, as we proceed up the
river, extend the gardens of Kew, and on
the right is the princely domain of the Duke
of Northumberland.
Sion House is a naked
heavy-looking building.
It stands near the
site of a nunnery, founded in the reign of
Henry the Fifth, "in honour of the Holy
Trinity, the glorious Virgin Mary, the Apostles and Disciples of God, and all Saints,
especially St. Bridget".
It was one of the first
religious establishments suppressed by Henry
the Eighth, his ire being particularly directed
against the sisterhood for the countenance they
had afforded Elizabeth Barton, the Holy Maid of Kent.
It was alleged against Sir Thomas
More that he visited this impostor at Sion
House.
After the death of Henry, who reserved it for his own use, it was given by
Edward the Sixth to the Protector Somerset,
and, on his attainder and execution, to the
Duke of Northumberland.
Lady Jane Grey,
that ill-starred Queen of a few days, resided
here when she was urged to accept the crown.
Her acceptance of it led to her own death,
and that of the Duke of Northumberland,
when the building once more reverted to the
Crown, and was restored by Queen Mary to
the sisters "of all the Saints, and especially of
St. Bridget".
Elizabeth, however, dispossessed
them, and gave Sion to the Earl of Northumberland, and it has ever since remained in the
family.
There is a tradition that, before the dissolution of the religious houses, the monks at Richmond caused a tunnel to be made under the
Thames to Sion, that they might visit the nuns
clandestinely.
The same story is related in
connection with various other places, and was
no doubt coined to serve its purposes in the
time of Henry the Eighth.
The same legend,
and apparently the original one on which all
the others are founded, as will be seen hereafter in our account of the river Wey, is told
of the monks of Ockham and the nuns of Newark Abbey.
Isleworth, a village adjoining the gardens of
Sion, was at one time called Thistleworth, as we
learn from the Surveys published prior to the
year 1769.
It was here, during the turbulent
and long reign of Henry the Third, that the
insurgent barons held their head-quarters for a
considerable time, under the well-known Simon
de Mountfort Earl of Leicester.
There was at
this time a royal palace, or summer-house, in
the village, in the occupation of Richard
Earl of Cornwall, the nominal King of Rome,
and brother to Henry the Third.
In these
struggles the Londoners sided with the barons;
and, being incensed against the King, and his
son Prince Edward, who had broken into the
treasury of the Knights Templars in Fleet street, and abstracted £1000.
They ultimately
made a diversion on their own account, and
marched in crowds to Isleworth, where they
razed to the ground the stately palace of the
King's brother.
It was never afterwards rebuilt, and it is supposed that Sion House stands
nearly upon its site.
The church of Isleworth, which stands close
to the river's brink, is a mean-looking edifice; relieved, however, and rendered more picturesque, by the clustering ivy which creeps up
its venerable tower.
It was rebuilt in the year
1706.
The village itself is now insignificant,
and is chiefly inhabited by market-gardeners.
The environs contain some handsome villas.
As we passed Kew bridge our
mind was filled with a multitude of confused thoughts, reminiscences intricately blended,
of poetry and the poets; of
Jeanie Deans, and the Duke of Argyll; of
Richmond Hill, and the charms of its far-famed
lass; and of "maids of honour"- the chief delicacies of the place, - which, with a carnivorous
appetite, we longed to devour.
But, as we
approached nearer, our thoughts finally fixed
themselves upon James Thomson, the delightful bard of "The Seasons", to whose memory
the whole place is hallowed.
We remembered,
and quoted to ourselves, the ode of his friend Collins,
In yonder grave a Druid lies:
Where slowly winds the stealing wave,
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck their poet's sylvan grave.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid thy gentle spirit rest.
We were thus musing, when a merry strain
broke in upon our meditations.
The band
which had accompanied the steam-boat from
London, struck up the familiar air, "The lass
of Richmond Hill"; a custom which has been
observed ever since steam-boats have plied in
this part of the river, to give us notice that we
were at our journey's end.
Without stopping to ascend the hill, we
struck at once into the lower parts of the village, and, by dint of inquiry, found ourselves
in a few moments in front of the ancient,
humble, but, in our eyes, beautiful church of
Richmond.
We forthwith strolled through the
churchyard, in search of the sexton, or door
keeper, that we might give him his fee, and be
admitted into the church.
One of the first
objects that caught our attention was a neat
marble tablet upon the wall, with a medallion
head sculptured upon it, and inscribed with the simple words,
"Edmund Kean, died May 1833, aged 46.
A memorial erected by his son, Charles John Kean, 1839"
We paused a moment, and took off our hat, for we are of the
number of those who pay reverence to the inanimate sod, and the senseless ashes beneath it,
if those ashes have ever been warmed by the
soul of genius, or of goodness.
We are also of
the number of those who are critical in monumental inscriptions, and we considered this
brief one for awhile, and, owning that it was
enough, passed on.
After inquiry at one of the
cottages that skirt the churchyard, we were directed next door, to the pew-opener, and that
personage readily undertook to escort us over
her little building; as important to her, and
containing monuments as magnificent, and as
well worth looking at, as either St. Paul's or
Westminster Abbey.
If we were pleased with
the outside appearance of the church, we were
still better pleased when we entered within.
It is an old-fashioned edifice, just large enough
for a village, with a fine organ, well-covered
pews, and walls almost hidden by monumental
tablets, and the whole looking as grand and
modest as true piety itself.
Our cicerone, like one who was well accustomed to her task, was leading us round the church,
beginning from the beginning, and showing
us in due order the tombs of the worthies
of Richmond, when we broke in upon her established practice, and requested her to point out
at once the grave of the poet Thomson.
She
led the way immediately to the darkest corner
of the church, when, opening a pew-door, she
bade us enter.
We had heard much talk of
the munificence of the Earl of Buchan in erecting a memorial over the poet's ashes, and we
looked around us accordingly for some hand
some piece of monumental marble, which might
be worthy of the donor, and sufficient for its
avowed purpose, - the satisfaction of the bard's
admirers.
We could not conceal the expression of our disappointment, when the pew opener, bidding us mount upon the seat of the
pew, pointed out to us a piece of copper about
eighteen inches square, so out of the reach of
the ordinary observer, - so blackened by time,
- and so incrusted by the damp and the dirt,
that it was quite impossible to read one line
of the inscription.
"Then you have not many visiters to this
tomb? "said we to the pew-opener.
"Oh, yes, we have,'' replied she; "but they
are not so particular as you, sir: not one in a
hundred cares to read the inscription; they
just look at it from below, and pass on".
We took out our pocket-handkerchief, and
began to rub the verdigrise from the copper
as the pew-opener spoke; which, she observing, mounted also upon the bench, and taking
her own handkerchief from her pocket, rubbed
away with as much earnestness as we did.
The
dirt was an inch thick upon it; besides which,
the letters were of the same colour as the plate
on which they are engraven, so that, after all,
we were afraid we should be obliged to give
over the attempt as quite hopeless.
"There", she said, "now I think you will
be able to read it", as the rust, by a vigorous
application of her hands, was transferred from
the tablet to her handkerchief.
"I think you
might manage to make it out, if you are particularly anxious about it".
We tried again accordingly, and, with some
trouble, read the following inscription.
In the earth below this tablet
are the remains of
James Thomson,
author of the beautiful poems,
entitled, 'The Seasons', 'The Castle of Indolence', &c.
who died at Richmond on the 22nd of August,
and was buried there on the 29th, O.S.[Old Style ie Old Calendar] 1748.
The Earl of Buchan,
unwilling that so good a man, and sweet a poet,
should be without a memorial,
has denoted the place of his interment,
for the satisfaction of his admirers,
in the year of our Lord 1792.
"Father of light and life! Thou good supreme!
Oh! teach me what is good. Teach me thyself!
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,
From every low pursuit, and feed my soul
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure,
Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!
"We wish", said we to ourselves, "that his
lordship's taste had been as good as his intentions, and that, instead of this trumpery piece
of brass, - which cannot have cost him much
more than five pounds, - he had put up a marble tablet, which one might have read without
all this scrubbing".
If we had 'continued our soliloquy much longer, we should have found
fault not only with the taste and liberality,
but with the motives of his lordship; but we
were saved from the uncharitableness by the
pew-opener, who broke in upon our meditation to remind us that immediately under
the pew on which we stood lay the ashes of the poet.
"What, was he buried within the church? "
said we.
"No", replied the pew-opener, "on the outside, just against the wall; but the church has
been enlarged since that day to make room for
the organ; so that the wall passes right across
his coffin, and cuts the body in two, as it
were".
"Cuts the body in two!"repeated we; "and
did no charitable soul, when this thing was
proposed, so much as hint that the church
might have been made a few inches larger,
so that the whole body might have been
brought inside?"
"I never inquired", said the pew-opener.
"But, surely, sir, you'll go and see the grave
of the great Mary Ann Yates? Lord bless
you, sir, more people go to see that grave than
any other in the church!"
"The great Mary Ann Yates!"said we in some perplexity; for, to our shame be it spoken,
we had forgotten the name, and we did not
like to expose our ignorance to the pew-opener.
"Oh, by all means", said we, making the best
of the matter, and following our conductress
to the other end of the church towards the
communion-table.
"There", said the pew-opener, removing a
small mat with her foot, and directing our
attention to a plain slab on the floor, "there
lies the body.
Of course you've heard of her?"
We said nothing, but made a feint of being
so engrossed with the epitaph as not to have
heard the inquiry.
"She was very celebrated, I've been told",
added she, after a pause; "and, indeed, I've
heard that Mrs. Siddons wasn't anything like
equal to her".
This observation enlightened us; our ignorance was cleared up.
We gazed upon the
grave of the tragic actress so greatly admired in
her day.
"And such", thought we, "is fame;
a mere matter of circles and classes.
Pilgrims
come to the tomb of a person celebrated in
one sphere, who are ignorant that in the next
grave sleeps one who was just as celebrated
in another, and who do not even know that
such a person ever existed.
The worshippers
of poetry never heard of the actress; the admirers of the actress, in all probability, never
heard of the poet, and so on, through all the
various ranks and denominations of society".
We were thus cogitating, when the pew opener told us that she had some other very
fine tombs to show us, and with such an emphasis upon the word fine, as impressed us
with the notion that she would think we
slighted her monuments, (and she was evidently proud of them,) if we refused to look
at them.
We went round accordingly, and
up into the galleries, where several tablets were
pointed out to us, with warm eulogiums upon
the sculptured cherubim, or other ornaments
that supported them.
But one only struck us
as remarkable, a plain blue stone, with a Latin
inscription to the memory of Robert Lewes,
a Cambro-Briton and a lawyer, who died in
the year 1649,
"and who", said the epitaph,
"was such a great lover of peace and quiet,
that when a contention began in his body between life and death, he immediately gave up
the ghost to end the dispute".
There is wit
and humour even in the grave.
There is an
entertaining French work, entitled "Des grands
Hommes qui sont morts en plaisantant".
One
as entertaining might be made upon the subject of "Wit among the tombstones "It
would not be uninstructive either, and would
afford numberless illustrations of that unaccountable propensity of many people to choose
the most solemn things as the objects of their
merriment.
The richest comedy ever penned
fails to excite more laughter than the lugubrious jokes of the grave-diggers in Hamlet;
and sextons, mutes, and undertakers, are the
legitimate butts of the jester and caricaturist
all over the world.
Having lingered in the church until we had
satisfied our curiosity, we proceeded towards
Rosedale House, where Thomson resided, and
where the chair on which he sat, the table on
which he wrote, and the peg on which he
hung his hat, are religiously preserved, as relics of departed genius.
The house, after the
poet's death, was purchased by a Mr. Ross,
who had so much veneration for his memory
that he forbore to pull it down, though small
and inconvenient, but enlarged and repaired it,
at an expense of nine thousand pounds.
It
was afterwards inhabited by the Honourable
Mrs. Boscawen, the widow of the admiral,
who participated in this feeling of her predecessor, and repaired the alcove in the garden,
where the poet used to write in fine weather.
Within it she replaced his table, and inscribed over the entrance,
"Here Thomson sung the seasons, and their change".
Over the back seat at this table hangs a board,
upon one side of which are the following words:
"James Thomson died at this place, August 22nd, 1748;"
and, upon the other, a longer memorial, with a strange and unpleasing affectation of fine writing about it, which runs as
follows: -
"Within this pleasing retirement,
allured by the music of the nightingale, which
warbled in soft unison to the melody of his
soul, in unaffected cheerfulness, and genial
though simple elegance, lived James Thomson.
Sensibly alive to all the beauties of nature, he
painted their images as they rose in review,
and poured the whole profusion of them into
his inimitable 'Seasons.'
Warmed with intense
devotion to the Sovereign of the Universe, its
flame glowing through all his compositions, animated with unbounded benevolence, with the
tenderest social sensibility, he never gave one
moment's pain to any of his fellow-creatures,
save by his death, which happened at this place
on the 22nd of August, 1748".
From Rosedale House, the present name of
this dwelling, we strolled up Kew Foot-Lane,
and soon arrived at the Green, a large open
space, which does not belie its name, surrounded with many comfortable-looking houses,
and rows of venerable trees.
The ancient palace of the Kings of England
stood upon this spot.
There is little of it left
now except the gateway, and that little offers
nothing to satisfy the gaze of any but the
mere antiquary.
It does not look old and
venerable enough for the lover of the picturesque, being so patched up by and wedged
in between surrounding houses as to have almost lost its distinctive character.
Several
Kings and Queens of England lived and died
upon this spot: Edward the First and Second
resided here; and Edward the Third died here,
deserted in that last hour by all the flatterers
and parasites who had fattened upon his
bounty; even Alice Pierce, the mistress of his
bosom, flying from his side, and leaving him
to die with no more attendance than if he had
been a beggar, giving up the ghost in a ditch.
"When he lay", says the old Chronicle, "on his
sick couch, he talked continually of hunting
and hawking, and such trifles, and trusted to
the soothing assurances of the Lady Alice
that he would not die.
As soon as she saw
that the disease was mortal, that his memory
failed him, and that his death might be hourly
expected, she took the valuable rings off his
fingers, and bade him adieu.
All his servants
also forsook him and fled.
Thus he remained
for some hours quite helpless, and almost
speechless, until a priest by chance arriving,
administered the last consolations of religion.
The King understood him, and murmuring
indistinctly the word Jesus, pressed a crucifix
to his breast and died".
Richard the Second,
the next King, passed much of his time
at this manor;in whose days, at Sheen, as
we are informed by that minute chronicler,
Stowe,
"there was a great fighting among
the gnats! They were so thick gathered",
says he, "that the air was darkened with
them, and they fought and made a great
battle.
Two parts of them being slain, fell
down to the ground, the third part having got
the victory, flew away, no man knew whither.
The number of the dead was such that they
might be swept up with besoms, and bushels
filled with them".
With what a gusto does
the old historian describe this battle! how persuaded he seems of its truth! and, with what
a relish for the marvellous, and expectation to
find the same in his reader, does he note every
circumstance! Many of the battles between
the rival houses of York and Lancaster are
dismissed by him with hardly more notice.
Anne, the Queen of Richard the Second,
died in this building.
She was so tenderly
beloved by her husband, that he cursed the
place where she died, and would never after
wards inhabit it.
The very sight of the building so moved him to grief, that he gave directions that it should be pulled down.
The
order was only partially executed, but the
building remained in a ruinous condition until
the time of Henry the Fifth, who repaired it,
and founded three religious houses near it.
It
was destroyed by fire in the reign of Henry
the Seventh, who built it up again more magnificently than before, and first altered the
name of the village from Sheen to Richmond,
the name of his own earldom, which it has ever
since borne.
Henry the Eighth also resided
here in the early part of his reign, and once
instituted a grand tournament on the Green,
at which he fought in disguise, and where one
of the combatants was accidentally killed.
He
afterwards exchanged it with Wolsey, for the
more magnificent palace of Hampton Court,
but, after the fall and death of that minister,
the place reverted to the crown.
Elizabeth was
confined in it for a short time, during the reign
of her sister, and here she died broken-hearted
for the death of the Earl of Essex.
Her body
was removed from Richmond Palace to Whitehall by water.
Upon this occasion some courtly
rhyme-weaver, whose name is unknown, wrote
the following verses which, in the "Remaines
concerning Brittaine", are praised as being in
deed "passionate doleful lines".
The Queene was brought by water to White-hall,
At every stroke the oares teares let fall:
More clung about the barge, fish under water
Wept out their eyes, and swome blinde after;
I thinke the bargemen might with easier thighes
Have rowed her thither in her people's eyes,
For howsoere, thus much my thoughts have scan'd,
She'd come by water had she come by land".
During the dissensions of the revolution, Richmond Palace met some rough treatment from
the hands of republicans, and the greater part
of it was pulled down.
It has never since held
up its head in the world, but has gradually
pined away to its present condition.
There are few, and those few must be insensible to the charms of natural beauty, who
ever pass Richmond without ascending its far-famed hill, and gazing upon the landscape
which stretches beneath it.
How beautiful is
the oft-quoted exclamation of the poet:
Enchanting vale, beyond whate'er the muse
Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung!
O vale of bliss; O softly-swelling hills,
On which the Power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonder of his toil:
Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around
Of hills and dales, and woods and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams!
We have read many descriptions of this favourite spot; and before we had seen it we
were almost afraid to visit it, for, like Wordsworth and the Yarrow, "we had a vision of
our own", and dreaded lest the reality should
"undo it".
But curiosity was at last triumphant, and we went, and found the reality more
lovely than the pictures which had been drawn
of it either by the pencil or the pen.
The first time we ever ascended the hill, the landscape was illumined by the rays of a bright
noon-tide sun, and the waters of the Thames,
stretching out right before us, were illumined
with a long streak of light, and the far forests
gleamed in the radiancy as their boughs were
waved to and fro by a strong, but pleasant,
south-west wind.
Distant Windsor was visible; and, hundreds of neat villas, and other
pleasing objects, gratified the eye, to whichever
side it turned; the Thames freshening and enlivening the whole.
As we stood,
the sky became overcast; dark clouds arose upon the horizon; the wind blew colder than its wont;
while a few large drops of rain gave notice of an
impending storm.
The Terrace was soon bare
of its visitors: all sought shelter from the rain;
but we remained to watch the tempest, and the
changes it wrought upon the landscape.
It
was glorious to see how the trees waved, like
fields of corn, as the storm blew over them, and
the smart showers whirled around; now hiding
one spot by the thickness of the rain, and now
wheeling past another, and obscuring it in like
manner.
The distant heights were no longer
visible, and we could just see the Thames
winding at the foot of the hill, and curling
itself into tiny waves under the breath of the
storm.
The blossoms of the wild chestnut
trees fell thick around us, diffusing a more
delicious fragrance through the air; and the
very dust of the ground seemed odorous as
the moisture fell upon it.
Suddenly there
was a flash right over Windsor Castle, and all
its towers were perceptible for an instant, and
then hidden again.
Successive flashes illumined other spots; and, while the rain was piercing through our garments we had no other
thought than a strong desire to become an
artist by the inspiration of the moment, and at
one touch of our pencil to fasten upon enduring
canvass a faithful representation of the scene.
It was admiration of this spot that inspired
the now-neglected Mallet, the friend of Thomson, and a dweller in the neighbourhood, to
write that beautiful song of his in praise of the
Thames, which deserves to be better known.
Where Thames, along the daisy'd meads,
His wave, in lucid mazes leads,
Silent, slow, - serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing,
There, in a safe, though small retreat,
Content and Love have fixed their seat;
Love, that counts his duty pleasure;
Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.
From art, from jealousy secure,
As faith unblamed, as friendship pure,
Vain opinion nobly scorning,
Virtue aiding, life adorning,
Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
May those whom Truth and Reason guide,
All their tender hours improving,
Live like us, beloved and beloving!"
Descending the Terrace, and crossing the bridge,
how pleasant is the walk along the Middlesex
bank of the river to the village of Twickenham, and its old grey church, where Pope lies
buried!
But, pleasanter still is it to take a
boat, and be rowed up the middle of the
stream, unlocking the stores of memory as we
pass, and saying to ourselves,
"Here, on the right, lived Bacon.
Yonder, at West Sheen, lived Sir William Temple;
and there was born the celebrated Stella;
and at the same place Swift first made her acquaintance.
And here, again, is Marble Hill, where the beauteous
Lady Suffolk kept open house for all the wits
of the neighbourhood".
Among other reminiscences connected with
Richmond, which ought to be noticed ere we
leave it, is, that it was the residence at one
time of that luckless poet Richard Savage, and
that it was on his first visit to the noisy capital
from this quiet retreat, after he had resolved to
leave it, and procure another lodging, that he
got involved in that unfortunate quarrel at
Robinson's Coffee house, Charing Cross, which
terminated in the death of a Mr. Sinclair, and
for which he was afterwards put on trial for
his life, before the ill-natured Judge Page, famous for "hard words and hanging".
Among the most conspicuous of the places
we pass there is a neat little rural hut, called
Gay's Summer-house, where, according to tradition, that amiable poet wrote his celebrated
fables for the infant Duke of Cumberland,
currying court favour, but getting nothing
but neglect for his pains.
"Dear Pope", he
wrote to his brother poet, "what a barren soil
I have been striving to produce something out
of!
Why did I not take your advice before
my writing fables for the Duke, not to write
them, or rather to write them for some young
nobleman.
It is my hard fate, - I must get
nothing, write for or against them".
Poor
Gay! Too well he knew, as Spenser so feelingly sings in his Mother Hubbard's Tale,
What hell it was in suing, long to bide,
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To fret the soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat the heart through comfortless despairs;
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone! "
Yet one cannot help thinking, after all, that it
served him right; for, according to his own
confession, he was ready to wield his pen either
for or against the court, as might be most pro
fitable.
Who but must regret that a man of
genius should ever have been reduced to so
pitiful an extremity? Who but must sigh that
he should, even to his bosom friend, have
made such a confession?
At a short distance beyond Gay's Summerhouse, and on the same side of the river, stands
Ham House, formerly the residence of the
noted Duke of Lauderdale, and where he and
his four colleagues, Clifford, Ashley, Buckingham, and Arlington, held those secret meetings,
which acquired for them a name infamous in
English history, the Cabal, - a word which their
initials happened to compose.
In the house,
now the residence of the Countess of Dysart,
are preserved many memorials of the Lauderdale family.
According to tradition, this is
one of the places in which Charles the Second
took refuge after the battle of Worcester; and
it is also said that the great gate leading to the Ham avenue, has never been opened to any
meaner visiter since the hour when the fugitive King, after he left the wood of Boscabel,
was admitted within it for a night's shelter.
Another tradition, which is still more questionable, asserts that here also, as at Boscabel, he
hid himself among the branches of an oak to escape a party of his eager pursuers.
A shattered trunk of a tree in Ham Lane was formerly shown to the visiter as the identical royal
oak; and a fair which is annually held on the
spot on the 29th of May, has tended to countenance the belief among the people of the neighbourhood,
who have no notion that any incredulous and too precise examiner into dates and
facts should deprive them of their traditions.
However, "truth is strong", and truth compels
us to say, that their royal oak is only a counterfeit.
Just before we arrive at Twickenham, there
is a small island in the middle of the river,
called by some "Twickenham Ait", but better
known to the people of London as "Eel-pie
Island".
The tavern upon the island is famous for its eels, and the mode of dressing
them, and during the summer season is visited
by great crowds from the metropolis.
Clubs,
benefit societies, trades' unions, and other confederations, frequently proceed thither, each
member with his wife and children, or his
sweetheart, to feast upon the dainties of the
spot.
On a fine Sunday especially, Eel-pie
Island is in all its glory, thronged with "spruce
citizens", "washed artisans", and "smug apprentices", who repair hither, as Byron has it
"to gulp their weekly air",
"And o'er the Thames to row the ribbon'd fair",
or to wander in the Park, which, thanks to the
public spirit of one humble individual, is still
open to every pedestrian.
Though somewhat
of an episode, the history of the right of way
through this pleasant park is deserving of mention.
In the year 1758, the Princess Amelia,
daughter of George the Second, who was
ranger, thought fit to exclude the public; but
an action was brought against her by Mr.
John Lewis, a brewer, and inhabitant of Richmond, which he gained, and the Princess was
forced to knock down her barriers.
The public
right has never since been disputed, and the
memory of the patriotic brewer is still highly
esteemed in all the neighbourhood, and his
portraits sought after, as memorials of his courage and perseverance.
But to return again to Eel-pie Island.
The
place was the favourite resort of Kean for a
few months before his death.
The boatman
we were fortunate enough to hire was the boatman generally employed by the great actor;
and from him we learned, that after the fatigues of the night were over at the theatre, he
often caused himself to be rowed to Eel-pie
Island, and was there left to wander about by
moonlight till two or three o'clock in the
morning.
The tavern used at that time to be
frequented by a poetical sawyer of Twickenham, whose poetry Kean greatly admired.
The
first time he heard the sawyer's rhymes, he was
so delighted that he made him a present of two
sovereigns, and urged him to venture upon the
dangerous seas of authorship.
By his advice the
sawyer rushed into print, and published a two
penny volume upon the beauties of Eel-pie
Island, the delights of pie-eating, and various
other matters of local and general interest.
Kean at this time was so weak, that it was necessary to lift him in and out of the wherry, -
a circumstance which excited the boatman's
curiosity to go and see him in Richard the
Third at the Richmond theatre.
"There was
some difference then, I reckon", said the honest
fellow; "so much, that I was almost frightened
at him.
He seemed on the stage to be as
strong as a giant, and strutted about so bravely,
that I could scarcely believe it was the same
man.
Next morning he would come into my
boat with a bottle of brandy in his coat-pocket,
as weak as a child, until he had drunk about
half the brandy, when he plucked up a little.
One morning he came on board, - I shall never
forget him, - he was crying like a child, and
sobbing as if his heart was breaking, - 'twas the
morning when his 'lady' ran away from him,
and he told me all about it as well as he could
for his tears.
He had a bottle of brandy with
him then.
He gave me a quartern of it, and
drank all the rest before we got to Twickenham, and then he was much better.
But he
was never the same man afterwards; he said his
heart was broken; and I believe it was, for he
never held up his head again, poor fellow!"
We thought the boatman (we should mention his name - George Cripps) seemed affected at the thought, and we asked if Kean
had been kind to him.
"Many's the time", replied he, "that I have
carried him in my arms in and out of the boat,
as if he were a baby: - but he wasn't particularly kind.
He always paid me my fare, and
never grumbled at it, and was very familiar
and free-like.
But all the watermen were fond of him.
He gave a new boat and a purse of sovereigns to be rowed for every year".
"Ah! that accounts for it".
"When he died", continued the boatman,
"a great many of the watermen subscribed
their little mite towards his monument".
"Was there much gathered?"
"About seven or eight hundred pounds, I
think", replied the boatman; "and it was to
have been placed in Richmond church; but
we hear nothing of it now, or whether it's
ever to be erected at all.
But here we are,
sir, at Twickenham church; and if you please
to step ashore, I'll wait for you, and then row
you up to the Grotto".
This was exactly the arrangement that suited
us, and we walked into the dusty village of
Twickenham, to pay our homage at the grave
of Pope.
How simple, neat, quiet, and unassuming are all the village
churches of England! It is
worth a man's while, whose
unlucky destiny compels him
to fritter himself away among brick walls for
six days of the week, to walk out on a Sunday morning ten or twelve miles to church,
- far away from the tumult and the dust, to
some secluded hamlet or village, where he
may worship his Maker, - not more earnestly,
indeed, but more refreshed in mind and body,
than he could in one of the more pompous
temples of the metropolis, where saucy wealth
elbows him still, and where he cannot procure a seat, unless he gives evidence of his
gentility by the tender of a shilling.
It was
not Sunday when we strayed into Twickenham church: but even in its emptiness we
could not help contrasting its unostentatious
sanctity, its meek elegance, to the more spacious places in town, and forming, but not
expressing, a slight wish that we lived in a
village.
We checked it, however, almost as
soon as it was formed; for we thought, after
all, that if we lived in a village, we should
not so much prize a country walk, or have
such affection for a country church as now,
when we wander forth from busy London,
thirsting after the fresh air, and pining for the
verdure and the simplicity of rural spots, and
enjoying them so much the more for our long
and forced abstinence.
Perhaps it was the
knowledge that we were at the grave of a
great poet that made us take so sudden a
liking to village churches in general, and to
Twickenham church above all others.
It ought
not to have been so, we are aware.
The mere
fact that the remains of a clay creature, of
more than common note, was lying within
its precincts, was no true motive for any additional reverence to the temple of God - but
so it was.
Even Westminster Abbey itself
and all its treasured ashes ought, strictly speak
ing, to inspire no more awe than the humblest
chapel where the Great Spirit is truly worshipped; but the memory of the illustrious
dead - a sort of half persuasion that their dim
ghosts, though unseen, may be hovering above
us, works upon the fancy in spite of the reason, telling us that
"Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted holy ground",
and forcing us into more solemn reverence than
we might otherwise feel.
Some such influence
it was, no doubt, that impressed us with unwonted awe, as we wandered alone from tombstone to tombstone in search of the tablet to
the memory of Pope.
We were without the
aid, or, as it very often happens, the impediment of a professional guide to point out to us
the "thought-deservingnesses"(to borrow an
expressive German phrase) of the spot.
Our
eyes, however, soon caught a view of a very
large tablet in the gallery, with a Latin inscription, to the memory of Alexander Pope.
We ascended accordingly, and found that it
was the one erected by the poet to the memory of his father and mother.
His own was
not far off, and was equally ostentatious as regarded size, being about three times larger
than any other tablets in the church.
The inscription, also in Latin, bore that it was erected
to the Poet's memory by his friend the Bishop
of Gloucester.
Underneath, in English, follow
Pope's own lines,
"for one who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey"
Poeta loquitur.
Heroes and kings, your distance keep,
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you -
Let Horace blush and Virgil too".
Here again, thought we, is vanity in death.
Horace and Virgil were no greater courtiers
to rank and wealth than Pope was.
In fact,
it may be questioned whether they were so
much so; for among all the literati of the age,
Pope stands pre-eminent for his constant respect to title.
If he did not flatter heroes,
he flattered lords, and would have been
sorry indeed if they had kept at a distance
from him when he was living.
But in every
sense the inscription is faulty and singularly
inappropriate.
While we stood uncovered at
the spot, and while these thoughts passed rapidly through our mind, we remembered that
the fault of this bad taste, if such it were, was
not chargeable upon Pope, but upon his friend
the bishop, who had erected the monument.
In short, the epitaph was written by Pope in
a fit "of that ambitious petulance", (to use the
words of Johnson,) "with which he affected
to insult the great", and ought never to have
been placed upon his grave-stone.
With this
impression we turned again to the memorial
that Pope himself had erected to his parents,
and there we found no such evidences of vanity.
The inscription was simple and unpretending, and set forth, in terms such as a son
should use, the piety and the probity of the
honoured dead.
So, venting our harmless displeasure upon Warburton, and exonerating
Pope from all offence, we strolled down to the
river side, where our boatman was awaiting us.
In a few minutes more we reached the
building now known as Pope's villa.
The
poet's residence itself has been demolished,
with the exception of the grotto near which
it stood.
Much indignation has been lavished
upon Lady Howe, who pulled down the original building, and erected the present enlarged edifice by the side of it.
She has been
accused of barbarism, want of feeling, deadness
of soul, Vandalism, and many other offences.
We will not join in this mouthing of the
pack; because, however much she may have
destroyed of the poet's dwelling, she has left
the grotto for the reverence of posterity, - by
far the most valuable part of it, containing the
rooms in which he was accustomed to study,
and in which he entertained his friends, his
St. John and his Marchmont, with his wisdom
and his wit.
There was formerly a willow
tree overhanging the river, which has also
been removed; but, with the destruction of
this, Lady Howe is not chargeable.
So numerous were the visiters, and such pilferers
were they, where a relic was concerned, that
the tree was soon stripped both of leaves and
branches.
Slips of it were sent for from all
parts of the world; and the owner was at last
so pestered, that she was obliged in self-defence
to uproot the tree, and make a relic of it, which
would not entail so much trouble upon its
possessor.
Nothing but the root now remains,
which is safely housed in the grotto: forming
a substance too hard to be taken away in little
bits by the penknife of the visiter, and too
bulky to be carried off entire.
Visiters formerly used to play the same tricks with the
very stones and spars of the grotto; but, upon
inquiry of our guide, we were informed that
such was not the case now to any great extent,
although occasionally a person is detected try
ing to notch off a flint or a shell, and a lady
holding an open reticule ready to receive it.
The following is a view of the actual villa of
the poet, taken from a print after Rysbrach, in
the collection of George IV, now in the British
Museum.
The grotto was made by Pope about the year
1715.
"Being", as Dr. Johnson says, "under
the necessity of making a subterraneous passage to a garden on the other side of the road,
he adorned it with fossil bodies, and dignified
it with the title of a grotto, - a place of silence
and retreat, from which he endeavoured to
persuade his friends and himself that cares and
passions could be excluded...
The excavation was necessary as an entrance to his
garden; and, as some men try to be proud of
their defects, he extracted an ornament from
an inconvenience, and vanity produced a grotto, where necessity enforced a passage".
And
quite right too.
It was a little spark of the
true philosophy, after all; and men in general
would be much happier if they would imitate
the example, and extract ornaments from all
their inconveniences, and good out of all their
evils.
Some years after its construction, Pope
wrote the following lines in reference to his
grotto, which some of the guide-books inform
us are actually inscribed upon it.
We made
diligent search, and were not able to discover
them.
Thou who shalt stop where Thames' translucent wave
Shines, a broad mirror, through the shady cave,
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow.
Approach! great Nature studiously behold,
And eye the mine, without a wish for gold!
Approach! but awful. Lo! the Egerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought,
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul.
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country and be poor.
Mentally repeating these lines, we entered the grotto, and were first shown by the gardener who has charge of the villa, and who officiated as the cicerone, into the cell on the left hand side, which used to be the study.
At every convenient place, and wherever the stones presented
a surface sufficiently large, visiters had scratched their names; but we noticed none of any note
among the defacers.
At the end, upon a pedestal, was a plaster bust of the poet.
The cell on
the right hand side used to be the kitchen, - at
least so said our guide, - and in this is placed the
root of the willow-tree, with a skull upon it.
We took the latter in our hands, and found it to
be a plaster cast from the veritable skull of the
poet, which was disturbed accidentally a few
years ago, upon digging a grave in Twicken
ham churchyard; it struck us as being remarkably small.
The skull was re-buried with
due reverence, after the cast had been taken.
In this cell the present proprietor has placed
a statue of honest John Bunyan, which, when
we saw it, put us in mind of the well-known
lines upon the spider in amber,
"Not that the thing was either rich or rare, -
One wondered how the devil it came there".
To our mind, it marred the uniformity of the
grotto.
In that place, Bunyan seemed an intruder upon the privacy of Pope, and we
wished the statue of the good Christian had
been placed somewhere else, no matter where,
and we would have gone to visit it, and paid
it all honour.
Though some of the "pointed crystals" alluded to in the lines above quoted still remain,
the "sparkling rill" trickles no more.
The ingenious contrivance by which the roof was
transformed into a sort of camera obscura has
been removed, and the fragments of mirrors
that still remain have experienced so many of
the buffettings of time, that they have lost
their original brilliancy, and reflect but indistinct images of the passing objects on the
river.
In the garden on the other side of the road,
and to which the grotto forms the passage, are
two tall cedar-trees, which according to our
friend the gardener, who laid claim to a knowledge of such matters, must be about a hundred years old.
If so, they must have been
planted in the time of Pope, perhaps by the
bard himself.
Hitherto, however, they have
escaped that reputation, which, if it became
general or well-authenticated, might perchance
be the means in a short time of denuding them
of all their verdure, like their predecessor the
willow.
But perchance, ere these lines meet the eye
of the reader, the poet's grotto will exist no
more.
The villa has been already advertised
for sale, and rumours of an intention to pull it
down have long been rife, and generally believed.
What lover of English literature but
must regret that it should be in the power of
any man to interfere with a spot that ought to
be classic ground to every Englishman! But
they order these matters better in Continental
Europe.
The house where Raphael first drew
breath is religiously preserved by the government, and its existence pointed out by a tablet
and inscription; and Italy abounds with such
memorials.
France and Switzerland are equally
enlightened in this respect; and even Holland,
reproached so much as a mere trading nation,
takes care to point out to her sons the dwelling-places, or birth-places of the great men who
shed a lustre on her ancient annals.
But England unwisely neglects these things.
The street
where Milton was born has no memorial upon
it to draw the eyes of passengers to the spot;
the birth-place of Sir Thomas More, at only a
few yards distance from that of Milton, is
equally disregarded; and unless by a monument in St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey,
which are not always accessible, there are few
or no memorials of our great men.
It is vain
to hope, unless Pope's villa falls into the hands
of an enlightened purchaser, that it will be
preserved, or that even a stone will be erected
to mark the spot, and to say "Here Pope
Sung".
As we walked along the terrace, we noticed
more particularly than we did when we entered, the flight of steps leading to the water.
This, said we, must be the place where Martha
Blount, the best-beloved of the poet, made use
of that unfeeling expression about his death,
which Johnson has preserved to her eternal
discredit.
"While he (Pope) was yet capable
of amusement and conversation", says the biographer, "as he was one day sitting in the
air, with Lord Bolingbroke and Lord Marchmont, he saw his favourite, Martha Blount, at
the bottom of the terrace, and asked Lord Bolingbroke to go and hand her up.
Bolingbroke, not liking his errand, crossed his legs
and sat still; but Lord Marchmont, who was
younger and less captious, waited on the lady,
who, when he came to her, asked, 'What, is
he not dead yet?'"
It does not appear that this thoughtless and unkind expression ever reached
the ear of Pope; but he took her general inattention and neglect of him in his days of
sickness and decay very deeply to heart.
She
who had sat a loving and enraptured listener,
when his faculties were in all their brightness,
turned away from him not only with neglect,
but with scorn, in the time of his tribulation.
How unlike her sex in general,
Who still are the kindest
When fortune is blindest,
And brightest in love 'mid the darkness of fate.
Alas! poor Pope! alas! for the boasted intellect of our kind.
What can be more affecting,
or afford more matter for solemn thought, than
the last hours of this great man.
"On the 6th of May, 1744", says Johnson, "he was all
day delirious, which he mentioned four days
afterwards as a sufficient humiliation of the
vanity of man.
He afterwards complained of
seeing things as through a curtain, and in false
colours; and one day, in the presence of Dodsley, asked what arm it was that came out of
the wall?
He said that his greatest inconvenience was inability to think.
Bolingbroke
sometimes wept over him in this state of helpless decay, and was told by Spence, that Pope,
at the intermission of his deliriousness, was always saying something kind either of his present or absent friends, and that his humanity
seemed to have survived his understanding".
Almost his last expressions were,
"There is nothing meritorious but virtue and friendship:
friendship itself is only a part of virtue".
We were thinking of these things, and were
so wrapt in them, that we hardly noticed that
we had re-entered the boat, and were only realled to a consciousness of surrounding objects by the voice of our boatman, who stopped
on his oars, and called out that we were at Strawberry Hill.
This place also abounds with reminiscences
of a great man.
It was originally a very
small house, built about the year 1698, by
a coachman, and let as a lodging house.
Colly
Cibber was at one time a tenant of it, and
there wrote one of his comedies, - "The Refusal; or the Lady's Philosophy".
It was some
years afterwards let on lease to Mrs. Chevenix,
a toy woman; from whose possession it came into
that of Horace Walpole, its most illustrious
occupier, who amused himself for many years
in enlarging and beautifying it, and made quite
a plaything of it.
Writing to his friend, General Conway, on the 8th of June, 1747, and
dating from this place, he says, "You perceive
that I have got into a new camp, and have left
my tub at Windsor.
It is a little plaything
house that I have got out of this Chevenix's
shop, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw.
It is set in enamelled meadows, with filigree
hedges;
A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled,
And little fishes wave their wings of gold.
Two delightful roads, that you would call
dusty, supply me continually with coaches,
and chaises; and barges, as solemn as Barons
of the Exchequer, move under my window.
Richmond Hill and Ham Walks bound my
prospect; but, thank God! the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensbury.
Dowagers, as plenty as flounders, inhabit all
around; and Pope's ghost is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight".
Horace Walpole succeeded in making a very
pretty residence of it, and stored it with "fouth
of auld nick-nackets", pictures, busts, and
antiques of every description.
There were
scarcely any of his contemporaries eminent
for their wit or their learning, who were not
at one time or another his guests here.
Between this place and Teddington is the
cottage given by Walpole to Mrs. Clive, the
actress.
At her death he placed an urn in the
gardens, with this inscription -
Ye Smiles and Jests still hover round,
This is Mirth's consecrated ground;
Here lived the laughter-loving dame,
A matchless actress, Clive her name.
The comic Muse with her retired,
And shed a tear when she expired.
Teddington is a small place, chiefly remarkable for the first or last lock upon the
Thames, in aid of the navigation.
Etymologists found an explanation of the name of
this village, and plumed themselves mightily
upon their cleverness.
The tides flow up no
further than Teddington, and therefore, said
they, the derivation of the word is obvious,
"Tide-ending-town - from whence, by corruption and abbreviation, - Tide-ing-ton - Teddington".
This was all very satisfactory: there
was not a word to be said against it.
Unluckily, however, Mr. Lysons, one of your
men of dates and figures, one of those people
whose provoking exactitude so often upsets
theories, discovered that the original name of
the place was not Teddington, but Totyngton.
After this, the etymologists had nothing to
say for themselves; "a plain tale put them
down", unless, like the French philosopher, in
similar circumstances, they consoled themselves
with the reflection that it was very unbecoming in a fact to rise up in opposition to their
theory.
Among the most celebrated residents of Teddington were the Earl of Leicester, the favourite of Elizabeth; Penn the Quaker; and Paul
Whitehead the poet.
The last is buried in
Teddington church, with the exception of
his heart, which was removed to High Wycombe, and deposited in a mausoleum belonging to his patron, the Lord le Despencer.
Paul bequeathed fifty pounds for the urn
which was to contain it.
The ceremony of depositing it in the mausoleum was curious.
It
was attended from the house by a military
procession, and a choir of vocalists.
Dr. Arne
composed a piece of music for the occasion to
the following poetry - we beg pardon, "words"
- which were sung as the urn was deposited: -
From earth to heaven Paul Whitehead's soul is fled!
Refulgent glories beam about his head!
His Muse concording with resounding strings,
Gives angel's words to praise the King of kings".
The ceremony itself was sufficiently absurd; but these lines were the topping absurdity of all.
At this place we dismissed our boatman; and, landing on the Surrey shore, walked on towards Kingston, sometimes stopping by the river's brink to watch the minnows at the bottom of the water, (for it is as clear as crystal,) scudding away in shoals as we approached them, and sometimes in idle mood watching the swans disporting themselves, or turning over the leaves of our favourite Spencer, to find the lines which describe them: -
See the fair swans on Thamis' lovely side,
The which do trim their pennons silver bright;
In shining ranks they down the waters glide;
Oft have mine eyes devoured the gallant sight!
There are great numbers of these birds upon
the river.
They are under the special guardianship of the Lord Mayor of London, who
annually, either by himself or deputy, goes up
the river in his state barge, accompanied by
the Vintners and Dyers, to mark the young
ones - which ceremony bears the name of swanhopping.
The legislature has often made these
swans its peculiar care.
By an act of Edward
the Fourth, it was declared a felony, punishable with imprisonment for a year and a day,
and a fine at the King's will, to steal their
eggs; and at this time, and so late as during Hentzner's visit to England, in the reign of
Elizabeth, there were great numbers of them in
the Thames opposite Bankside and Westminster
Hall.
A curious custom at one time existed
with regard to the stealing of these birds,
which is mentioned in Coke's Reports.
Who
ever stole a swan, lawfully marked, in any
open or common river, was mulcted in the
following manner: - The swan was taken and
hung by the beak from the roof of any house,
so that the feet just touched the ground.
Wheat was then poured over the head of the
swan, until there was a pyramid of it from
the floor sufficient to cover and hide the bird
completely.
A like quantity of wheat, or its
value, was the fine to be paid to the owner.
Upon our arrival at the ancient town of
Kingston, we proceeded straight to the market-place, the spot where, nearly a thousand
years ago, the old Saxon monarchs of England
were crowned in sight of all the people.
Egbert, the first King of all England, held a
grand council here in the year 838; and, in
the records of that event, the town is styled
"Kynyngeston, that famous place".
The following is a list of the kings crowned here, -
most of them on a raised platform in the open
air, and the rest in the church.
Edward the Elder, in the year 900;
Athelstan, in 925;
Edmund, in 940;
Edred, in 946;
Edwy, in 955;
Edward the Martyr, in 975;
and Ethelred, in 978.
Kingston, although the fact has
been overlooked by nearly every writer, was
the scene of one of the most romantic incidents in early English history - the loves and
misfortunes of Edwy and Elgiva.
It gives
one but a poor notion of the value of history,
or the fidelity of historians, to consult about a
dozen writers for a record of the same event.
Your hero, or principal personage, is called
a monster by one, a saint by another, or a fool
by a third: the actions of his life are exaggerated in their good parts by one, and in
their evil by the next; while another, perhaps, dismisses him and his whole career as
altogether insignificant and unworthy of notice.
It is a hard matter to get at the truth,
even upon the most trivial point, and you are
tempted to sweep your dozen of historians
from your table at a blow of your hand, and
whistle the chorus of the old ballad,
"Tantara-rara - rogues all! "
Upon reading the touching history of King Edwy and his bride, as
recorded in Hume, we turned to Osborne,
Stowe, Grafton, Holinshed, Harding, William
of Malmsbury, Fabian, Rapin, and others;
but the only facts that seemed to be really
well established were, that Edwy was a King
of England, and that he banished Saint Dunstan from his dominions.
All the rest was
a mass of confusion.
A chaos of antagonist
opinions, assertions, and denials, or a most
scandalous conflict, in which Hatred, Superstition, Revenge, Self-interest, Party Motives,
Carelessness, and Indolence, all set upon poor
Truth, shouting and hallooing, with a view
to prevent her voice from being heard at all
amid their hubbub.
To Hume's account,
therefore, we adhered; not because it is the
most interesting and romantic, but because it
is the most fair and probable; merely supplying
such particulars of the scene of the tragedy as
he has left unnoticed.
King Edwy, in his seventeenth year, was
crowned with great magnificence in the market-place of Kingston.
He was of a handsome
figure and a most amiable disposition.
Before his accession he had been smitten with
the charms of Elgiva, a noble lady, his kinswoman, whom he married secretly, in spite
of the fulminations of Saint Dunstan, and Odo,
the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had represented to him that their relationship was
too near to allow of their union.
Upon the
day of his coronation a grand feast was prepared for all the nobles; but the king, disliking their rude merriment and drunkenness,
took an early opportunity to withdraw, and
spend the remainder of the day in the more
congenial society of his best-beloved Elgiva.
The nobles, after he was gone, expressed great
dissatisfaction at the indignity with which they
were treated in being abandoned by their entertainer; and Saint Dunstan, best known to
posterity as the devil's nose pincher, was deputed by the rest to bring back the monarch
to the table.
Saint Dunstan, who was in all
probability drunk at the time, readily undertook the mission, and accompanied by Odo,
the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was also
highly indignant at the disrespect Edwy had
shown to the church, rushed into the royal
apartment, and found the king dallying with
his bride.
The brutal Dunstan immediately
tore him from her arms, and, applying an opprobrious epithet to the Queen, dragged the
young monarch by force into the banquetting hall of the nobles.
It was not to be expected
that any woman, however mild her temper,
could forgive so deep an insult as this, and
Elgiva exercised all the influence she possessed
over her husband's mind to bring about the
ruin of the presuming and unmannerly priest.
An opportunity was soon found; charges were
brought against him, from which he could not
clear himself, and he was finally banished from
the kingdom, and forced to take refuge in
Flanders.
But the Archbishop of Canterbury
still remained behind.
The unhappy Elgiva,
in espousing the King, had gained to herself
a host of troubles and of enemies; and, instead
of intimidating, had only embittered the latter
by the means she had adopted.
Intrigues were
fomented against the young couple, who had
loved so well, but so unwisely.
The Queen,
all fresh in youth, and all radiant in her beauty,
was seized by the archbishop, at the head of
a party of ruffians, and held forcibly upon
the ground, while a wretch with a hot iron
burnt her "damask cheeks" to obliterate the
traces of that transcendant loveliness which had
set enmity between the civil and ecclesiastical
power.
She was then carried away to the seacoast, and hidden for some days, till an opportunity was found to convey her to Ireland.
She remained in that country for some months,
when she effected her escape.
The scars on
her face had healed: the brutal work had not
been effectually done, and she shone in as
great beauty as ever, and was hastening to
Kingston, to the embraces of her royal spouse,
when she was intercepted at Gloucester by the
spies of the relentless archbishop.
At this
time revolt was openly declared against the
authority of Edwy, and, to show him how
strong and how reckless the conspirators were,
the archbishop gave orders that the unhappy
princess should be put to death by the most
horrible tortures which could be devised.
It
was finally resolved that she should be hamstrung.
The cruel sentence was carried into
execution, and the poor queen was left to linger on a couch of straw, without nourishment
or attendance of any sort, until death put a
period to her sufferings a few days afterwards.
Edwy was soon afterwards deposed.
He did
not long survive his Elgiva: crownless, and
what to him was worse - wifeless, he died of a
broken heart before he attained his twentieth
year.
Portraits of all these old Saxon kings, and
of Edwy among the rest, used formerly to
adorn the walls of Kingston Church, and we
procured admission into the sacred edifice with
the full expectation of seeing them, upon the
faith of guide-books which we had consulted.
We ascertained, however, that our guides were
not to be trusted, the portraits having been removed to Windsor Castle more than a century ago.
We also made inquiry after another relic -
the stone upon which these old monarchs were
crowned, and which formerly stood in the
market-place.
We were informed that it was
at present in the safe custody of the mayor,
where it will remain until the new town-hall is
completed; in which it is proposed to set apart
an honourable place for it.
This may be now
considered as the only relic - and that but a
poor one, which Kingston possesses of all its
former grandeur.
Part of the chapel in which
the coronation ceremony was sometimes performed, fell down in the year 1730, and has
not been rebuilt in its former style, but merely
patched up to keep the wind and the rain
out.
The site of the chapel adjoining the
church is the same; but the original edifice,
which saw the inauguration of Athelstan and
Edwy, must have long since disappeared.
Kingston at one time sent members to parliament; but the practice of elections, very
different to what it is now, imposing upon the
constituent body, and not upon the candidates,
the necessity of spending money, the good people grumbled at the expense, and finally prayed
to be relieved from it for evermore by a formal
petition to King Edward III.
The prayer was
granted; and Kingston, penny-wise and pound foolish, has dwindled away into a very inconsiderable place.
A small, but very clear stream, called the
Hog's Mill river, runs into the Thames at
Kingston.
It takes its rise near Ewell, and
is much frequented by anglers.
The lover of poetry, as he sails from Kingston to Hampton Court, will not fail to remember, that upon these waters Pope has laid the scene of his beautiful "Rape of the Lock". It was here,
While melting music stole along the sky
that Mrs. Arabella Fermor, the Belinda of the
song, was rowed in her gilded barge, the loveliest of the lovely, with her fair nymphs and
well-dressed youths around her, and the "adventurous Baron" Lord Petre, already planning the
larceny which gave such offence to the fair one
and her family, but which, adorned by the
luxuriant fancy of the poet, was the means of
giving such delight to all the world besides.
Since that time, the Thames at Hampton has
been a haunted spot, sacred to the sylphs and
all the bright militia of the sky.
For their invention Pope is entitled to greater credit than
he has ever yet received; for, notwithstanding
his own assertion, and the acquiescence of
Johnson and other critics, who did not know
German, he borrowed nothing but their names
from the Rosicrucians, - a fact of which any
one will be convinced who will take the trouble
to read the "Chiave del Gabinetto del Cabaliere
Borri" or the philosophical romance, "The
Count de Gabalis", by the Abbe de Villars.
The scenery upon both shores of the Thames
is here truly beautiful.
Cardinal Wolsey saw
and became enamoured of it, when it had nothing but its own natural charms to recommend it, and resolved to fix his permanent
abode among scenes so lovely.
While yet the
manor of Hampton belonged to the Knights
of St. John of Jerusalem, Wolsey, whose attendance upon the King at Hanworth drew
him frequently to the neighbourhood, and who
must have constantly passed it on his way
to Esher, a place which belonged to his bishoprick of Winchester, took a liking to the spot,
and chose it as the future site of the finest
palace that had ever yet been erected in England.
He took a lease of the manor, which
extended at that time from Ditton to Walton,
on the Surrey shore, and included Hampton,
part of Hanworth, Teddington, and Hounslow
Heath, in Middlesex, from the Prior of St.
John, and began his magnificent building in
the year 1515.
He had been upwards of ten
years employed upon it, when the vastness of
the design began to excite the admiration and
envy of all who beheld it.
His enemies took
occasion of the remarks that were universally
made, to stir up the jealousy of the King
against his minister; and Henry asked him
why he had built a palace so far surpassing
any of those belonging to his sovereign.
The
Cardinal, prompt at an expedient, but ever
princely, replied, that he was merely trying to
construct a residence worthy to be given to
a King of England.
The wrath of the tyrant
was appeased, and in exchange for the magnificent gift, he gave Wolsey permission to reside
in the royal manor and palace of Richmond.
Wolsey, however, continued to reside occasionally in that part of the palace of Hampton
Court which was already built; for Henry
knew too well the fine taste of the Cardinal
in architecture to permit any meaner hand to
complete what he had begun.
Although he
thus lived in the palace as a mere tenant, he
was in most respects as much its master as
if it still remained his own.
It was here he
gave his magnificent festivals, and particularly
that great one to the French ambassadors, of
which so minute an account has been handed
down to us by Cavendish, a gentleman of his
household, and his biographer.
The festival
was given in the year 1528, after the conclusion of a solemn peace between England,
France, and the Emperor of Germany.
The
ambassadors were successively entertained at
Greenwich, London, Richmond, Hampton, and
Windsor.
The King entertained them at
Greenwich, - the Lord Mayor in London, - the
King again at his park in Richmond, - and
Wolsey at Hampton Court.
The reception
that Wolsey gave them was by far the most
magnificent.
The account handed down to us
by the minute and accurate historian, gives us
a grand idea of the power and splendour of
that proud churchman.
The rich hangings of
arras, the massive silver and gold plate, the
regiments of tall yeomen in gay liveries that
waited upon the guests, the glare of the
torches, the costliness and excellence of the
wines, the savour of the meats, and the superabundance of everything, are all set forth very
eloquently by honest old Stowe, who seems to
have imagined that no feast ever given in the
world before could have equalled the Cardinal's.
After describing all these things in a
style and language of most agreeable roughness
and simplicity, he continues, "The trumpets
were blowen to warn to supper; the officers discreetely conducted these noblemen from their
chambers into the chamber where they should
sup, and caused them there to sit downe; and
that done, their service came uppe in such abundance, both costly and full of subtleties, and
with such a pleasant noise of instruments of music,
that the Frenchmen (as it seemed) were rapte into
a heavenly paradise.
The Cardinall was not yet
come, but they were all merrie and pleasant.
Before the second course, the Cardinall came
in booted and spurred, all sodainely amongst
them, and bade them "Proface!" [much good may it do you!]
[Editor's note - those were innocent days - "Enjoy!" is what he meant]
at whose coming there was a
great joye, with rising everie man from his
place.
The Cardinall caused them to sit still
and keep their roomes; and, being in his apparell as he rode, called for a chaire and sat in
the midst of the high table.
Anone came up
the second course, with so many dishes, subtleties, and devices, above a hundred in number, which were of so goodly proportion and
costlie, that I think the Frenchmen never saw
the like.
The wonder was no less than it was
worthie indeed.
There were castles, with
images the same as in Paul's church, for the
quantity as well counterfeited as the painter
should have painted it on a cloth or wall.
There were beasts, birds, and personages, most
lively made and counterfeited, some fighting
with swords, some with guns and cross-bowes,
some vaulting and leaping, some dancing with
ladies, some on horses in complete harnesse,
jousting with long and sharp speares, with
many more devices.
Among all other was a
chess-board made of spiced plate, with men
thereof the same; and for the good proportion,
and because the Frenchmen be verie expert in
that play, my Lord Cardinall gave the same
to a gentleman of France, commanding there
should be made a goodlie case for the preservation thereof in all haste, that he might convey
the same into his countrey.
Then took my
lord a bowle of gold filled with ippocrass, and
putting off his cappe, said, ' I drink to the
King my sovereign lord, and next unto the
King your master,' and therewith drank a good
draught.
And when he had done, he desired
the grand master to pledge him, cup and all,
the which was well worth five hundred marks,
and so caused all the lords to pledge these two
royal princes.
Then went the cups so merriely
about, that many of the Frenchmen were fain
to be led to their beds.
In less than two short years afterwards, what
a change came over the fortunes of the minister!
To quote again the words of the same historian, Wolsey, being in disgrace, left London,
and having no house of his own to go to,
"rode straight to Esher, which is a house be
longing to the bishoprick of Winchester, not
far from Hampton Court, where my lord and
his family continued for the space of three or
four weekes, without either beds, sheetes, tableclothes, or dishes to eate their meate in, or
wherewith to buye anie.
Howbeit there was
good provision of victual, and of beer and
wine; but my lord was compelled of necessitie
to borrowe of Master Arundel, and of the
Bishop of Carlisle, plate and dishes both to
drinke and eate his meate in".
It was then when, to use his own words to
his attached servants who thronged around
him, "he had nothing left him but the bare
clothes on his back", that he first began to be
really convinced that
He had touch'd the highest point of all his greatness,
And from the full meridian of his glory
Was hastening to his setting, and to fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
No man to see him more!"
Wolsey was again taken into favour, and again
disgraced, and died before the palace was completed.
Henry continued the work with great
vigour, and was always much attached to the
place.
He took a sort of dislike to it after the
death of his favourite wife, the Lady Jane Seymour, who expired within its walls two days
after giving birth to King Edward the Sixth.
With more grief than might have been expected from so mere an animal, he could not
bear to look at the palace for several weeks,
and retired to mourn his loss in private, clinging pertinaciously to the garments of sable,
and refusing to be comforted.
But the fit soon
wore off; he found himself another wife, in
the person of Anne of Cleves, "a great Flanders mare", as he called her; a compliment
which she might have returned with as much
elegance, and with more justice, by calling him
a "great English hog".
He never tired of
her, for the good reason he always hated her.
She was allowed to reside at Hampton Court,
until all the preparations were made for her
divorce, when the King, according to Stowe,
wishing to get rid of her, "caused her to remove to Richmond, persuading her it should
be more for her health and pleasure, by reason
of the cleare and open air there".
His next Queen, Catherine Howard, was for
a while judged worthy to appear at his festivals
in Hampton Court; but, being anything but
a discreet woman, and her husband growing
tired of her, she was divorced by the most
summary of all divorces, - the executioner's
knife.
The new Queen, Catherine Parr, was
married in a very short time afterwards, with
great pomp and rejoicings at Hampton Court.
The ceremony was performed in July, 1543;
and, from that period to the death of Henry,
the palace was a constant scene of gaiety.
It was in one of these festivals that the
poetic Earl of Surrey,
The flower of knighthood nipt as soon as blown,
Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone
first became, or thought himself, enamoured of
the fair lady, whose name is almost as famous
in connection with his, as that of Laura with
the amorous Petrarch's.
In his description and
praise of her, he says,
Foster'd she was with milk of Irish breast:
Her sire an earl - her dame of princes' blood.
From tender years in Britain doth she rest
With kynge's child, where tasteth costly food,
Hunsdon did first present her to my eyen,
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight:
Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine.
The story of the great love entertained by this agreeable poet and accomplished gentle man for the beautiful Geraldine, has been much commented on, and forms a romantic episode in his unfortunate life.
It would be much
more romantic if it were true as tradition has
handed it down to us.
He is said to have
written her name and some amorous verses
upon a window at Hampton Court, - to have
excited thereby the jealousy of the King, -
and finally to have been brought to the scaffold, from that among many other causes.
The name of the lady whom he has celebrated
was for a long time unknown, until Horace
Walpole, in his "Catalogue of Royal and
Noble Authors", proved that she was the
Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, (daughter of that
Earl of Kildare who died a prisoner in the
Tower in the year 1535,) and one of the maids
of honour of the Princess Mary.
When Surrey first saw her he was a married man, living
affectionately with his wife, and the fair Geraldine was a mere child of thirteen years of
age.
Surrey himself was in his twenty-fourth
year.
There is no doubt that he was struck
with her beauty, and that he has celebrated
her in the tenderest amorous poetry.
Whether
he loved her is quite another question.
It
should be remembered that Surrey's great master in the art of poetry was Petrarch, whom
he devoutly and enthusiastically studied; and
that, effectually to imitate him, it was necessary that he should have a lady-love, upon
whose imaginary coldness or slights he might
pour out the whole flow of his amorous versification.
There is not the slightest evidence to show
that his attachment, if the name can be be
stowed upon a mere conceit, ever went beyond this, or was anything more than admiration, sedulously encouraged for the sake of
rhyming.
Cowley, who was never in love
but once, and then had not resolution enough
to tell his passion, thought himself bound, as
a true poet, to pay some homage at the shrine,
and published "The Mistress", a collection of
amorous poems, addressed to an imaginary
beauty.
Something of the same kind was
the much-talked-of love of Surrey for the
young Geraldine.
She was married in her
fifteenth year to Sir Anthony Brown; but
Surrey continued to rhyme, without offending
either his own wife, or the lady's husband, -
a circumstance which serves to show that the
persons most concerned were fully aware of the
real state of the case.
The assertion that Henry
VIII. took any jealousy or dislike to Surrey
on account of it is quite unfounded.
The
noble poet first saw the Lady Geraldine in
1541.
In the following year, so high was he
in his sovereign's favour, that he was made a
Knight of the Garter.
On the invasion of
France in 1544 by Henry, the vanguard of
the army was commanded by the Duke of
Norfolk, Surrey's father, while Surrey himself
was appointed to the honourable post of Marshal of England.
During the progress of the war he was made
commander of Guines, and afterwards of Boulogne; in which latter post, in consequence of
a panic terror among his men, he was defeated
by the French.
It was this circumstance, and
not his pretended love for Geraldine, that first
lessened the good opinion which his sovereign
entertained of him.
The real cause of his condemnation and death has not been very clearly
ascertained; but it is quite absurd to suppose
that Henry's jealousy of him in the matter of
Geraldine had anything whatever to do with it.
The romantic story told of Surrey and his
fair Geraldine in connection with the famous
astrologer and magician Cornelius Agrippa is
equally without foundation.
It is related that
Surrey being in Germany called upon the magician to witness the extraordinary powers of
his art, of which all the world was speaking,
and that Agrippa showed him, in a magic mirror, Henry VIII. and his lords hunting in
Windsor Forest; and afterwards the fair Geraldine reclining upon a couch.
The legend
has been versified by Sir Walter Scott, in the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel".
Dark was the vaulted room of Gramarye,
To which the wizard led the gallant knight,
Save that before a mirror huge and high
A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering light
On mystic implements of magic might,
On cross, and character, and talisman,
And Almagest and altar nothing bright,
For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan,
As watch-light by the bed of some departing man.
But soon within that mirror huge and high
Was seen a half-emitted light to gleam,
And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan spy
Cloudy and indistinct as feverish dream.
Till slow arranging, and defined, they seem
To form a lordly and a lofty room,
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom,
And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom.
Fair all the pageant, but how passing fair
The slender form which lay on couch of Ind;
O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair,
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined.
All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined,
And pensive read, from tablet eburnine,
Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul to find -
That favoured strain was raptured Surrey's line,
That fair and lovely form the lady Geraldine".
The legend, which has been thus adorned with
the graces that Sir Walter Scott's pen bestowed
upon any subject upon which it was employed,
and which has been also alluded to by Pope and
other poets, was first related by Thomas Nash,
the dramatist, in his "Adventures of Jack
Wilton", printed in 1593, and states, in addition to the circumstances above detailed, that
Surrey mentioned the fair Geraldine by name
to the magician, and desired to know what she
was doing at that instant, and with whom she
talked.
That Cornelius Agrippa, or any other
astrologer and pretended magician, could have
imposed on Surrey by the aid of a magic lantern is probable enough; and, if the dates
agreed, we might believe that he did so.
But it
happens that Cornelius Agrippa died in the
year 1534, when the fair Geraldine was only
in her sixth year, and seven years before the
Earl of Surrey, whose love-verses, addressed to
her, she was supposed to be reading, ever heard
of her existence!
So much for romance.
Edward VI. often resided at Hampton Court.
The inhabitants of the neighbourhood were
much attached to him, being proud that their
village was the birth-place of the King.
When
there was a rumour that the Protector Somerset entertained a design to seize his person,
they armed, unsolicited, for his defence; a
proof of their devotion, which Edward strove
to repay by relieving them from the inconvenience and annoyance of the royal chase, which
inclosed a vast extent of country, and which
had been formed in the latter years of his
father's life, when he was old and fat, and unable to ride far in search of his sport.
Mary
and her husband, Philip, passed their honey
moon at Hampton Court, and afterwards gave
a grand entertainment to the Princess Elizabeth, the presumptive heiress to the crown,
Elizabeth, on her accession, also resided occasionally at Hampton Court; and there is a tradition that Shakspeare made his very first
appearance on any stage before her, in a little
apartment of the palace set apart for theatrical
representations.
In the reign of James, Hampton Court was
the place of meeting of the celebrated conference on faith and discipline, between the
divines of the Church of England and the
Puritans, and in which the sign of the cross in
baptism, the ring in marriage, the use of the
surplice, and the bowing at the name of Jesus,
were severally attacked by the one, and defended by the other party.
James presided, to
his own great delight, over their deliberations,
and gave so much satisfaction to the Church of
England, that he was declared by the courtly
Archbishop of Canterbury to be a man who
delivered his judgments by the special assistance of the Spirit of God!
During the prevalence of a severe plague in
London, Charles I.
and his family took refuge
in this palace, where it was thought the air was
more wholesome than in any other part of
England.
Fifteen years afterwards he was
driven here by a pest of a different description,
the riotous apprentices of the capital.
In the
year 1647, this place became, for a third time,
his temporary prison for a few months, prior to
his unfortunate escape to the Isle of Wight;
an event which associates this building with
the most remarkable incident in British history.
After the execution of the King, Cromwell
occasionally resided here.
The Long Parliament had issued their orders for the sale of the
house and grounds; but the order was stayed,
and it was voted as a residence for the Lord
Protector.
Here, in 1657, his daughter, Mary,
was married to the Lord Falconbridge; and
here, also, in the year succeeding, his favourite
daughter, Mrs. Claypole, expired, to the great
grief of her sire.
At the Restoration, Hampton Court was
given, as a reward to the great instrument of
that event, Monk, Duke of Albemarle.
He
wisely accepted a sum of money instead of a
palace, which he had not revenues sufficient to
inhabit in becoming state, and the place once
more reverted to the Crown.
Charles II, and
his brother, both occasionally visited Hampton,
and resided in it for months at a time; but,
it was not until the reign of William and
Mary that the palace again acquired the importance which it had in some measure lost
since the days of the eighth Henry.
William III. and his illustrious consort were
alike partial to this residence; and under their
superintendence various alterations were made
from the designs of Sir Christopher Wren.
Three of the old courts built by Wolsey were
pulled down, the present state-rooms and stair
cases were erected, and the pleasure-gardens
laid out in the Dutch style, with the long
canal, to put his Majesty in mind of his native
country.
The canal is forty feet broad, and
more than half a mile in length; and were it
not quite so straight as the Dutch taste imperatively commands, would be a very pleasing object in the view from the gardens.
In this
favourite residence, William, as is well known,
met his death.
He was riding from Kensington to Hampton Court; and when he had
arrived in his own grounds, his horse stumbled,
and the King was thrown to the ground with
such violence as to fracture his collar-bone.
Being of a weakened constitution, he died from
the effects of the accident fifteen days afterwards.
The spot in the gardens is still shown
where his horse stumbled.
Queen Anne spent much of her time in this
palace, where, according to Pope, she some
times took counsel, and sometimes tea.
Pope
himself was a frequent visiter to the gardens,
where he used to amuse himself in walking
about for hours at a time, sometimes alone,
and sometimes in company with an agreeable
maid of honour, Miss Lepel, afterwards Lady
Hervey.
George I. gave several grand entertainments
here, and had plays performed for the amusement of his visiters.
George II. had similar
tastes; and, in the year 1718, caused Wolsey's
grand Hall to be fitted up as a theatre, for
the performance of Shakspeare's plays.
Among
others, it is recorded that "Henry VIII",
showing the fall of Wolsey, was enacted
by the express command of his Majesty.
During the life-time of this monarch he allowed his son, the Prince of Wales, and the father
of George III, to reside occasionally at Hampton Court.
George III. was more partial to
Windsor; and, though he visited Hampton,
never slept in it.
It has never since been honoured by the residence of the Kings of England.
William IV. when Duke of Clarence,
was appointed ranger of Bushy Park, adjoin
ing, in 1797, and steward of the honour; and
the former office is still held by his widow, the
Dowager Queen Adelaide, who has a pretty
residence in the Park.
Thanks to the liberality and kind feeling of
the Government, the palace, with its pictorial
treasures, is open five days in the week, for the
inspection of the public.
Three pleasant hours
were those which we passed in the state apartments, looking first at the portrait of one departed King or Hero, and then at another; or
viewing the resemblances of the fair and the witty, who captivated the heart, or pleased the
vanity of the susceptible Charles, or at the
more unfortunate Jane Shore, who enslaved the
affections of a truer lover, King Edward IV.
Catalogues of all the pictures are to be procured for a trifling sum at the palace.
It would
take a week to go through the various rooms,
and make proper acquaintance with each picture worthy of being known; but there are
some few that more particularly strike the
stranger's attention on a short visit.
Perhaps
the collection of portraits in the apartment call
ed William the Third's Bed-room, representing
the gay dames of the Court of Charles II, (most
of them painted by Sir Peter Lely,) attract as
much curiosity as any in the whole collection.
Among others are the violent Castlemaine, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland; the patient and
neglected Queen Catharine; the beauteous and
beloved Duchess of Richmond; the virtuous
Countess de Grammont; the frail but kindhearted Eleanor Gwynne; the fair but shallow
Mrs. Middleton; and the unfortunate Lady
Denham, married at eighteen to a man of seventy-nine, and, after a short life of guilt and
sorrow, dying from a dose of poison infused
into her chocolate; the Duchesses of Portsmouth and Somerset, painted by Verelst; the
Countesses of Sunderland, Northumberland, De
Grammont, Ossory, and five or six others, by
Lely.
There is an air of meretriciousness and
vulgarity about most of these portraits by Lely:
they are beautiful certainly, but the animal predominates in them.
One of the most interesting pictures in the
collection, to him who knows the history attached to it, is that of the Countess of Lennox,
painted by Holbein, and placed in the Queen's
Audience Chamber.
This lady, before her marriage with the Earl of Lennox, was a bright
ornament of the Court of Henry VIII, where she was known as the Lady Margaret Douglas.
She was the daughter of the Queen of Scots,
and niece of Henry VIII.
A true love story
is told of her early life.
She inspired Lord
Thomas Howard with the most passionate love,
and this nobleman demanded her in marriage of
the King.
Henry was so indignant that his
niece should have looked with an eye of favour
upon one whom he considered so unsuitable a
match, that he committed them both as prisoners to the Tower.
Poor Lord Thomas
Howard died of a broken heart two years afterwards in that fortress, and then, and not till
then, the lady was released.
She became by
her marriage with the Earl of Lennox, mother
to Lord Darnley, and in consequence, grandmother of King James I.
Another remarkable picture, which is placed
in the room called the Queen's Gallery, is "the
Field of the Cloth of Gold", by Holbein, representing the celebrated meeting of Henry VIII.
and Francis I, and painted at the express desire of the former monarch.
"The picture",
says the official catalogue, "was duly transferred
as an inheritance to succeeding princes, till the
Commonwealth, when the Parliament proposed
to sell it to the King of France.
The Earl of
Pembroke being apprized of it, and resolved that so great a treasure of art and history should
not leave the country, secretly cut out the
Head of Henry VIII.
before the arrangements
were completed, and the French ambassador,
finding the picture mutilated, refused to ratify
the bargain.
After the Restoration, the Earl
gave the head (which he had carefully preserved) to Charles II, who caused it to be
replaced; and so skilfully was it done, that
the blemish can scarcely be discovered, except
by viewing the picture in a side light".
In the same gallery are half a dozen portraits
of Queen Elizabeth, taken from her childhood
to her old age, including the first taken of
her by Holbein, and the one supposed to be
the last, by Mark Gerrard.
Appropriately,
within a short distance in the same apartments,
are the portraits of the men whose names are
intimately connected with her reign, the Earls
of Leicester and Nottingham, Sir Nicholas
Bacon, and Sir Francis Walsingham.
Over the fire-place in the King's first Presence Chamber, is a portrait of James, first
Marquis of Hamilton, by Mytens.
This is
the nobleman so well known for his devoted
attachment to the unfortunate Mary Queen
of Scots.
One of the last acts of that Princess was to transmit a ring to the Marquis,
as a token of her regard and gratitude, which
is still treasured as an heir-loom in this noble
family.
In the Audience Chamber is the portrait of
a remarkable woman who was for a long time a
great favourite with the people of England, and
whose head is still a popular sign for public houses in some parts of the country - the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I.
and afterwards Queen of Bohemia.
On her marriage, it
is upon record, so expensive were the entertainments, that £9000 sterling were expended in
fire-works alone, displayed in one night upon
the Thames opposite the Palace of Whitehall.
This picture, painted by G. Honthorst, represents her in a green dress, embroidered with
silver.
This amiable Princess was in the Low
Countries called "the Queen of Hearts".
It is
by right of their descent from her that the
present royal family of England sit upon the
throne.
The story of the attachment formed for her
in her widowhood by the chivalrous Lord Craven, that staunch old soldier of Gustavus, is
well known.
They were supposed to have
been privately married.
Another portrait to which the guides, before
the introduction into the palace of the better
behaved and less garrulous police, invariably
drew the attention of the visiter, is that of
Duns Scotus, by Spagnoletto, in the room
known as the Public Dining-Room.
John
Duns, called Duns Scotus, because he was
born in Scotland, lived in the early part of the
sixteenth century, and was educated at Merton
College, Oxford.
Archbishop Spotswood, in
his History of the Church of Scotland, mentions several instances of his peculiar powers of
fasting.
He was imprisoned by Henry VIII.
for declaiming against the divorce of that monarch from his queen, Catharine of Arragon.
With the present portrait the tradition is associated, that Duns, being engaged in translating
the Scriptures, vowed to abstain from all food
till his task was completed, and that he expired
while engaged on the last chapter of the Revelations.
But of all the treasures in Hampton Court,
the Cartoons of Raphael are the most to be
prized.
Each of them has been called an epic
poem, and artists consider that the phrase is
no exaggeration of their extraordinary merits.
They were designed by Raphael, to serve as
patterns for tapestry to decorate the Papal Chapel, for Pope Leo X, and represent subjects
taken from the Evangelists and Acts of the Apostles.
They were painted about the year
1520, and the tapestry was executed at the
famous manufactory at Arras, in Flanders.
The Cartoons, so called because they were
painted on sheets of paper, were bought for
Charles I. by Rubens.
It has long been a
subject of regret among the admirers of these
beautiful works of art, that they are in a collection not immediately accessible to students in
London.
It was at one time in contemplation
to have them removed to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square; but as there was a
danger the removal might destroy them, the design was abandoned.
As we walked leisurely through the various
apartments, we noticed that of the royal beds,
- which are still preserved there in the same
state as when their occupants were alive, -
those of William III, Queen Anne, and George
II, attracted much more attention from many
people than the pictures.
One couple especially we noticed, apparently servant-girls, who
stopped before each bed for several minutes.
They took no notice whatever of the pictures;
and we were curious to hear what remarks they
made.
We kept as close to them as possible,
for that purpose; and, when they stopped opposite the state-bed of Queen Anne, we listened to their conversation, and heard a piece of
very common, but very true and valuable philosophy, which we did not expect.
"Oh! a very fine bed, to be sure!" said one;
"and must have cost a thousand guineas, all complete".
"I shouldn't wonder", replied the other;
"but, Lord! what does it matter? A hundred
years hence, and you and I will sleep in as
good a bed as Queen Anne.
Queens and poor
cooks all sleep in the grave at last".
If there is one thing more than another
which we hate as impertinent and ungentlemanly, it is to turn round after passing a woman, and look her in the face; but we could
not repress our curiosity to have a glance at the
face of this one.
We expected to find some
pensive pretty countenance, and a bright intelligent eye; but we were disappointed.
The
speaker was a vulgar little woman, with a snubnose almost hidden between a pair of such fat
red cheeks as we have seldom seen, and her
little grey eyes looked dull and sleepy.
"' Tis
a pity we looked", was our first thought; but
we discouraged it with the reflection that beauty
and philosophy were not necessarily companions,
and that this ugly cook-maid was, perhaps, as
kind as she was sensible.
Having lingered so long in the interior, we
took a stroll into the gardens, that we might
glance at all the curiosities of the place.
Passing the tennis-court, the finest in England, we
entered by a small gate into a place called the
"Wilderness", laid out originally under the
direction of King William III.
to hide the
somewhat unseemly and irregular brick walls
at this side of the palace.
This part of the
gardens is arranged into the most natural wildness; and, during a hot summer's day, is a
delightful retreat, cool as water, and all alive
with the music of a thousand birds.
While here, we could not, of course, refrain
from visiting the famous Maze, also formed by
King William III.
We tried our skill to
discover the secret of the labyrinth, and saw
many boys and girls, and not a few children of
growth, and of both sexes, busily engaged in
the same attempt, shouting and laughing each
at the failure of the other, and panting with
the unusual exertion.
We were not more successful than the rest, until we took the little
guide-book usually sold in the palace, out of
our pocket, when, after some little difficulty,
we unravelled the mystery by the aid of the
map and a pencil.
It is full of passages, which
lead to nothing, and a pleasant spot, we should
think, for frolicsome lovers, either just before, or
in the first fortnight of, the honeymoon.
For
our parts we saw no fun in it, more especially
as we were growing hungry, and had visions of
luncheon dancing before our eyes.
We there
fore took a hasty farewell of the Maze and the
Palace, and proceeded to the Toy inn, where
that repast awaited us.
Nearly opposite to Hampton
Court, the river Mole pays the
tribute of its waters to the
Thames.
Pope, in his "Wind
sor Forest", calls it
"the sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood",
from an erroneous notion that it runs
under ground for a considerable distance, near
Leatherhead.
It is also celebrated by Thomson, in his fine description of the view from
Richmond Hill.
Here let us trace the matchless vale of Thames
Fair winding up, to where the muses haunt,
In Twitnam's bowers, to royal Hampton's pile,
To Claremont's terraced height and Esher's groves.
By the soft windings of the silent Mole.
The river well deserves to be called the
silent, but scarcely the sullen, for the scenery
on its banks is some of the finest in England; and its silence, as some bard, whose
name we have forgotten, fancifully expresses it,
seems to be that of pleasure; and its slowness,
a natural lingering amid scenes of such sweet
simplicity as those through which it glides.
It is anything but sullen; and if the most
sullen man in England would, as we did, take
a day's ramble upon its banks, he would, if
he had any soul at all in him, be cured of
his sullenness for a month at least, by the contemplation of its woodland treasures, its sylvan
nooks, and its simple, sequestered, and elegant
villages.
It is a calm and equable river, unlike that apostrophised by the poet,
That is as busy as a bee,
The frothy, sparkling river Dee,
With whom 'tis ever washing day;
For its little frisky floods
Are boiling, toiling, crossing and tossing
And flinging about the suds! "
Unlike the Dee, the Mole holds on the patient course of a philosopher, enjoying the good things that falls in its way, and being in no bustle,
Nor inclined to travel fast
Unto that salt and bitter sea,
That must swallow it up at last".
It runs a very tortuous course, and is formed
by the junction of several small springs on the
borders of Sussex and Surrey.
It is for many
miles an inconsiderable brook, until it reaches
Dorking, where it first acquires the importance
of a river.
It was just dawn on a summer's day, and
not too warm, when we commenced our ramble on its banks.
We determined to trace it up
to Dorking, through Leatherhead, Mickleham,
and all that lovely country, and then to strike
across the pleasant range of hills, a continuation
of those known by the name of the Hog's-back,
to Guildford, from whence we might trace
downwards another river,
"The chalky Wey that rolls a milky wave",
until it also pours its tributary waters into the
Thames at Weybridge.
In pursuance of this plan, we made Hampton Court our point of departure, and crossing
the bridge strolled down towards Esher.
Like
most of the villages that lie within a circuit
of fifty miles of the metropolis, Esher is clean,
quiet, and agreeable.
It is, however, not remarkable in itself, but owes all its renown to
its contiguity to Esher Place, once the residence of Wolsey; and to Claremont House,
where the Princess Charlotte resided during
her brief period of wedded life, and where she
died in childbed, in November 1817.
Esher Place occupies the site of the ancient
edifice in which the great Cardinal occasionally
resided, and whither he withdrew without a
bed to lie upon, or a plate to eat his dinner out
of, when he was in disgrace with his imperious
master.
Here,
deserted in his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
he remained for some weeks in a state of the
utmost distress of mind, receiving neither from
philosophy - nor from that which is of more
value - religion, any aid or consolation to restore his lost peace.
His letters written here he
usually subscribed (sign of his great distress)
"With a rude hand and sorrowful heart,
"T. Cardlis Ebor. miserrimus...
They are said to be hardly legible from the excitement of mind under which they were written - his hand trembled so, that he could not
form the characters.
The old building in which he resided was
pulled down more than seventy years ago by
Mr. Pelham, with the exception of the two
towers, and rebuilt by that gentleman at a
great expense, in the same style of architecture
as before.
The greater part of it was again
pulled down by Mr. Spicer, who rebuilt the
edifice as it now stands.
The following view
represents the celebrated Wolsey's Tower, the
only remaining portion of the original building.
Claremont, a short distance south of Esher,
was originally erected by Sir John Vanbrugh,
and then came into the possession of the Earl
of Clare, afterwards Duke of Newcastle, from
whom it took its name, and who enlarged and
beautified it.
Sir Samuel Garth wrote a poem
on the occasion, in imitation, as he says in his
preface, of Denham's descriptive poem upon
Cooper's Hill, and Pope's upon Windsor Forest;
but as far inferior in style, in thought, in imagery, and in everything that constitutes true
poetry, to those elegant compositions, as a street
ballad is to Paradise Lost.
After the death of the Earl of Clare, the place
was purchased by Lord Clive, who pulled it
down, and erected a more elegant villa upon
its site.
It afterwards became the property
of the Viscount Galway, and still later of
the Earl of Tyrconnel.
The last-mentioned
nobleman sold the estate to Mr. Ellis, from
whom it was purchased by the Government,
as a residence for the Prince of Saxe-Cobourg and the Princess Charlotte.
The melancholy death of the Princess within its walls,
has hallowed the spot in British eyes, and a
mournful interest will long continue to attach
to it.
A Gothic summer-house in the garden,
which she loved to frequent, has been converted into a mausoleum, and inscribed to her
memory by the affection of her survivor.
From Claremont the Mole passes through
private enclosures, and is lost to the wayfarer
until he arrives at Cobham.
This village is a
great resort of anglers, the river containing
abundance of pike, trout, gudgeons, dace, and
eels.
The village was in ancient days the property of the abbots of Chertsey.
One of them,
a lover of good living, and of the gentle craft,
made a fish-pond at great expense, which is
said to have been a mile in circumference, but
which is now choked up.
There are here two
neat bridges over the Mole.
The first bridge
was erected by the good Matilda, queen of
Henry the First, more than seven hundred
years ago, in consequence of the death of one
of her maids of honour, who was unfortunately
drowned in passing the ford.
It was the same
benevolent lady who built the bridge of Stratford le Bow, near London.
From Cobham to Letherhead the high road
runs occasionally in sight of the Mole, which it
crosses by a bridge at Stoke d'Abernon, a
pretty village, celebrated for its extensive com
mon and its fine oak trees.
Letherhead is another pleasant spot - an insignificant village
it may be called in England; but if by any
magic trick it could be conveyed suddenly by
night across the seas, and let down in Germany, Belgium or indeed in France, it would
by the villagers of those nations be accounted a
town, or a royal residence.
Continental nations may rival or excel us in the splendour of
their cities, but their villages are mere collections of savage wigwams in comparison with
ours.
Letherhead is mentioned in Domesday
Book, and frequently in later documents.
It
contains a picturesque old church, abounding
in monuments with quaint inscriptions; and a
neat bridge of fourteen small arches over the
Mole.
There is an old house, which has, how
ever, been several times renovated, called the
Mansion House, noted as the residence at one
time of the infamous Judge Jefferies.
Near the
bridge is an old-fashioned public-house, said to
be the identical house formerly kept by Eleanor
Bumming, celebrated by Skelton, Poet Laureate of the reigns of Henry Seventh and
Eighth, in his poem entitled
"The Tunning of Elynor Rumming, the noted Ale-wife of England".
She appears to have been noted for
her good ale only, and not for her good looks.
In an old, and now scarce woodcut, she is
represented as a harsh ugly woman.
Under
the print there is the following inscription: -
"When Skelton wore the laurel crown,
My ale put all the ale-wives down".
This cabaret was most likely the resort, when
the King resided at Nonsuch, of the underlings
of the court - the players, the jesters, the scullions, the poets, and other vagabonds of the
same description.
Letherhead is noted above all things for its
very excellent trout.
How long it has enjoyed
this reputation it is difficult to say.
The earliest notice we remember of its fame, in this
respect, is in Lilly's Memoirs of his Life and
Times; from which it appears, that it was the
resort of the Londoners during the time of the
Long Parliament.
Lilly relates that Sir Bulstrode Whitelocke being ill, he prophesied,
from a certain inspection, which delicacy will
not allow us to explain, that the honourable
member would recover, but by means of a
surfeit would dangerously relapse within a
month; "the which he did", says Lilly, "by
eating too many trouts at Mr. Sand's house
near Letherhead".
In all the old topographical books, the trouts of Letherhead are
invariably mentioned.
To test the accuracy
of the information, we made up to a quiet,
respectable, old gentleman, whom we observed
sitting on the grass under a tree, handling his
rod in a style which showed us that he was
a veteran and inveterate angler, and asked him
politely what he was fishing for?
"Trout, sir - trout!"
The walk from Letherhead through Mickleham, Norbury Park, and up a byroad to the
summit of Boxhill, is one of the most beautiful we ever traversed.
It is too much the
fashion to praise the scenery of Italy and
Switzerland, and to decry the less grand but
still lovely scenery of our own country.
We
have seen persons cock up their noses with
contempt at the mention of an English landscape; abuse in good-set terms our English
sky, as the dullest and cloudiest, and most
capricious of skies; and hint about the deep
blue of an Italian heaven - the grand mountains, and the castle-crowned rivers of the
Continent, who, on being closely pressed, have
acknowledged after all that they had never
set foot out of their own country.
To such
we would recommend a maxim, that admiration, like charity, should begin at home, and
if they are dwellers amid the smoke of the
metropolis, a walk through the county of
Surrey would cure them of their affectation,
if they had any relish for fine scenery at all.
If they did not find skies as blue, they would
find meadows of a more delicious green than
are to be met with on the Continent; and
if they found no mountains capped with
snow, they would see hills clothed with verdure; and one (Leith Hill) nine hundred
and ninety-three feet high, and commanding a
prospect the most varied and beautiful that
imagination can conceive - woods and parks,
and elegant villas; a gentle river; fields of
waving corn; valleys, some crimson with clover,
others white with daisies, and some yellow with
buttercups; and all, both hill and plain, giving
pleasant evidence of comfort and civilisation.
The Englishman who has travelled to some
purpose, and really observed the countries
through which he has passed, becomes too wise
to join in the unmeaning depreciation above
referred to.
The village of Mickleham, at the foot
of Boxhill, is a sweet rural spot, with a
modest and venerable church.
To the man
who delights in recollections of the past, it
offers few attractions; but to the man who
wishes to enjoy the present, there cannot be
many more attractive spots in all England.
Norbury Park, adjoining, is one of the finest
seats in the county.
The river Mole runs
through the grounds; and although occasionally in very hot weather its channel is
almost dry, it generally contains sufficient
water to be the most pleasing ornament of
the landscape.
The views from the windows
of the dwelling-house are exceedingly beautiful; and the walls of the saloon, painted by
Barrett, are so managed as to appear a continuation of the prospect.
About three miles
to the south-east rises Boxhill, nearly five
hundred feet above the level of the Mole,
and from whence the windings of the river
may be traced for many miles.
Just below
is seen the solemn-looking town of Dorking,
with the commanding eminence of Leith Hill,
about six miles beyond it.
To the right,
the range of hills leading to Guildford and
Farnham, and on the left, Betchworth, Reigate, and all that beautiful country.
Descending this hill, we cross the Mole and arrive
at Dorking.
This little town, famous for
its poultry and butter, has a remarkably neat and clean appearance.
It is situate on a tract
of soft sandy rock-stone, in which cellars are
dug, noted for their extreme coolness, and
very valuable for the preservation of wine.
These cellars are very numerous.
The most
remarkable is on the side of an eminence called Butter Hill, the descent to which is by a
sort of staircase, containing upwards of fifty
steps.
Dorking is mentioned in the Domesday Survey, and is said to have been destroyed by
the Danes, and rebuilt in the time of William
the Conqueror.
The manor is now the property of the Duke of Norfolk, and the church
is one of the burial-places of that noble family.
A curious custom prevails, or until very lately
did prevail here, that if the father dies intestate, the youngest son succeeds to the estate.
This custom is stated, with great probability, to
have arisen in the feudal ages, when the barons were free to claim and enforce that detestable right of passing the first night with the
newly married bride of any of their vassals;
the "respectable droit dejambage", as the French
songster calls it in his admirable satire, entitled
the "Projects of a good old Baron".
It does
not appear that the right was often enforced; it
was too atrocious, and affronted the common
sense of even the feudal age.
The good people of Dorking, were, however, quite right in
taking the means they did, to insure their
estates to their own offspring.
The stranger at Dorking will find much to
interest him; the walks in the neighbourhood
are fine and the air bracing.
But the ramble
among the hills over the Hog's-back, to Guildford, is the most delightful of all.
We now
lose sight of the Mole, and approach its pleasant sister the Wey; less beautiful, it is true,
and passing through a country less picturesque,
but still worthy of a visit, and offering many
reminiscences to the man who takes pleasure
in local histories and traditions.
The distance
is not above eight miles between the Mole and
the Wey, and the road is for the most part on
a beautiful ridge, from which, at every turn,
some pleasant view may be obtained.
Guildford is situated upon the Wey, and its antiquities, alone, afford ample materials for a volume.
It has a solemn and venerable air - a demure
grace about it, which bespeak it as a place that
was once of historical importance.
It contains
three parish churches, - Trinity, St. Mary, and
St. Nicholas.
Great part of the first-mentioned
fell down in 1745, but was afterwards rebuilt.
It contains several monuments, by far the most
remarkable of which is to the memory of a
very remarkable man, a native of the town,
George Abbot, who was Archbishop of Canterbury, at the commencement of the seventeenth century.
He was the son of a poor
cloth-worker of Guildford, and had five brothers, most of whom rose to distinction; one,
Robert, being Bishop of Salisbury; and the
youngest, Maurice, Lord Mayor of London,
and the first person who received the honour
of knighthood from King Charles the First.
A singular story is told of the cause of the
good fortune of these brothers.
When the
mother was five or six months advanced in
pregnancy with George, she dreamed that an
angel appeared to her, and told her that if she
caught a jack in the river Wey, and ate it, the
child in the womb would be a boy, who would
rise to the highest dignities in the state.
The
poor woman told her dream to her neighbours,
and was advised to try and catch a jack in the
river, and see what would come of it.
She
paid no attention to the advice; but, some days
afterwards, as she let down a pail into the
stream to procure water for domestic uses, she,
to her great surprise and delight, brought up
a very fine jack, which, says the story, "she
cooked for her dinner that very day".
When
her son was born, all the gossips of Guildford
looked upon the promise of the dream as half
accomplished, and amused themselves by speculating whether the greatness of the "little
stranger"would be achieved in the law, the
church, or the army.
The circumstance being
the general topic of conversation in the county,
two gentlemen of wealth and station offered to
stand sponsors for the child, and look to his
future fortunes, if they found him worthy.
He was found worthy.
He made great progress in his studies, and conducted himself most
creditably in every situation in which he was
placed.
He was sent to the University of Oxford, where he distinguished himself as one of
the first scholars of the time.
His mother's
dream Was producing its good effect; the fire
of ambition was kindled in his soul; and being
endowed with genius, and with another quality
which is often a great deal more valuable - perseverance - he rose gradually to renown and advancement.
In 1599, being then in his thirty seventh year, he was made Dean of Winchester;
and in the year following, Vice Chancellor of the University of Oxford.
He was one
of the divines employed in the reign of King
James, in the new translation of the Bible, and
by the interest of his friends, the Earls of Dorset and Dunbar, was advanced to the dignity
of Bishop of Lichfield.
He was shortly translated to the see of London, and lastly, in 1611,
to the Archiepiscopal see of Canterbury, which
he occupied for twenty-two years.
It was
chiefly by his interest that his brother attained
a dignity almost equal to his own; and that
another brother, Maurice, established himself
as a merchant in London, where the highest
honour that his fellow-citizens could bestow,
was conferred upon him.
Many persons have
treated this story as apocryphal.
Without entering the lists either for or against it, we can
only say, that marvellous as it appears, it is not
improbable.
Predictions are very often the
cause of their own fulfilment.
Many circumstances as trifling as this dream of a jack, have
had a powerful influence upon the fate of men
who have achieved greatness.
Many, perchance, if we knew the secret history of their
hearts, might have remained sluggards, or quite
inert, and never have achieved greatness at all,
if it had not been for the fond prediction of
some doting mother, or nurse, enraptured with
their ruddy cheeks and their curly hair.
Who
can deny, that to a youth of high capacity, the
prophecy of his preferment would lead him in
after-life to struggle for it?
There have been
many such instances, both before and since the
time of George Abbot.
Guildford abounds in
reminiscences of this prelate.
Opposite the
church is Trinity Hospital, founded by him in
the year 1619.
He settled lands upon it, to
the annual value of £300; a third of which
sum was to be employed in setting the poor
to work, and the other two portions to be
appropriated to the maintenance of a master,
twelve poor brethren, and eight poor sisters,
to wear blue coats and gowns, and have an
allowance of two shillings and sixpence a week.
The hospital is of a quadrangular form, with a
noble tower-gate, crowned with four turrets at
the entrance.
The chapel attached is spacious
and lofty, ornamented with two beautiful Gothic windows of stained glass, representing
Scriptural subjects.
It has been said erroneously, that the Archbishop erected this hospital
as an atonement for the involuntary homicide
which he committed while hunting, and which
proved a source of great sorrow and discomfort
to him during the rest of his life.
The accident happened in 1621, two years after the
foundation of the hospital.
Being invited by
Lord Zouch to hunt in Bramshill Park, he
took up a cross-bow to make a shot at a buck;
but unfortunately hit the keeper, who had run in among the herd of deer to bring them up to
a fairer mark.
The arrow pierced the left arm;
and dividing the large axillary vessels, caused
almost instantaneous death.
The Archbishop
was in the deepest affliction: the event caused
quite a commotion in the Church; for by the
canon law, he was tainted, and rendered incapable of performing any sacred function; and
by the common law, his personal estate was
forfeited to the King.
James I. acted with
much kindness, and wrote the Archbishop
a letter with his own hand, saying, "that he would not add affliction to his sorrow, or take
one farthing from his chattels and movables".
The doctors of ecclesiastical law were consulted
upon the course to be adopted; and after some
delay, it was finally agreed that the King
should grant him a full pardon for the homicide, under the broad seal, and restore him
to all his ecclesiastical authority.
A commission of eight bishops, instituted for the purpose,
at the same time granted him a dispensation in full form.
The Archbishop retired to his native Guildford during the progress of these debates, and
passed his time in prayer and fasting.
He
instituted a monthly fast in memory of the
accident, which he religiously observed during
the remainder of his life, and settled an annuity of £20 upon the widow of the deceased.
Passing along the high road from Guildford,
and descending the current of the Wey, we
arrive at the green of Ripley, famous formerly,
and we believe still, for its cricket-matches.
A
little further on is Ockham, the seat of the
Earl of Lovelace; and at the distance of about
a mile on the opposite bank of the Wey, the
ruins of Newark Abbey.
It is the popular
belief that the monks of Newark did not always keep the vow of chastity, which they
solemnly took upon entering those sacred walls.
The story of their amours, and of the sad fate
that befell them, is contained in the following
ballad, entitled:
THE MONKS OF THE WEY
A true and impartial Relation of the wonderful Tunnel of
Newark Abbey, and of the untimely end of several ghostly
brethren.
The Monks of the Wey seldom sang any psalms,
And little they thought of religious qualms.
Ranting, rollicking, frolicsome, gay,
Jolly old boys were the Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
To the sweet nuns of Ockham devoting their cares,
They had but short time for their beads and their prayers.
For the love of the maidens they sigh'd night and day,
And neglected devotion - these Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
And happy, i'faith, might these monks have been
If the river had not rolled between
Their abbey dark and the convent grey
That stood on the opposite side of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
For daily they sigh'd, and nightly they pined,
Little to anchorite rules inclined;
So smitten with beauty's charms were they,
These rollicking, frolicsome Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la I Lara-la!
But the scandal was great in the country near,
They dared not row across for fear,
And they could not swim, so fat were they,
These oily amorous Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
Loudly they groan'd for their fate so hard,
From the smiles of these beautiful maids debarr'd,
Till a brother hit on a plan to stay
The woe of these heart-broken Monks of the Wey!
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
"Nothing" quoth he, "should true love sunder,
Since toe cannot go over, let us go under!
Boats and bridges shall yield to clay,
We'll dig a tunnel beneath the Wey".
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
To it they went with right good will,
With spade and shovel, and pike and bill,
And from evening's close till the dawn of day,
They worked like miners all under the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
And every night as their work begun,
Each sang of the charms of his favourite nun.
How surprised they will be, and how happy", said they,
When we pop in upon them from under the Wey".
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
And for months they kept grubbing and making no sound,
Like other black moles darkly under the ground;
And no one suspected such going astray,
So sly were these amorous Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la I Lara-la!
At last their fine work was brought near to a close,
And early one morn from their pallets they rose,
And met in their tunnel, with lights, to survey,
If they'd scooped a free passage right under the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
But, alas, for their fate! as they smirk'd and they smiled,
To think how completely the world was beguiled,
The river broke in, and it grieves me to say,
It drown'd all the frolicsome Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
O churchmen! beware of the lures of the flesh,
The net of the devil hath many a mesh;
And remember, whenever you're tempted to stray,
The fate that befell the poor Monks of the Wey.
Tra-lala-la! Lara-la!
There are different versions of the above
story, and we must confess, that the one most
generally received is directly at variance with
ours, as regards the catastrophe.
But if our ballad be not in accordance with the justice of history, it accords with poetical justice at all events.
No ballad could ever have been made upon it
with anything like a decent climax, if it had
been necessary to state that the monks visited
the nuns in this clandestine manner for several
years, and were never punished for it.
If our
account of the matter be not true, the more's
the pity, and so there's an end of it.
Ockham Park was purchased by the Lord
Chancellor King in 1711, and is now the seat
of his descendant, the Earl of Lovelace, and his
Countess - the daughter of Byron.
In the village church there is a handsome monument to
the memory of the first Lord.
In the churchyard, some wag, whose wit was not awed even
by Death, has inscribed the following on the
grave-stone of one Spong, a carpenter: -
Though many a sturdy oak he laid along,
Fell'd by Death's surer hatchet, here lies Spong:
Posts oft he made, yet ne'er a place could get,
And lived by railing, though he had no wit:
Old saws he had, although no antiquarian,
And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.
Long lived he Ockham's premier architect,
And lasting as his fame, a tomb t'erect
In vain we seek an artist such as he,
Whose pales and gates were for eternity.
It is a pity the author of these verses should have spoiled them; the play upon the words in the first part is amusing enough; the conclusion is absolute nonsense.
As we descend the current of the river from
this place, the distance between the Mole and
the Wey becomes less at every step, until at
Wisly Common they approach so near as to
be scarcely a mile asunder.
The high road
skirting Pain's Hill crosses the road at Cobham, and to follow the windings of the Wey,
the traveller must take to the byroads on the
left-hand, and so on to Byfleet, a small place,
where it is said there was formerly a royal
palace, but of which there are no remains.
Henry VIII. when an infant, was, according to
tradition, nursed in this village.
The court at
the time resided at Greenwich, and the royal
bantling was probably sent away, for the advantage of the pure air of Surrey, or perhaps,
because he was even then obstreperous.
Byfleet was the residence of Joseph Spence, so
well-known for his anecdotes of Pope.
He was
rector of Great Horwood in Buckinghamshire,
but only visited that place once a year.
He
lost his life in his own garden at Byfleet in a
melancholy manner.
He was found dead on
the 20th of August 1768, lying upon his face
in a small canal where the water was not of
sufficient depth to cover his head or any part
of his body.
It was supposed that he fell in an
apoplectic fit, and was suffocated by the water.
Dr. Warton visited Spence at Byfleet in 1754,
and obtained from him many particulars relating to Pope, which he afterwards published.
Byfleet is situate on a smaller branch of the
Wey, the main current of the river flowing
about three quarters of a mile to the left.
Following either branch, on which there is nothing
remarkable, we arrive at Weybridge, a considerable village, that takes its name from the bridge
over the stream.
There are some fine seats in
the neighbourhood: - Oatlands, of which we
shall have occasion to speak hereafter; Ham
House, and Woburn Farm.
Ham House,
which has often been confounded by the
Guide-books, with the Ham House near Richmond, the seat of the Countess of Dysart, is an
old building, seated amid tall and venerable
trees.
It belonged originally to the family of
Howard, but was granted by James the Second
to Catharine, the daughter of Sir Charles Sedley, whom he had seduced, and then created
Countess of Dorchester.
She afterwards married the Earl of Portmore, whose descendant is
still the proprietor of Ham, and many monuments of whose family are to be seen in the
church of Weybridge.
James the Second passed much of his time here with his fair mistress;
and a passage is shown, in which he is said to
have concealed himself on the advance of the
Prince of Orange.
This, however, seems to be
a mistake.
James being at Whitehall, was advised, or, more properly speaking, ordered, to
take refuge in Ham House; but it was at the
Ham House near Richmond, then the seat of
the Duchess of Lauderdale; but he was apprehensive that he would not be in safety so near
London, and therefore obtained permission to
retire to Rochester.
Within a short distance of this place, the
Wey discharges his waters into the lap of his
suzerain.
Thus we have once more reached
the Thames, after our ramble upon the banks
of its pleasant tributaries.
We find, however,
that between the junction of the Mole and the
Thames, which was our point of departure, and
the spot at which we have now arrived, we
have left unseen an interesting portion of the
principal river.
We must, therefore, retrace
our steps to Hampton Court, and follow the
Thames upwards, without further diverging.
Before we diverged down the
pleasant banks of the Mole, and
returned again to the Thames
by the waters of the Wey, our
point of departure was Hampton Court.
To that point, therefore, we must
again return, and proceed upwards for a while,
without going astray to the one side or the
other.
Nearly opposite to the palace is the
pretty village of Thames Ditton, with its
"Swan", a sign that all true anglers are acquainted with.
Upon the same, or Surrey
bank, extends a common called Moulsey Hurst,
famous as the scene where all the ruffians, rich
and poor, of the metropolis, formerly assembled
to see one man beat another to death with his
fists.
Now that the glory of pugilism is departed, Moulsey Hurst has become a lonely
place.
The races which are annually held upon
it, contribute a little to keep up its acquaintance with the refuse of London - the gamblers,
the swindlers, and the blacklegs; but for the
rest of the year it is a quiet spot enough, and
void of offence.
On the other side of the river, just beyond
the bridge, is the villa erected by Garrick.
In
the little summer-house, or "Temple", which
has a pleasing appearance, viewed from the
stream, he placed an admired statue of Shakspeare, the great bard, in the light of whose
glory his own memory will shine to the latest
times.
The statue has been since removed to
the British Museum.
A little further on is
the village of Hampton, with its lock and weir,
on passing which, there is a succession of small
aits, beautiful isles of swans, until we reach
Sunbury, a favourite resort of anglers, but
offering nothing to delay the steps of the rambler.
Walton, on the Surrey shore, is more
remarkable.
Its church contains several curious monuments, and also the grave of the
famous astrologer William Lilly, already mentioned in the course of our peregrinations.
[ Mackay then devoted 17 pages to Lilly ]
Among other monuments in Walton church,
is one executed by Roubiliac, and erected by
Grace, Countess of Middlesex, to the memory
of her father, the Lord Viscount Shannon,
commander of the forces in Ireland, who died
in 1740.
In Walton church-yard occurred
that strange scene mentioned by Walker, in
his History of the Independents, and quoted
by Hume, in the notes to his History of the
Reign of Charles the First.
It was during this
period that England ran riot; and when "the unco-guid and the rigidly righteous", bade fair
to overthrow religion altogether in the land, by
their stiff ungainly zeal, and their fleshless,
spiritless, and uncharitable fanaticism.
A few
Sundays after the execution of Charles the
First, Mr. Faucett, the rector of Walton, was
preaching his evening sermon to his parishioners, when a party of six soldiers
suddenly entered the church, one of them carrying a lantern with a lighted candle in it, and four other
candles in his hand not lighted.
This fellow
desired the preacher to come down immediately, and allow him to ascend the pulpit, for
he had a message direct from Almighty God,
to deliver to them.
The preacher, however,
dangerous as it was in those days to thwart the
soldiery, refused to leave the pulpit, and the
major part of his congregation taking his part,
insisted that the soldiers should go out and not
disturb the service.
After a long altercation,
the soldiers were induced to comply, and retired into the church-yard, followed by a number of persons, curious to see the end of the
adventure.
The man with the candles then
mounted upon one of the tomb-stones, the
other soldiers standing round him, and then
began one of those extraordinary discourses so
common at that day.
"Brethren", said the soldier, "I have had a
vision! I have received a command from God,
which I must deliver to you upon pain of
eternal damnation to myself if I refuse to
speak, and eternal damnation to you, if you
refuse to hear.
The command of God consists
of five lights; the types of which you may
now behold, and which are as follow.
The
Sabbath, says the Lord God, is abolished and
quite done away, as unnecessary, Jewish, and
merely ceremonial; and here", continued the
soldier, "I ought to put out my first light, but
the wind is so high, that, I cannot kindle it;
and not being able to kindle it, I cannot put it
out! Secondly, the Lord God commands that
tithes be no longer paid, for they are a great
burden to the saints of God; a discouragement
of industry and tillage, and altogether Jewish
and unnecessary! And now, if I could kindle
it, I ought to put out the second light! Third
ly, the Lord God commands that all ministers
be abolished; they are anti-christian, and no
longer of use, for Christ himself has descended
into the hearts of his saints, and his Spirit enlightens them with revelations and inspirations,
so that they have no need for preaching.
And
here, if I did my duty properly, I ought to put
out the third light, but for the reason I have
already given you, it is impossible to do so!
Fourthly, the Lord God commands, that there
be no longer any magistrates in this land; they
are useless and good for nothing.
Christ himself is amongst us, and has erected the kingdom
of his saints upon earth.
Besides, these magistrates are all tyrants, and oppressors of the liberty of the saints, and tie them to laws and
ordinances which are a great evil and inconvenience, and mere human invention.
And
here you will be pleased to imagine that I put
out my fourth light!"
The soldier then put his hand into his
pocket, and pulling out a little Bible, showed
it to the other soldiers and the people, saying,
"Here is a book which yon hold in great veneration, consisting of two parts, the Old and
New Testaments.
I tell you, that it is the
command of the Lord God that this also
be abolished.
It containeth nothing but the
mere beggarly rudiments - only milk for babes.
Christ himself is in glory amongst us, and
imparts a further measure of his spirit to his
saints, than anything such a book as this can
afford.
I am commanded to burn it before
your face!" The soldier then took the lan
tern, and holding it up to the people, opened
it, and blew it out with a great puff, ex
claiming, "And now my fifth light is extinguished!" He then took his departure with
his fellows.
The town of Walton (which we should not
omit to mention was the birth-place of Admiral Rodney,) is celebrated for the remains of
a Roman encampment, covering about twelve
acres of land.
There is a tradition, that the
Thames, which now runs to the north of the
town, formerly ran southward of it, in consequence of the river making a new channel for
itself after a great inundation.
The tradition,
however, rests upon no good authority.
Passing Walton Bridge we arrive at the
fine estate of Oatlands, now the residence of
Lord Francis Egerton, and formerly of the
Duke of York, for whom it was purchased of
the Duke of Newcastle.
It was once a royal
domain, having been procured by Henry the
Eighth from the family of Rede, in exchange
for the Manor of Tanridge.
Queen Elizabeth
frequently resided here; and Charles the First
settled it on his Queen Henrietta Maria, whose
son, called Henry of Oatlands, was born here.
Charles the Second let the place on lease to the
Earl of St. Albans, and the lease expiring in
the reign of William the Third, that Prince
granted the fee simple to the Earl of Torrington; from whom, by bequest and alliance, it
came into the family of the Duke of Newcastle.
The present building is of modern
date.
The grotto, the finest in England, was
erected by the Duke of Newcastle, at a great
expense.
On the opposite side of the river are the
celebrated Coway-stakes, which, until of late
years, have been generally considered to mark
the spot where the Romans crossed the river,
under the command of Julius Caesar, to invade
the kingdom of Cassibelaunus.
The Britons,
drawn up on the Middlesex shore, drove stakes
into the bed of the river, and otherwise fenced
the bank to prevent the Romans from landing.
Bede, who wrote in the eighth century, says,
"the stakes at that time remaining, were as big
as a man's thigh".
They are still visible occasionally, as we were informed, on making inquiry at the spot; but we were not able to
obtain a sight of them.
Mr. Speaker Onslow,
who resided in the neighbourhood, caused a
small portion to be cut from them, which he
converted into knife-handles, and preserved as
relics.
Many people are of opinion, that Chertsey, a
little higher up, was the place where the Romans crossed the river; and others have brought
forward arguments to prove that it was at
Kingston.
Truth, they say, often lies in the
juste milieu; and in this instance at least, the juste
milieu has all antiquity and tradition, to say
nothing of the learned Camden, himself a host,
in its favour.
The remains of the Roman encampment at Walton serve to support the
opinion that Coway-stakes was the place, and it
may be added as a corroboration, that in the
year 1725, some curious Roman wedges were
found at Oatlands, about twenty feet below the
surface, and under several substrata of yellow
and white sand.
Shepperton, a short distance beyond Coway stakes, is a pretty village, which has been long
famous as the resort of anglers from London.
In the parsonage-house close by the river's
brink, Erasmus once resided, before he removed to Chelsea to the house of his great friend,
Sir Thomas More.
The then incumbent was
William Grocyn.
And now we have arrived at Chertsey, the
ancient and the poetical; and before us are
Cooper's Hill, famed in song - Runnymead in
history, and Windsor in both.
For a ramble
amid scenes like these, we must renew our
acquaintance with Chaucer, Surrey, Cowley,
Denham, Pope, and scores of other poets, be
sides revelling a whole evening with immortal Shakspeare and his "Merry Wives".
Having
done this, we may with fresh vigour tread this
classic soil, and start at every step some pleasant memory of the days gone past, and of the
choice spirits that have hallowed them ever
more.
For wheresoe'er we turn our ravished eyes
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass us around,
And still we seem to walk on holy ground;
For here the Muse so oft the harp has strung,
That not a hillock rears its head unsung;
Renowned in verse, each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
The close of our last ramble left
us at Chertsey, our mind teeming with reminiscences of Cowley, of Denham, of Pope, of
Gray, of Surrey, and of Shakspeare, and of other poets, who
have made the banks of the Thames from this
place to Windsor, classic and holy ground;
Chertsey, therefore, claims our first notice.
It
is a place of considerable antiquity.
Its once
famous Abbey for Benedictine monks, was
founded so early as the year 666, and flourished
till 1538, when it was dissolved by Henry the
Eighth.
The abbots were persons of very
great importance in this part of the country;
and though ranking below the bishops, they
enjoyed privileges and wielded powers which
fell to the lot of very few of those dignitaries.
In the time of Bede, it is supposed that Chertsey and its abbey were surrounded by water,
from that venerable author's naming it Ceroti
Insula.
The abbey had great possessions on the
Surrey shore of the Thames, and the abbot
lived like a feudal chief.
Within its cloisters
Henry the Sixth,
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king,
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!
was buried without any funeral pomp.
The
body was taken from the Tower, on the morning after his death, and carried through the
streets to Cornhill, accompanied by a troop of
soldiers, such as usually attended great criminals to the place of execution.
It was the popular belief at the time, and for many years
after, that the royal corpse bled afresh at St. Paul's and Blackfriars, where the procession
stopped; a tradition which Shakspeare has put into the mouth of the Lady Anne, where she
exclaims, in the exasperation of her grief at the
presence of his murderer,
"See, see! dead Henry's wounds
Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh!
Blush! blush! thou lump of foul deformity!
For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins!"
Stowe says, that at Blackfriars the body,
bare-faced in an open coffin, was put on board
a boat and rowed up the river to Chertsey Abbey; and Grafton, that it was buried there,
"without priest or clerk, torch or taper, singing or saying".
It was afterwards removed to
Windsor; some say by Richard the Third, and
others, by Henry the Seventh, and re-interred
with royal pomp in a new vault in the chancel
at the south door of the chapel.
It was to Chertsey that the poet Cowley
retired in a fit of disgust at the unmerited
neglect of royalty.
Hope deferred had made
his heart sick; he had taken a physician's degree, and fully qualified himself for the office of
master of the Hospital of the Savoy, which had
been promised him both by Charles the First
and Charles the Second, but his claims were
passed over at the Restoration.
In a querulous
poem written at this time, he says,
"Kings have long hands, they say, and though I be
So distant, that may reach at length to me! "
Broad as was the hint, the Court took no notice of him.
To add to his vexation, his old and
favourite comedy of "The Guardian", which
he had re-modelled, under the title of "Cutter
of Coleman-street", and produced upon the
stage, was treated with great severity, and alleged by his enemies to be a satire upon that
Court, from which he still expected favours.
He was taunted at the same time in some satirical verses, on the choice of a Laureate as the
"Savoy-missing Cowley, making apologies for
his bad play"; and as the author, and still
worse, the printer of those pitiful verses, in
scribed to "His Melancholy".
The desire of
solitude came strongly upon him; he pretended that he was weary of the "hum of men",
satiated with the vile arts of courtly life, and
anxious to inhale the fresh breezes of the fields
and to live a life of study and seclusion, among
hills and woods, and pleasant streams.
He
therefore withdrew from London; first to
Barnes Elms, where he caught a violent cold
that never left him; and then to Chertsey.
But "O fallacem hominem spem" he carried
with him into his retirement the discontent
which is the bane of society, and in a still greater
degree that of seclusion; he forgot that happiness was in the mind, and not in circumstances;
and the consequence was, that he was more
miserable than before.
He had changed all the
habits of his previous life, and was too old to
acquire new ones; he had left his former
friends, and was too morose and unaccommodating, too ill at ease within himself, to take
the trouble of attracting others, and he pined
away daily.
In a letter to Dr. Sprat, quoted
by Dr. Johnson, as a warning to all those who
may pant for solitude, while led away by florid
and poetical descriptions of its charms, he says,
that the first night he settled in Chertsey, he
caught a violent cold that confined him to his
chamber for ten days, and that he afterwards
bruised his ribs by a fall in his fields, which
rendered it difficult for him to turn in his bed.
He could get no money from his tenants, and
his meadows were eaten up every night by cattle turned in to prey upon him by his neighbours.
After a discontented residence of two
years, during which, however, he composed his
two last "Books of Plants", and planned several other works, he died of a violent defluction and stoppage in the throat, which he
caught by staying too long in the evening
among his haymakers in the meadows.
Charles
the Second, true to the character so well and
wittily bestowed upon him, of "never doing
a wise thing, nor ever saying a foolish one",
neglected Cowley, and broke his repeated promises to him during his life, but said, on the
news of his death reaching him, "that Mr. Cowley had not left a better man behind him
in England".
And this was the poet's reward
- not worth having, even had it not been
posthumous!
The house where Cowley died still exists.
It is called the Porch House, from its former
projecting entrance.
The late Alderman Clark
of London, long inhabited the place, and took
great care to preserve it.
The porch was taken
away by his direction, but the following inscription, now placed over the door, explains
the cause of the alteration.
"The porch of this
house, which projected ten feet into the highway, was taken down in the year 1786, for the
safety and accommodation of the public".
Immediately underneath is the quotation from
Pope: -
"Here, the last accents flowed from Cowley's tongue".
Among the famous residents of the neighbourhood of Chertsey, two especially deserve
remembrance.
Charles James Fox, who inhabited a house on St. Anne's Hill, where his
widow still resides; and Thomas Day, the author of "Sandford and Merton", who dwelt in
Anningsley, and whose eccentricities are still
spoken of by the neighbouring people.
There is a handsome stone bridge over the Thames at Chertsey, which was built in 1785, by the counties of Surrey and Middlesex, at an expense of £13,000
Laleham, on the other side of the
river, offers few attractions to draw us from
our course, compared to those which the Surrey shore affords us.
It contains a pretty villa,
belonging to the Earl of Lucan, which was in
habited by Donna Maria, Queen of Portugal,
during her stay in this country.
It is also a
favourite resort of anglers.
Proceeding up the left bank of the Thames towards Egham, we arrive at Cooper's Hill.
Where Denham, tuneful bard,
Charmed once the listening dryads with his song
Sublimely sweet:
or, as Pope says in verse, much more pleasing than Somerville's,
The sequestered scenes,
The bowery mazes and surrounding greens,
On Thames's banks while fragrant breezes fill,
And where the Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.
On Cooper's Hill, eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow!
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung".
Cooper's Hill is known, by name at least,
to all the lovers of English poetry.
The father
of Sir John Denham, the author of the poem
of "Cooper's Hill", resided in dignity in the
parish of Egham, and the poet, though in youth
a rake, settled as he grew older into as respectable a man as his father.
He was made sheriff
of Surrey in 1642, and afterwards governor of
Farnham Castle for the Royalists.
A faithful
servant of the house of Stuart, he retired with
the royal family into France after the execution
of Charles I, and, at the Restoration, more fortunate than Cowley his brother bard, obtained
honours with profits attached to them, as a
reward for his fidelity.
Denham's "Cooper's Hill"was written at
Oxford in 1643, whither he had retired after he
resigned the onerous governorship of Farnham
Castle.
Its success was very great, and detraction and envy spread abroad a report, to injure
the author, that he had not written it himself,
but had bought it of a poor curate for forty pounds.
He outlived that rumour by many
years, disproving it moreover by his other writings, and chiefly by his Elegy on the Death
of Cowley.
Until Pope took up the pen, no poem, produced in England, excited so much admiration
as "Cooper's Hill; "- even the critics who maligned the man, lauded the work as the happiest effort of the national muse.
And even
now, when Cowley, once thought a superior
poet, has sunk into almost universal neglect,
Denham still holds his place in the popular
estimation, and his verse is so well-known
as to have become hackneyed and quoted,
parrot-like, by rote, by thousands, who have
often heard his verses but never read them.
There needs no other proof of his merit; and
now, as we ascend the hill, and take our seat
upon the spot where it is supposed that the
poet stood when he imagined those lines upon
the Thames, the most beautiful eulogium, perhaps, ever bestowed upon the river, the reader
will pardon us for quoting them.
They may
be familiar to most, but they will bear repetition; and in these rambles of ours, which
profess to record not only the natural beauties
of the Thames, but the fine things which have
been said of it, their omission would be unpardonabie.
It is a pleasant task at any time to
take one's stand in a place described by a poet,
and, looking around on the landscape, to examine whether his description be as true as
it is poetical.
My eye descending from this hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays;
Thames, the most loved 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.
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold;
His genuine and less guilty wealth t'xplore,
Search not his bottom but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing Spring;
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers who their infants overlay:
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.
No unexpected inundations spoil
The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil:
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows;
First loves to do, then loves the good he does.
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind;
When he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying towers
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants;
So that to us no thing, no place is strange,
While his fair bosom is the world's exchange.
If all this were true in the time of Denham, how much more applicable is it now, when for one ship, or "flying tower", which then sailed upon his waters, we have a hundred, and when the new power of steam ploughs his waters with her thousand busy wheels, and increases fifty fold the wealth and the traffic which he has so well described.
Descending Cooper's Hill we continue our
course towards Egham, in whose church a monument is erected to the memory of the poet's
father.
The elder Sir John Denham was one
of the Barons of the Exchequer during the
reigns of James I.
and Charles I, and is buried
here with his two wives.
Among other monuments deserving of a visit is one to the memory
of John de Rutherwick, abbot of Chertsey,
which is, however, more remarkable for its antiquity than for any claims which its clay-cold
tenant ever possessed upon the attention of posterity.
Northward from this village, and on
the banks of the Thames, is Runnymead: - a
place renowned in the annals of England, -
where the Barons, "clad in complete steel",
assembled to confer with King John upon the
Great Charter of English freedom, by which,
as Hume says, "very important liberties and
privileges were either granted or secured to
every order of men in the kingdom; to the
clergy, to the barons, and to the people".
King
John lay with his small force in the little island
in the Thames, nearly opposite, and now called
Magna Charta Island, on which spot this famous charter was actually signed and sealed.
In the middle of the last century it was intended to erect a triumphal column upon Runnymead, in celebration of this event; and
Akenside, the author of "the Pleasures of the Imagination", wrote the following inscription
to be sculptured on its base: -
Thou who the verdant plain dost traverse here,
While Thames among his willows from thy view
Around contemplate well. This is the place
Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms
And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king
(Then rendered tame) did challenge and secure
The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on
Till thou hast blessed their memory, and paid
Those thanks which God appointed the reward
Of public virtue. And if chance thy home
Salute thee with a father's honoured name,
Go call thy sons; - instruct them what a debt
They owe their ancestors, and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down entire
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.
Egham races are annually held here in the
beginning of September, and are thought by
many to have originally given name to this famous meadow.
The name of Runny, or Running-mead, may or may not have been applied
to it as a race-course.
Horse-racing was practised to some extent in England prior to the
reign of King John, as we learn from Fitzstephen's account of London in the time of
Henry II, that Smithfield was a great market
for fine horses, and that races not unfrequently
took place in London.
Returning towards Egham we cross the
Bridge connecting it with the populous town
of Staines in Middlesex.
The name is generally allowed to be derived from the Saxon
staine or stone; but whether from the stone
which marks the jurisdiction of the Lord
Mayor of London upon the Thames, or from
the old Roman milliarium which is plausibly
conjectured to have stood near the same spot,
is still a matter of dispute.
Traces of a Roman
road passing through Staines have been discovered.
The London stone is still remaining
and is a remarkable piece of antiquity.
It
stands northward of the bridge, near the junction of the little river Colne, and bears on a
moulding round the upper part the inscription
"God preserve the city of London, - A.D. 1280".
Before the time of Richard I. the jurisdiction
of the magistracy of London over the Thames
was supposed to extend westward as far as the
river bore that name, but by a charter granted
in the eighth year of that monarch's reign, it
was attempted to define the limits with more
accuracy.
Although Staines was not mentioned either in this charter, or in that of King
John, it was generally considered as the extreme western limit of the Lord Mayor's jurisdiction.
Several attempts were made to extend it towards Oxford, but the corporation
met with so much opposition, that they at last
relinquished the claim, and were content to
allow custom to stand instead of law.
By these and successive charters, the Lord
Mayor is empowered to act as conservator of the
river, to remove all obstructions to the navigation, to prevent encroachments by wharfs or
buildings, to preserve the fishery, to seize unlawful nets, and to punish fishermen who
offend against any of the ordinances of the
city of London.
The Lord Mayor annually
holds eight courts of Conservancy within the
counties of Middlesex, Surrey, Essex, and
Kent, in which, assisted by a jury, he punishes
offenders.
The office of juror at these courts is
one greatly coveted by a certain description of
tradespeople, who love to feast at the public
expense, for they are hospitably regaled of the
best meats and wines by the Lord Mayor, and
some old stagers have been known to serve the
office four times a-year for forty years successively.
The river Colne, which here flows into the
Thames, having passed through Watford, Harefield, Uxbridge, and Colnbrook, though a river
of small pretensions to beauty, is sacred to all
the admirers of genius.
Upon its banks the
young Milton, ere his eyes were dimmed, ere
the total eclipse, which in his Samson Agonistes he so beautifully deplores, had shut him
out from all hope of day, wandered alone to
dream, perchance, of those sublime works
which have made him the wonder and the
boast of England.
After he left the university
he resided for five years with his father at
Horton, a little village about a mile from Coln
brook.
During this time he studied the Greek
and Roman writers with much assiduity,
snatching some sweet and stolen hours for the
cultivation of poetry.
One of his first compositions, after settling at Horton, was the fine
sonnet written "on his being arrived to the
age of twenty-three", in which the ambition,
the presage of future greatness, and the sorrow
that at that age he had as yet done nothing
worthy, are so feelingly and modestly expressed.
Here, also, on the banks of Colne, he
wrote "II Penseroso", and "L'Allegro", poems
which Dr. Johnson truly says, "every man
reads with pleasure".
And here also he wrote
"Lycidas", "The Masque of Comus", and the
"Arcades".
He used to steal from severer
studies at Horton to visit the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, about seven miles
further up the stream, to share the agreeable
conversation of that lady, and delight her with
some of the earliest blossoms of his poetic genius.
It was for an entertainment at her house
that he wrote the Arcades; the personages of
which were performed by some members of her
family, who appeared on the stage in pastoral
habits, representing shepherds, wood nymphs,
and genii of the groves.
The Countess sat in
a chair of state as the rural queen, and the
shepherds celebrated her beauty,
Sitting like a goddess bright
In the centre of her light.
The rest of the Masque was written by another hand, and, probably, is now lost.
Next
year, in 1634, Milton, who still resided at Horton, flattered by the praises bestowed upon his
fragment of Arcades, wrote the complete and
more beautiful Masque of Comus for an entertainment at Ludlow Castle; the personages
being represented by the children of the Earl
of Bridgewater.
Milton wrote it at the request of his friend, Henry Lawes, whom he
celebrates in one of his sonnets as the "first
who taught our English music how to span
words with just note and accent, and who
with smooth air could humour best our tongue".
Lawes was teacher of music in the family of
the Earl, and related to Milton an accident
which had befallen the Lady Alice, the Earl's
daughter, and requested him to write upon it.
The young lady passing Haywood Forest in
Herefordshire, with her brother, Lord Brackley, and Mr. Egerton, missed her way in its
depths and was for a while lost, and upon this
incident the mask is founded.
It does not appear that Milton left Horton to be present at
the representation; but if he did, his biographers have neglected to inform us of the circumstance.
He finally left this seclusion, being
weary of the country, in the year 1636 or
1637, and soon afterwards set out upon his
continental travels.
Not only the Colne but its tributary brooks
are sacred to the memory of Milton.
In the
little village of Chalfont St. Giles - washed by
the clear Misbourne that runs into the Colne,
near Uxbridge, the bard took refuge in the
year of the great plague of London.
There is
a tradition that here he composed a part of his
Paradise Lost; but, if we may believe Johnson,
that grand poem was completed long before he
left London, and anything that may have been
done at Chalfont was only some slight correction.
Elwood, the Quaker, who took the
house for him, relates that Milton showed him
there, for the first time, a complete copy of
the Paradise Lost.
Elwood having perused it,
observed,
"Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise lost: what hast thou to say upon
Paradise found?"
Two years afterwards Milton showed his friend his Paradise Regained.
"This,'' said he, "is owing to you, for you
put it into my head by the question you put
to me at Chalfont, which otherwise I had not
thought of".
Returning again to the Thames we find our
selves within sight of Windsor, and feel all
its old associations rising rapidly upon us.
But they are too many to be compressed
within the limits of this chapter.
They re
quire a whole day's musing; - a morning
walk, - a noon-tide meditation, and an evening's dalliance with the old bards, or a no
less pleasant gossip with the quaint annalists
of the days of yore.
This done, we shall return to Windsor.
Old Windsor, which is the first
place on the Thames that
claims our notice after passing Egham and Staines, is of
comparatively small importance.
The rise of New Windsor, two miles further up the stream, and more
immediately adjoining the castle, has thrown
it into the shade.
Ever since the days of
Edward III, who first made the castle a residence fit for the Kings of England, it has
been neglected and forsaken, and its very
name so appropriated by its more flourishing
rival, that Windsor, without the adjective,
is universally held to mean the new town and
not the old.
But Windsor, both new and old, must give
place in these rambles of ours to its magnificent castle, which, with its thousand recollections of the illustrious names of past ages,
claims all the thoughts and attention of the
curious traveller, as it rises proudly, as a monarch should, over one of the fairest prospects
that eyes ever gazed upon.
Making the stream our pathway, we pass
under its superb walls, and by the green
meadows at its feet, not forgetting as we
are rowed along, that the little village to
our right is Datchet, famous wherever Shakspeare is known as the scene where the
"Merry Wives" played their scurvy trick,
and inflicted the well-deserved punishment
upon the too fat, too amorous, too confiding, and too villanous Sir John Falstaff,
thrown "hissing hot" into the cool surge from
the buck-basket, where he was coiled up amid
the dirty linen, "like a piece of butcher's offal
in a barrow".
Then, stepping ashore at the
bridge that connects Windsor with Eton, we
ascend the hill upon which the castle is built,
and, taking a stroll upon the Terrace, indulge
our eyes with a long gaze upon the lovely
landscape that stretches out before us.
It is
a summer's day - the weather is fine - the air
clear - a cool west wind is blowing - the trees
and flowers are redolent of perfume - the
Thames flowing at our feet, shines in the sunlight like a ribbon of gold upon a cloth of
green velvet, and every steeple upon which the
eye rests, every knoll, every cluster of trees
suggests some remembrance to the mind.
Beneath is Eton,
With antique towers
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade.
Further on is Slough, the residence of the
Herschells, father and son, the greatest astronomers of modern times, and discoverers
of new worlds, as wonderful as our own.
Then there is the unpretending spire of Stoke
Pogis, in whose church-yard Gray lies buried,
and which is supposed to be the scene of that
beautiful Elegy, upon which his claims to our
admiration mainly rest - no weak foundation
for his fame though he had written nothing
else.
In the distance also may be seen Beaconsfield, once the residence of Edmund Waller and Edmund Burke, names dear to the
literature of England, and where both of them
are buried.
To the left, in the distance, is
Great Hampden, the birth and burial-place of
the illustrious patriot of that name, a memento
to the monarchs of England, placed as if purposely for ever within their sight, of the unconstitutional encroachments which they should
avoid, and the free, proud, independent, spirit
of their subjects, which it is not only their
duty but their interest to foster, and not despise.
The piece of land, on which it was
attempted to levy the illegal ship-money, is
still shown.
To the right of us lies Runnymead, still more renowned in the history of
British freedom; beyond it, Cooper's Hill, sacred to the memory of Denham, and around
it, Windsor Forest, of which Pope has so
sweetly sung, and where he passed his earliest
years.
And among all rise villas and noble
mansions, thickly spread- like stars on a frosty
night.
The view is universally admired, not only
for its associations, but for itself.
The beautiful diversity of hill and dale, of wood
and water, of meadow and grove, of town
and village, teeming with all the picturesque
land marks of civilization and with these only,
unobscured by the tall chimneys of gas-works,
and unspoiled in its pleasant ruralness by those
hugh square deformities, the manufactories,
with which civilization is compelled to sprinkle
its path, renders it a scene of loveliness, unsurpassed in England.
Turning reluctantly from the charms of nature to those of art, we gaze upon the timehonoured abode of a line of monarchs, and see,
perhaps, the standard of England, floating from
the round tower, to announce that the royal
lady who now wields the sceptre, is an inmate of its walls.
The castle was built originally by William the Conqueror, who procured the site from the Monks of Westminster,
to whom it was granted by the Saxon kings,
in exchange for some lands in Essex.
The
Norman monarch celebrated his Christmas in
his new fortress four years after the conquest
of England, and was much attached to the
spot on account of the fine hunting grounds,
which he laid out in the vicinity.
Henry I.
made many additions to the building, and from
a mere hunting lodge, converted it into a palace.
In the troublous time of King John,
that monarch was besieged in the castle by his
insurgent barons, and it was ceded to them by
treaty.
John, however, when he found himself strong enough, surprised the castle again,
and made it the rallying point of his scattered
forces.
During the long wars of Henry III.
and his barons, who were still more difficult
to manage than those of John, the castle was
taken and retaken several times.
His son Edward succeeded at last in gaining possession,
and he kept it, till he himself ascended the
throne, when he often resided at Windsor,
where his Queen gave birth to four children.
But until the reign of Edward III, the palace
remained a comparatively small and insignificant edifice.
This monarch, who was born in
it, commenced alterations and additions on a
very extensive scale, and entrusted the manage
ment of the works to William of Wykeham, a
famous architect and ecclesiastic of that day.
He established the Order of the Garter, and
built the magnificent hall of St. George as a
banquetting room for the Knights.
He also
erected St. George's chapel, the keep, and several additional towers, surrounding the whole
with a strong wall and rampart, encompassed
by a moat.
The means by which he obtained
workmen were peculiar to that day, and would
find no favour with the artisans of our own
time, few of whom are aware how these things
were managed by our distant progenitors.
Masons and bricklayers were impressed in every
part of the country, with carts, horses, and
all necessary implements for the work.
When
William of Wykeham, clerk of the works, was
in want of an additional hundred or so of men,
he informed the King, and his Majesty issued
his writs to the sheriffs of counties, command
ing them under heavy penalties to catch the
requisite number, and forward them to Windsor, to be duly delivered as per bill of lading,
like any other species of merchandise.
In the
year 1360, nearly four hundred workmen were
impressed in this manner, to be employed at
the King's wages, which were considerably less
than they could have obtained elsewhere.
Many of them left their work clandestinely, to
the great hindrance of William of Wykeham.
Complaint having been made to the King, a
royal proclamation was issued, forbidding all
persons to employ the fugitives under a penalty
of a forfeiture of their goods and chattels, and
committal of the workmen to prison as rebels
against the King's authority.
Many of these
conscripts having died of the plague in 1362,
new writs were issued to the sheriffs of six
counties, of which, three, York, Salop, and
Devon, were to provide sixty men each.
The
total number required was three hundred and
two, who were all to be hewers of stone.
Next year, the architect was in want of glaziers, and forthwith the press-gang captured
the necessary quantity.
Painters and decorators were in similar request, and continued to
be caught, like any other lawful prey, until
the castle was completed, somewhere about
the year 1374.
Edward IV, Henry VII, and
Henry VIII. made some alterations and additions to the castle, and Elizabeth raised the
fine north terrace, commanding that extensive
prospect over the Thames upon whose charms
we have already expatiated.
She also added the
part known by the name of Queen Elizabeth's
Gallery.
In the reign of Charles I. the castle,
garrisoned by the Parliamentary army, sustained
a siege from the royal forces, under the command of the king's nephew, Prince Rupert.
After the Restoration, every successive monarch,
until George III, carried into effect some addition or embellishment either in the exterior
or interior of this princely abode.
George III.
out of his privy purse, restored St. George's
Chapel, and the north front of the upper ward;
and George IV.
carried alterations into effect
by which the castle has become the magnificent structure that it now appears.
The designs
of Mr. Wyatt, afterwards known as Sir Jeffery Wyattville, the new William of Wykeham, were approved by the King, and adopted
by the legislature, which granted at different
times sums amounting to nearly £800,000 to
carry them into effect.
This slight sketch of the history of the mere
outer walls, must suffice;
there are other histories connected with this venerable pile which
claim the passing tribute of our attention.
And first of all, the royal captives who have
pined within it.
In the reign of Edward III.
John, King of France, and David II. King of
Scotland, were imprisoned within its walls;
but their captivity was not onerous: they were
allowed every indulgence and every luxury,
except the greatest of all, sweet liberty, being
permitted to hunt and hawk, and take what
other diversions might suit their humour.
In the reigns of Henry IV. and Henry V, a
more illustrious prisoner was in thraldom within
it for no less a period than eighteen years,
James I. of Scotland, taken captive in his
eleventh year, and confined till his twenty-ninth,
who was not only an enlightened king, but an
amiable man, and a poet of the first order.
Amid the bards whom Scotia holds to fame,
She boasts, nor vainly boasts, her James's name.
And less, sweet bard, a crown thy glory shows,
Than the fair laurels that adorn thy brows!
His history, in connexion with Windsor
Castle, is touching and romantic.
His old and
sorrow-stricken father, King Robert III. grieving for the loss of one son, the Duke of Rothsay,
whose sad fate is so finely told by Sir Walter Scott in his "Fair Maid of Perth", and
dreading that his youngest darling, and Only
surviving son, James, might share a similar fate,
thought it advisable to send him out of Scotland.
A governor being provided, the young prince
was sent to finish his education in France, but
the vessel in which the heir of Scotland was
embarked, had sailed no further than Flamborough Head, when it was attacked by an English
cruiser, and all on board were taken prisoners.
Some say that the capture was made when the
young prince and his suite landed to refresh
themselves at Flamborough, where they had
been driven by stress of weather.
However this
may be, Henry IV, although a truce subsisted
at the time between the nations, resolved to
detain the royal child as a hostage for the future
good behaviour of his troublesome neighbour.
So overjoyed was that grim warrior at his good
fortune, that he relaxed so far, as to give utterance to a pleasantry - "His father was sending
him to learn French", quoth he; "by my troth,
he might as well have sent him to me! I am
an excellent French scholar myself, and will see
to his instruction"; - and he kept his word.
The
young prince was provided with the best masters, and made rapid progress in every polite
accomplishment; but his loss broke his father's
heart.
It needed not that last calamity to embitter the days of poor King Robert: he never
held up his head again, but pined away, and
died about a year afterwards.
But the captive himself, with the exception
of the loss of liberty, had nothing to complain
of.
Every luxury was his, and every indulgence.
He became well versed in all the literature of the age,
and grew an excellent musician, a sweet poet, and expert in all the manly accomplishments that befitted a prince.
He
studied Chaucer, then recently deceased, and
made him his model, and produced poems,
little inferior to those of his master.
In the
"Quair", or book, written shortly before his
return to Scotland, he informs us in elegant
rhymes, how he passed his time in captivity, and how he fell in love with the beautiful
Lady Jane Beaufort, as she was walking with
her maid in the gardens of Windsor Castle.
And first of all, of his studies, and of his consolations in captivity.
He studied, he says,
sometimes "until his eyne began to smart for
studying", but, until he fell in love, books were
his great delight, and especially one, "Boetius on the consolations of Philosophy".
Whereas inward full oft I did bewail
My deadly life, full of pain and penance,
Saying oft thus, 'What have I done to fail
Of freedom in this world and of plaisance?'
The long dayis and the nightis eke
I would bewail my fortune in this wise,
For while against distress, comfort to seek,
My custom was on morning for to rise
Early as day, O happy exercise!
Me fell to mind of many divers thing
Of this and that, I cannot say wherefore,
But sleep, for craft, in earth might I no more,
So took a book to read upon a while.
In rhymes still smoother and more elegant, and in which we change nothing but the orthography to make them a little more intelligible to the general reader, he relates his state of mind, when the beauteous Lady Jane first shone upon his sight.
Bewailing in my chamber thus alone,
Despairing of all joy and remedie,
For, tired of my thought and woe-begone,
Then to the window gan I walk in hye [haste],
To see the world and folk that went forbye,
As for the time, though I of mirthis food
Might have no more, to look it did me good.
Now was there made, fast by the touris wall,
A garden fair, and in the corner set
An arbour green with wandis long and small
Railed about, and so with trees ysett
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,
That life was none ywalking there forbye
That might within scarce any wight espy.
So thick the boughis and the leavis
Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
And middest every arbour might be seen
The sharp green sweetest juniper,
Growing so fair with branches here and there,
That as it seemed to a life without,
The bowis spread the arbour all about.
And on the small green pleasant twistis sat
The little sweete nightingale and sang,
So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate
To love's own use, now soft, now loud among
That all the gardens and the wallis rang
Right of their song, and on the copill next
Of their sweet harmony - and lo! the text -
- "Worship all ye, that lovers be, this May,
For of your bliss the kalends are begun,
And sing with us, 'Away, winter, away!
Come, summer, come! the sweet season and sun!
Awake for shame, that have your heavenys won,
And amorously lift up your headis all,
Thank Love that list you to his mercy call.'"
When they this song had sung a little thraw,
They stopped awhile, and therewith unafraid,
As I beheld and cast mine eyes below
From bough to bough they hopped and they played
And freshly in their birdly guise arrayed
Their feathers new and fret them in the sun,
And thanked Love they had their matis won!
The royal poet, after pathetically lamenting that he was doomed to be a captive while the birds were free, continues:
And therewith cast I down my eyes again,
Whereas I saw, walking under the tower
Full secretly, new coming her to prayne
The fairest, and the freshest youngé flower
That ever I saw, methought, before that hour,
At which sudden abate, anon astart
The blood of all my body to my heart!
My wittis all
Were so o'ercome with pleasure and delight,
That suddenly my heart became her thrall
For ever of free will, for of menace
There was no semblance in her sweete face!
And in my head I drew right hastilie
And then eft soon I leaned it out again,
And saw her walk, that very womanlie,
With no wight more, but only women twaine,
Then 'gan I study in myself, and sayn,
"Ah, sweet! are ye a worldly creature,
Or heavenly thing in likeness of our nature?"
He then describes in eloquent, though partly obsolete, language, her golden hair and rich at tire, adorned with fretwork of "perlis white", with many a diamond, emerald and sapphire -
"And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue,
With plumis partly red and white and blue.
And above all -
... as well he wot
Beauty enough to make a world to doat!
This fair creature was the daughter of John
Earl of Somerset, and grand-daughter of John
of Gaunt; and although we have no record of
their courtship, there is every reason to believe
that she looked with a favourable eye upon the
handsome and accomplished prince, then doubly
a captive.
Their love was true, and the course
of it ran smoothly.
In the year 1428, negotiations were commenced by Murdoch, Regent of Scotland, for
the liberation of the King, and Henry V.
agreed with but little difficulty.
The sum of
£40,000 was stipulated to be paid by Scotland,
not as ransom - it was a disagreeable word - but
as compensation for the maintenance and education of the prince; and it was further agreed,
that he should marry some lady of the royal
blood of England, as a bond of peace and good
will between the two countries.
The heart of James must have leaped for joy
within him at the latter proposal.
He accepted it with eagerness, and named the Lady
Jane Beaufort as the object of his choice.
The
lady on her part was quite as willing, and their
nuptials were celebrated with great pomp, first
at Windsor, and afterwards at London, the
bride receiving for her portion the sum of
£10,000.
She was a most faithful and attached
wife, and during the many cares, anxieties, and
troubles that beset the path of her royal partner on his return into his own disturbed dominions, was always the affectionate friend, the
kind adviser, and chief comfort of her lord.
His sad fate is well known.
Her heroism and
devotion at that awful hour, when he was murdered in her arms, is less so.
When the assassins were clamouring at the entrance gate, a
young girl of the queen's attendants, the Lady
Katharine Douglas, put her slender arm through
the staple of the door to serve as a bolt, but
the frail impediment was snapped asunder like
a stick by the strong conspirators.
James,
unarmed and defenceless, was let down into a
vault underneath by his heroic wife, but was
discovered and slain, pierced by eight-and-twenty wounds.
Nor did the queen escape
altogether.
She was first stabbed by the disappointed assassins, before they discovered the
king in the vault, and afterwards received two
wounds in interposing her body between her
lord and the bloody knife of his foes.
Happily,
her wounds were not mortal.
She lived long
enough to do justice upon the murderers, several of whom were executed.
The aged Earl
of Athol, one of the chief conspirators, was
crowned with a coronet of red hot iron, with the
inscription, "this is the king of the traitors",
and after suffering the most horrible tortures
for three days, was beheaded, and his quarters
sent to the chief cities of the kingdom.
Windsor Castle is also celebrated as the place
of durance of another, but less illustrious poet,
the Earl of Surrey, of whom we have already
discoursed at Hampton Court.
What his offence was is not known, but it appears to have
been trifling, as well as his -punishment.
Some
of his biographers say, that it was for no
crime more heinous than that of eating flesh
in Lent.
It was here that he spent some of his
earlier years, roving through the green glades
of the forest with the young duke of Richmond, son of Henry VIII.
In a poem written during his imprisonment, the Earl recals[sic] to
mind all the pleasures of his youth in Windsor
with the dear friend then dead, and remembers
to regret,
The large green courts where we were wont to rove
With eyes cast up unto the Maiden's Tower,
The palm-play where despoiled for the game
With dazzled eyes, oft we by gleams of love
Have missed the ball, and got sight of our dame
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.
The secret groves, which oft we made
Of pleasant plaint and of our ladies' praise;
Recording oft what grace each one had found,
What hope of speed, what dread of long delays.
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green;
With reins availed, and swiftly-breathed horse,
With cry of hounds and merry blasts between,
When we did chase the hart of fearful force.
All these delights of his youth came forcibly
to his mind as he pined a prisoner, and alone,
in the scenes associated with so much joy;
but he strove at last, he says, to forget the
lesser sorrow of his captivity, by dwelling upon
the greater, the loss of his "noble fere", then
cold in the tomb.
At Windsor also at a later
period, he dangled in the train of his celebrated
"Geraldine", writing smooth rhymes in her
praise; complaining of coldness, for which he
did not care; feigning raptures which he never
felt; and making, if the truth must be told,
somewhat of a fool of himself, and of the little
girl too.
The story of his love, unlike that of
James Stuart for his beautiful Jane Beaufort,
has not the merit of truth and deep passion to
recommend it, however much it may have been
vaunted by other poets, who were content to
take tradition instead of history, as we have
already shown in a previous part of our peregrinations.
We have lingered so long in the pleasant
company of the poets, as to have left ourselves
but little time to dilate upon the curiosities of
the spot.
But in this respect we decline to
become the Cicerone of the reader.
To point
out all the objects that attract the eyes of a
visiter, would occupy a space which we should
be loth to bestow; and referring all who may
be interested in the fine works of art in the
Waterloo Chamber, or in the beautiful chapel
of St. George, to the guide books, which are
sold in Windsor, and which will give all the
information the most particular can require, we
will stroll into the mausoleum of kings, and
see the place where they sleep well, "after life's
fitful fever"; ramble into the parks and forest,
and then upwards again, in our prescribed
course, breasting the waters of the Thames.
The Collegiate chapel of St. George, in Windsor Castle, not
the edifice built by Edward
III. with the same name, but
a more splendid building erected on its site, by Sir Reginald Bray, the
architect of that beautiful pile at Westminster
Abbey called Henry VIIth's Chapel, is one of
the most beautiful structures of its kind in
the world.
It is a scene of much pomp upon
the installation of a Knight of the Garter; but
these are rare occasions, and a more solemn
interest dwells permanently within its walls.
Here are buried several of the Kings of England.
Amongst others ill-fated Henry VI; -
And fast beside him once-feared Edward sleeps,
Whom not th' extended Albion could contain
From old Belerium to the northern main;
The grave unites, where even the great find rest,
And blended lie th* oppressor and opprest.
York and Lancaster lie side by side; the two
chiefs, who with their long wars decimated the
sons of England, and deluged her fields with
blood, mingle their clay together.
In or under
the same chapel lie Henry VIII. and Queen
Jane Seymour.
Charles I. is also buried here;
"Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone".
The coffin was opened by order of George
IV.
during his Regency, when the body was
found in a remarkable state of preservation;
the dissevered head being almost as fresh as
on the day when it was first interred.
Lord
Byron wrote some bitter lines upon the
occasion: the most bitter, perhaps, that ever
flowed from his bitter pen.
Here also are
buried George III., George IV., William IV.,
the Dukes of York and Kent, and the Princess
Charlotte.
The monument of the latter in
Urswick's Chapel is a fine cenotaph in white
marble, which is universally admired for the
beauty of the design, and the excellence of
the execution.
It may be amusing after a sober, English
description of the Castle to hear how some
florid and enthusiastic Orientals have launched
out in its praise, with a profusion of imagery,
and an exaggeration, which approaches the sublime.
Three Persian Princes, Reeza Koolee
Meerza, Najaf Koolee Meerza, and Taymoor
Meerza, visited England in 1836, and in their
journal, printed for private circulation in 1839,
they related among many other extraordinary
sights, that they saw the Castle.
They thus
described it:
"This superior palace is situated in a garden, or park, fifty-two miles in circumference,
which is surrounded by a wall of iron bars, about
three yards and a half high.
The park has forty
gates, splendidly wrought, and through it run several fine streams like rose-water, and its trees are
most noble, producing a beautiful shade.
The
carriage roads are so finely paved, that a person might take his repose upon them.
Roses
of every kind, and flowers of every hue, are
in this park.
Its land is green, like emerald;
its prospect is pleasure to the eye.
Gazelles,
antelopes, and deers, are here in thousands.
Pheasants, partridges, woodcocks, and game of
every kind abound, all of which are enjoying
this delightful place.
Nightingales, goldfinches,
and their associates, keep with their sweet
voices watch in this garden.
It is naturally
carpeted with a beautiful green velvet.
My
pen tells me do not proceed; I am incapable of describing it: it is Paradise.
In
one part of this Eden, there is a hill, two
miles in circumference, on which the palace is
built; it is about two thousand yards in height,
and affords a most beautiful view of the park.
The mind cannot but be astonished at this
splendid edifice, whose description exceeds the
power of human writers.
Each of the kings
for two-hundred years past, has had a separate
palace in this castle, with distinct majestic splendour of sovereignty, as may be now seen just as
they were when the sovereigns occupied them.
And whatever unique jewels each sovereign obtained during his reign, are placed in his palace,
with his statue, either of marble, jasper, or porphyry, seated on a jewelled throne, so beautifully
made, that you might say, it is alive, and can
speak.
One statue of a former king cost more
than twelve thousand tomans.
All his ministers and officers of state during his reign
have also statues placed by him in the room,
each with the arms of the age, and appearing as
if they were alive.
In the royal rooms of the late
kings, all are seated on their thrones and chairs
of gold, embroidered with precious stones, which cost
millions of minted gold; each has his crown on
his head of a hundred mauns of solid pure gold,
and adorned with precious stones, so magnificent
as to take the senses away.
These crowns are
supported by chains of gold, and suspended over
the heads of the sovereigns".
And now Windsor Park invites us to a ramble under its leafy shades, where Herne the
hunter hung himself, and where his troubled
ghost, as Shakspeare sings, was long supposed
to haunt, and the fairies to hold their midnight
revels.
The little park on the north and east
sides of the castle is about four miles in circumference, and is famous for a row of beautiful trees, said by the popular voice to have
been planted by Queen Elizabeth, and still
called "Queen Elizabeth's Walk".
The great
park is on the south side of the town, and is
a fine enclosure plentifully stocked with deer,
and about fourteen miles in circumference.
Virginia water, a small stream which takes its
rise in the vicinity, flows through the park,
and has been formed into an artificial lake of
exceeding beauty about a mile in length,
bounded by a fine lawn and plantations, and
ornamented by a cascade.
On its margin is a
pretty temple erected under the superintendance of George IV, and an imitation of a classic
ruin, consisting of columns of Corinthian marble, mocking decay most admirably.
Virginia
Water abounds in fish, and after flowing
through the park, continues its course by
Thorpe and Chertsey, and falls into the
Thames near Weybridge.
But the principal
glory of the park is the mention made of it
in "The Merry Wives of Windsor".
There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter,
Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,
Doth all the winter time, at still midnight,
Walk round about an oak, with great ragged horns,
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle;
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner.
Here it was, as every reader will remember,
that those really virtuous, but seemingly false
dames, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, aided
by that "Welsh devil", and "fritterer of English" Sir Hugh Evans, Mrs. Quickly, Pistol,
and "sweet Anne Page", played their last and
crowning trick upon the cordial rascal Sir John
Falstaff, burning him with their tapers to discover whether he were chaste, and pinching
him black and blue to the measure of their
"scornful rhyme", until the fat knight was
fain to give utterance to his dolour in exclamations unworthy of his knighthood.
A great
controversy has recently arisen upon the existence or non-existence of the celebrated tree
under whose branches Shakspeare laid the scene
of this revelry.
A tree still exists which is
pointed out as the identical Heme's oak, sapless, leafless, barkless, and hastening to its fall,
but carefully protected by a fence, that no
rude vandal hand may damage or destroy,
or cause its old trunk to crumble to its parent earth before its time.
There are many
persons in Windsor who devoutly believe
this to be the tree of Shakspeare.
Others,
on the contrary, assert that Herne's oak was
accidentally cut down fifty or sixty years ago,
and that all this care is lavished upon a false
Dromio.
The staunchest supporter of the
claims of the existing tree is Mr. Jesse, the
author of "Gleanings in Natural History",
and those who do battle on the other side, are
' The Quarterly Review", and the editor of
"The Pictorial Shakspeare".
The two latter are of opinion, supported on
what, at first sight, seems sufficient authority,
that George III, when a young man, gave orders that several old, and, as they were represented to him, unsightly trees in the park,
should be cut down, and that the order was
immediately executed.
He found soon afterwards, to his great sorrow, that among those
trees, the remains of Herne's oak had been
destroyed.
Mr. Benjamin West, the President
of the Royal Academy, was often heard to say,
that the King and royal family were very
much annoyed at the accident, and he himself
procured a large piece of one of its knotty
branches, to preserve it as a relic.
Mr. Delamotte, his pupil, often saw this relic; but what
has become of it now is not stated.
It is also
said, upon the authority of Mr. Crofton Croker,
that the question was put to George III, in the year 1800, by Lady Ely, when the King replied,
that the tree had been really cut down as above
stated, and that he had been ever since sorry for
having inadvertently given such an order.
Samuel Ireland, in his "Picturesque Views
on the Thames", published in 1792, mentions
the tree as then standing, and gives a drawing
of it, a fac-simile of which is reproduced below.
It seems to be a copy of that made by
Mr. Ralph West, the son of the president.
Mrs. Ireland says, that at that time there was a talk
of an intention to cut down the tree, which he
sincerely hoped was not true, and that the little
dell, "the pit hard by Herne's oak", where
Anne Page and her troop of fairies couched
with obscured lights, had been partly filled up.
There is another tradition in Windsor, which
says that Herne's oak was not cut, but blown
down in a violent tempest.
Mr. Jesse says, that
George IV. often repeated the story about his
father having cut down the tree; but he always
added, "that tree was supposed to be Herne's
oak, but it was not".
From a careful examination of the evidence upon this subject,
which some few may consider unimportant,
but which the many who delight in poetry,
and who reverence everything connected with
the name of the great bard of England, will
consider as neither unimportant nor uninteresting, it appears that George III. gave orders to
cut down a tree which, he believed afterwards,
to have been Herne's oak.
Whether it were
Herne's oak remains a disputed point, and,
in all probability, will ever remain so.
We
should be glad to believe with Mr. Jesse, that
it was not - that the real tree still remains, and
is that which he has pointed out.
As the law
says that it is better that one guilty man should
escape, than that one innocent person should
suffer; so we say, that it is better we should
pay the tribute of our reverence and respect to
a false Herne's oak, than run the risk of neglecting what may after all be the true one.
We
would not rob the oak still standing, of one of
the many pilgrims who resort beneath it, to
gaze
Upon its boughs all mossed with age,
And high top bald with grey antiquity.
They may be mistaken in their oak, but the
homage which they pay to genius is as sincere,
as creditable, and as valuable, as if its identity
were established beyond dispute.
One other circumstance connected with this
controversy, deserves to be stated.
Many persons, and among others, the Editor of "The Pictorial Shakspeare", imagine Heme's oak to have
been "an oak with great ragged horns", and
as the tree which was cut down by order of
George III. had "great ragged horns", and the
tree pointed out by Mr. Jesse has not, they
are confirmed in their opinion, that the latter is
in error.
The difference of a comma in the
text of Shakspeare will remove this difficulty.
Was it Heme the hunter, with "great ragged
horns", who walked about the oak, as the disguise of Falstaff would lead us to believe? or
was it Herne the hunter, with a head like
ordinary mortals, who walked about an oak that
had branches "like great ragged horns?"
The
branching antlers which the wicked widows
prevailed upon Falstaff to wear, in imitation
of the supernatural hunter, inclines us to the
opinion, that the received reading of the passage is wrong, and that the "ragged horns"
were intended to describe Herne, and not his
oak.
Windsor Forest, which lies beyond the park,
is fifty-six miles in circuit, and abounds in
deer and game, having been enclosed originally
as a hunting ground by William the Conqueror.
It contains several pretty villages, and is watered
by a branch of the Loddon, and its tributary
brooks, and several other streams.
Binfield, within its bounds, was once very
generally supposed to have been the birth-place
of Pope, but Mr. Lysons stated, on the authority of Dr. Wilson, rector of the parish, that
the young poet was in his sixth year when he
first came to reside there with his parents, and
it has since been ascertained beyond doubt,
that he was born in London.
It was at Binfield, however, that he composed his "Windsor
Forest".
Upon one of the trees in a neighbouring enclosure, under which it is supposed
he was fond of musing, is cut into the bark the
inscription, "Here Pope sung".
East Hamstead, another village within the
same bounds, was the birth-place of Elijah
Fentor, the assistant of Pope in his translation
of Homer.
At Okingham, or Wokingham,
close by, Swift, Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot,
occasionally met; and at the Rose Inn there,
they jointly composed the famous ballad, generally attributed to Gay alone, upon the charms
of Molly Mog, the landlord's daughter.
So
lovely was she, said these wags, as "she smiled
on each guest like her liquor", that they swore
Were Virgil alive with his Phillis,
And writing another eclogue,
Both his Phillis and fair Amaryllis,
He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog.
This heroine died in 1766, having long outlived
the beauty which attracted so much mock
admiration.
Windsor Forest was the residence, for a
short time, of another poet, whose genius, long,
neglected, is now beginning to receive more
appreciation.
In the summer of 1815, as we
learn from the affectionate and affecting notes
to Mrs. Shelley's edition of her husband's works,
Shelley resided on Bishopsgate Heath, on the
borders of the forest, where he enjoyed several months of comparative health and happiness.
While here he, as usual, passed much
of his time in his favourite diversion of boating, and went with a few friends on the same
exploratory expedition as ourselves, to visit the
sources of the Thames, performing the distance
from Windsor to Cricklade in an open wherry.
On his return, he composed that fine thoughtful
poem, "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude",
spending his days under the oak shades of
Windsor Great Park, and copying from that
magnificent woodland, says Mrs. Shelley, the various descriptions of forest scenery in the poem.
How beautiful is one of them in particular:
The noon-day
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass
Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence
A narrow vale embosoms.
...
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o'er the poet's path, as led
By love or dream, or God, or mightier death,
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank
Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark
And dark the shades accumulate - the oak,
Extending its immense and knotty arms,
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall cedar overarching, frame
Most solemn domes within, and far below,
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,
The ash and the acacia floating hang,
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites
Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around
The grey trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes,
With gentle meanings and most innocent wiles
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,
These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs,
Uniting their close union: the woven leaves
Make net-work of the dark blue light of day
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns
Beneath these canopies extend their swells,
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms
Minuter yet as beautiful.
...
Hither the poet came.
But we have lingered perhaps too long in
this light of song - we must leave the glades so
beautifully pictured in this eloquent page, and
retracing our steps, turn again to the bosom of
old Thames, from which we have for a moment
strayed, and continue our course up the river.
We had almost forgotten that, besides Wind
sor on its left, it has another spot on its right,
dear to all British hearts - Eton.
This fine old
college, hoary with years, rises solemnly upon
the banks of the Thames, one of the fairest objects that adorn its course, and suggests innumerable thoughts of the great and good men
who were educated within its walls.
Sacred is Eton to the memory of poor King
Henry.
The good he did still lingers after
him; but, strange to say, the seminary he
founded for the poor is become a college for
the rich, the most aristocratic perhaps of all the
schools of England.
It was founded in the
year 1440, for the support of a provost, and
seven fellows, and the classical education of
seventy scholars, who, when properly qualified,
were to be annually elected to King's College
Cambridge, whither they were to be removed
by seniority as vacancies occurred.
They are
also eligible for scholarships at Merton College
Oxford, and other endowments.
Besides these,
there are generally three hundred boys, the sons
of rich men, who board at the masters' houses,
or within the bounds of the college, and pay
large sums for their education.
The Eton Montem, celebrated on Whit
Tuesday every third year, is a singular custom,
known so early as the time of Elizabeth, and
kept up, some say, for the benefit of the poor
scholars, if poor any of them can be called;
while others say with more truth, that it is kept
up merely for the frolic of the thing, and because it is old.
In the neighbourhood of Eton,
at the village of Salthill, on the Bath road, is
a little eminence, supposed by some to have
been originally a Saxon barrow, which is the
scene of this triennial festivity.
At nine in the
morning, the scholars begin to assemble, and
march three times round the play-yard of the
college; after each fifth-form boy, marches a
lower boy carrying a pole.
At ten they proceed ad montem, to the hill, in the best order
they can, which is generally in no order at
all.
The collection of "salt", however, begins
at an earlier hour.
The "salt-bearers" are but
two, but they have an almost unlimited number of "servitors"or "scouts", who from six
o'clock in the morning scour the country round
in search of contributions.
No person is permitted to pass without contributing something;
a refusal might be unpleasant, and most are
willing to purchase immunity for the rest of
the day by giving according to their means, for
which they receive a ticket.
The production
of this ensures them from further demands.
The salt-bearers sometimes levy their contributions in a very extended circuit, being allowed a horse and gig for the purpose.
If the Sovereign happen to be at Windsor,
the ceremony is usually honoured with her
presence, and by a contribution varying from
fifty to one hundred pounds.
The money
generally amounts to four or five hundred
pounds, and has sometimes been as much as
eight hundred or a thousand pounds.
When
all the spectators have paid their tribute, the
salt-bearers levy a contribution from every
boy in the college, of at least a shilling each,
which, as there are generally six hundred boys,
amounts always to thirty pounds, and some
times to treble that sum.
Besides the saltbearers and servitors, there is the captain of
the day, for whose supposed benefit the ceremony takes place, who must be a King's scholar, and the head boy of the school.
His dress
is always of the richest materials, and he is
attended by another boy, dressed in a marshal's
uniform, and carrying a baton.
There are a
lieutenant and an ensign, and scores of sergeants and corporals, who must all of them be
King's scholars, and of the sixth form.
All
these have an established uniform, but the saltbearers and servitors are allowed to dress as
they please, as Turks, Highlanders, Mohawks,
Chinese, or to wear any sort of fantastic or
nondescript costume.
The fifth-form boys are
dressed in military coats, cocked-hats, white
trousers, boots, and a sword.
The remainder
of the boys, called "lower boys", are dressed in
blue coats, white waistcoats and trousers, silk
stockings and pumps, and each carries a white
pole.
On the arrival of the procession at Salt
Hill, where hundreds of gay equipages, and
thousands of spectators on foot are waiting,
the college flag, inscribed with the motto of the
day "Pro more et monte"is waved three times
by the ensign, who stands upon the summit
of the hill for the purpose.
A grand dinner
is then given to the boys at the expense of
the captain, after which the scholars lounge
about and amuse themselves as they can till
about four o'clock, when there is another assemblage, or "absence" on the hill, and the
procession returns to Eton about five.
The
next day there is another serious drain upon
the pockets of the captain, who provides a
splendid dejeuner à la fourchette to the first two
hundred boys in the college hall.
It thus frequently happens that the captain is not a
gainer by the collection which has been made
for him, though nominally the money is said
to be reserved for his support when he proceeds to the University.
In Hone's "Year Book", is a quotation from
the "Windsor Guide Book", which contains a
pleasant apology for this popular mummery.
"Out upon the eternal hunting for causes and
reasons!"says the writer.
"I love the no-mean
ing Eton Montem.
I love to be asked for salt
by a pretty boy in silk stockings and satin
doublet, though the custom has been called
something between begging and robbing.
I
love the apologetical Mos pro lege, which defies
the police and the Mendicity[sic] Society.
I love
the absurdity of a captain taking precedence of
a marshal, bearing a gilt baton at an angle of
forty-five degrees from his right hip; and an
ensign flourishing a flag with the grace of a
tight-rope dancer; and sergeants paged by fair skinned Indians and beardless Turks; and corporals in sashes and gorgets,
guarded by innocent pole-men in blue jackets and white trousers.
I love the mixture of real and mock
dignity, the Provost, in his cassock, clearing
the way for the Duchess of Leinster to see the
ensign make his bow, or the head master
gravely dispensing 'leave of absence till nine'
to Counts of the Holy Roman Empire, and
Grand Seigniors.
I love the crush in the cloisters, and the mob on the mount.
I love the
clatter of carriages and plunging of horsemen.
I love the universal gaiety, from the peer who
smiles, and sighs that he is no longer an Eton
boy, to the country girl, who marvels that such
little gentlemen should have cocked hats and
real swords.
Give me a montem with all its
tomfoolery; - I had almost said, before a coronation.
It is a right English scene".
The origin of this curious ceremony is lost
in the lapse of time; various conjectures have
been formed about it, but whether it gave
name to the hill, or the hill to the ceremony,
is still undecided.
It was said to be an old
custom in the time of Elizabeth, but nothing
certain was known about it even then.
A
custom very similar still prevails in Prussia
and many parts of Germany, which possibly
may have had the same origin.
It is not uncommon there to meet bands of young men,
respectably dressed, and well educated, who
stop the carriages on the public road, and beg
for money.
They are seldom or ever refused,
except perhaps by strangers, who do not know
that these young men are apprentices, who
have served their time, and who are not allowed to establish themselves in trade, until they
have made the tour of their country, and visited all its principal towns.
The money thus
collected helps to set them up in a shop, and
many of them begin life, and prosper upon
no other funds than those which are thus acquired.
Proceeding up the Thames from Windsor
and Eton, towards Maidenhead, Marlow, and
Henley, we approach that part of the river which
is universally allowed to be the most lovely of all
its course.
From Cotteswold down to the sea
it presents no scenes equal in rural loveliness
to these.
Its banks, if not lofty, are high
enough to be imposing, and are altogether sylvan and beautiful, offering, it is true, no rocks,
no mountains, no torrents, to the gaze of the
traveller, but, instead, pellucid waters, verdurous hills and solemn woodlands, with here and
there glimpses of waving corn-fields and pasture lands dotted with cattle.
Here at all
seasons may be seen the Eton scholars, fishing,
or rowing, or bathing, as the weather invites,
and many perchance, like their predecessor the
old and now neglected poet, Phineas Fletcher,
learning to "weave the rhyme".
Fletcher, the
author of "The Purple Island", a poem upon
the anatomy of the human frame, and a remarkable specimen of talents misapplied, wrote several lyrical pieces upon the pleasures of angling.
He was bred at Eton, and thus, in his first
Piscatory Eclogue, describes the pleasures of
the school-boys there in the days of Elizabeth.
When the raw blossom of my youth was yet
In my first childhood's green enclosure bound,
Of Aquadune I learned to fold my net,
And spread the sail, and beat the river round,
And withy labyrinths in straits to set,
Or guide my boat where Thames and Isis' heir
By lowly Eton glides, and Windsor proudly fair.
There while our thin nets dangling in the wind,
Hung on our oar-tops, I did learn to sing,
Among my peers, apt words to fitly bind
In numerous verse; witness thou crystal spring
Where all the lads were pebbles wont to find,
And yon thick hazles that on Thames's brink
Did oft with dallying boughs, his silver waters drink.
Sailing leisurely upwards from Windsor and
Eton, in a pleasure boat, of which plenty are
to be had on hire, and tramping it sometimes
upon footways, at the water side, we pass
Monkey Island, and its fishing temple, erected
by the third Duke of Marlborough, and adorned with grotesque figures of the animal from
which the island takes its name, and arrive at
the little village of Bray, in Berkshire, famous
all over England for the accommodating vicar,
who once resided in it.
Some have imagined
that the celebrated vicar was an Irishman, and
incumbent of Bray, near Dublin; and others
have supposed that he lived in the time of
Charles II. Both these suppositions are erroneous, if we may rely, and there is no reason
why we should not, upon the statements of
excellent old Fuller, who informs us, in his
Worthies of England, that the vicar in question
was the incumbent of Bray upon the Thames,
and that he lived in the reigns of Henry VIII,
Edward VI, Mary, and Elizabeth.
He changed
his religion according to the ascendency of the
day: a Protestant to please one government, a
Catholic to please the next, and again Protestant to keep on good terms with the third;
arguing all the time, that he was consistent and
sincere to the one great fundamental maxim of
his life, which was upon no terms, if he could
help it, to part with his comfortable incumbency of Bray.
The name of this astute and
worldly-minded ecclesiastic, is said to have been
Symon Symonds, and there is a well-known
song upon his tergiversations.
On the right of the river are the waving
woods of Taplow, hanging in picturesque
beauty over the stream, and associated in our
remembrance with the name of Elizabeth, who
during the reign of her sister, passed some time
in a sort of captivity in this place.
There is a
large oak-tree in the park, which popular tradition, fond of attributing the origin of favourite
trees to favourite personages, maintains to have
been planted by that princess.
About the year 1760, a singular cave adjoin
ing the Thames was discovered at this place.
It was evidently not a natural hollow, but an
artificial excavation, but when, by whom, and
why it was formed, have never been explained.
It is ten feet wide, and nineteen feet high,
with an arched roof, and is situated on the declivity of a chalky hill.
The scene from the latter, northwards, towards Marlow, merits the abundant
admiration it has received.
Maidenhead is a clean, neat little town, now
rising into some importance, from the vicinity
of the railway station of the Great Western
Company.
Its name, according to Leland, was
formerly South Allington, and by some it has
been called South Ealington and Sudlington.
The reason of the change to Maidenhead, or
when the change took place, is not known.
The town was incorporated about the middle
of the fourteenth century, by Edward III, by
the name of the guild of ten brothers and sisters of Maidenhithe, from which the present
name of Maidenhead is derived.
The adjacent
common of Maidenhead Thicket, so called from
its having been at one time covered with wood,
was noted during the seventeenth, and at the
commencement of the eighteenth century, for
the numerous highway robberies committed on
it.
It was here that the notorious Claude
Duval sometimes distinguished himself, in
teaching English footpads to rob politely, and
where he himself occasionally, as Butler sings,
Made desperate attacks
Upon itinerant brigades
Of all professions, ranks, and trades,
On carriers' loads and pedlars' packs;
Making the undaunted waggoner obey,
And the fierce higgler contribution pay!
And quite as often levying his contributions upon a superior class - easing travellers upon horses or in carriages of their gold, by the argument of the pistol; and afterwards, when that was found sufficiently cogent, treating them with all imaginable courtesy and civility, such as befitted a man who piqued himself upon being as French in his manners as he was in his name.
Turning to the other side of the stream, just
beyond the cluster of green islands in the
Thames, we see the pleasant woods of Cliefden,
and the site of the once magnificent residence
of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, now
occupied by the mansion of Sir George Warrender.
The building, which was destroyed by
fire in the year 1795, will long be remembered by the lines of Pope, and by the fine
description of Evelyn, the lover of forest trees.
To those who take delight in the loveliness
of rural scenery, and where is he who does not?
we would recommend an excursion to Cliefden.
The view, whether it be of the river, seen from
the summit of the wood; or the wood, seen
from the bosom of the water, will well repay
the visit of the rambler.
The wood teems
with the melody of birds; and when we passed
by, on a fine summer's evening, we heard a
nightingale pouring forth her song with "fullthroated ease", and felt, in our inmost soul,
as we listened, the beauty of the poet's description: -
Far and near her throbbing song
Floated, rose, or sunk along,
Low or loud - serene, sedate -
Plaintive - peaceful - passionate -
Threaded all the darkened alleys,
Walled and roofed with scented leaves,
Echoed down the swarded valleys;
Clomb the feather'd mountain cleaves;
Till upon the waters
In its sad and sweet decay,
Died in silence more
That delicious roundelay.
The charms of the spot have been duly appreciated.
It is a favourite resort for pic-nic parties,
for whom it has one other attraction, besides those already mentioned - a spring of
water near the river side, which is celebrated
for miles around for its beautiful transparency
and refreshing coolness.
The story connected with the ancient building, and to which Pope alludes, in his Epistle
to Lord Bathurst, is of the time of Charles II.
and is one of the most disgraceful incidents of
a disgraceful reign.
The Duke of Buckingham
had debauched the Lady Shrewsbury, and was
challenged by her husband to mortal combat.
Charles II. heard of the intended meeting, and
commanded the Duke of Albemarle to prevent
it, by confining Buckingham to his house, or
by any other means which he might think it
convenient to adopt.
Albemarle, seeing the
King so resolved upon the matter, took no precautions at all, thinking that Charles would
manage it himself.
Thus, between them both,
nothing was done, and the parties met at Barn
Elms, each attended by two seconds.
According to the sanguinary practice of the age, the
seconds engaged as well as the principals.
The
injured Shrewsbury was attended by Sir John
Talbot, a gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and
by his relative, Lord Bernard Howard; while
the seducer was accompanied by two of his
dependants, Sir John Jenkins and one Captain
Holmes.
Lady Shrewsbury, the guilty cause
of all the mischief, stood close at hand in a
neighbouring thicket, disguised as a page, and
holding her paramour's horse to avoid suspicion.
The result of the encounter was, that Lord
Shrewsbury was run through the body, Sir
John Talbot severely wounded in both arms, and
Jenkins left dead on the field.
Buckingham
received some slight wounds, and taking Lady
Shrewsbury in her page's dress into his carriage,
rode post haste to Cliefden, where they passed
the night together, the Duke hastening to her
arms, as we are informed by Pope, in the very
shirt which was discoloured with the blood of
her lord.
Buckingham afterwards took her to
town with him, under the same roof with his
Duchess, who loudly protested against the insult, declaring, that it was not for her and his
mistress to live together.
"So I have been
thinking, Madam", replied Buckingham, "and
have therefore sent for your coach to convey
you to your father's".
Buckingham and the Countess of Shrewsbury continued to reside together for many
years, principally at Cliefden, until their extravagance in dissipating the fortune of the
young Earl, the son of the Countess, attracted
the attention of Parliament, and they were
forbidden to reside together under a penalty
of £10,000; and the control of the Shrewsbury property was taken from a woman, who
was both unfit and unworthy to be intrusted
with it.
And what was the end of it all to
one of them?
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung,
The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red -
Great Villiers lies! - Alas! 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.
No wit to flatter left of all his store,
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more:
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!
And what was the fate of the other?
History
and poetry have alike forgotten to say, thinking
her too insignificant for further mention.
But
it should not have been so.
If she died convinced of her errors and repentant, her story,
painful as the first part of it might have been,
would have been worth recording, for the lesson
of its end.
If she died as she lived, the record
would have been no less useful.
In the one
case, it would have been an example; in the
other, a warning.
At Cliefden House, at a later period, Thomson's Masque of Alfred was first performed before the Prince of Wales, and, for the first time in public, was played that noble strain of "Rule Britannia", since become a national anthem, that has often led our sailors to victory, and increased the renown it was written to celebrate.
Adjoining the estate of Cliefden is Hedsor Lodge, the seat of
Lord Boston, commanding picturesque views in Buckinghamshire and Berkshire.
Proceeding upwards to Cookham, we pass two considerable aits or islands, formed by the division of
the stream.
On the largest, comprising about
fifty-four acres, the late Sir George Young
erected a commodious villa in the year 1790,
which he called Formosa Place.
Cookham is
a small but pleasant village, and was formerly
a market town.
At a short distance beyond
it, on the opposite bank of the river, the little
rivulet, the Wick, which rises near, and gives
name to High Wycombe, mingles its waters
with the Thames.
Having passed this, we
arrive in sight of the town of Great Marlow,
in Buckinghamshire, with its neat suspension
bridge over the river.
The scenery hereabouts
is pleasing and rural, and the tiny waterfall of
the stream caused by the obstruction of Marlow
weir, increases the beauty of the view.
Shelley
resided in this town during the greater part
of the year 1817, as we learn from his accomplished and true-hearted editress, and the town
at that time being inhabited by a very poor
population, he left for awhile his lonely
reveries on the perfectibility of man, and
devoted some hours to the alleviation of the
actual poverty and misery that surrounded
him.
He had a severe attack of ophthalmia
in the winter, caught while visiting a distressed
family in their squalid cottage.
But when the
fit of poetry was upon him, he delighted to
glide along in his boat upon the Thames, among
the sedges and water lilies, under the beechen
groves of Bisham, that overhang the stream.
There he composed "The Revolt of Islam", and
part of "Rosalind and Helen", and ever as he
sailed his mind was full
Of love and wisdom, which would overflow
In converse wild, and sweet, and wonderful.
Bisham Abbey, on the opposite bank, stands
close to the water's edge, and was formerly occupied by, and is still the property of Lord
Bexley.
This abbey was one of those suppressed by Henry VIII, who retained it for a
time for his own residence.
One of the rooms
in it goes by the name of Queen Elizabeth's
Council Chamber, from the supposition that
she occasionally resided here after her accession.
The truth is, however, that in her time Bisham
Abbey was no longer royal property, having
been granted by Edward VI. to the Hoby
family.
It is curious to note, how fond the populace
are of connecting the name of some great personage with the spots they themselves inhabit.
Many of these traditions set probability at defiance, yet will they linger in the popular
mind, and no refutation can eradicate them.
Thus the people of Bisham believe to this day
that Queen Elizabeth resided among them, and
insist, notwithstanding the opinion of all the
world to the contrary, that she died no maid.
They point out in their church a small monument with the sculptured figures of two
children, which they assert was erected by that
princess, in memory of twins, of which she was
delivered in that village.
Of course they are
but the old women of both sexes who believe
this story; but it has been current for nearly
two centuries and a half.
Passing Temple lock and weir, we arrive at
another abbey, on the Buckingham shore, associated with another piece of slander, which,
however, has more truth in it than the slander
of Bisham.
Medmenham Abbey, in the middle of the last century, belonged to a noble
peer, a notorious Mohock of his day, who established here a mock monastery under the title
of the Abbey of the Monks of St. Francis, in
which he and his rakish companions celebrated
many impure orgies.
The motto of the fraternity was "Fay ce que voudras", or "let each
man do as he likes", which still exists, inscribed
over the entrance.
The abbey was then a
scene of unrestrained debauchery, of which the
anonymous author of Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea, strives to give his readers an
account in those volumes.
They are doubtless
exaggerated.
It is hard to imagine that men,
who, whatever were their vices, were not deficient in common sense, would have been scared
almost to death by so palpable a hoax as that
alleged to have been played off upon them by a
fellow member, who introduced a baboon among
them, which they all, says he, actually mistook
for the devil.
In the year 1791, according to Samuel Ireland, the abbey was occupied by a poor
family, who increased their scanty means by
showing the curious visiter the sole remaining
relic of these debauchees, an immense cradle, in
which it was customary to rock the full-grown
friars of the order, in some of the ceremonies of
their installation.
The abbey was founded in the reign of King
John, and was a cell to the Cistercian Monks
of Woburn.
At the time of the dissolution it
was of very small importance.
The return
made by Thomas Cromwell, and the commissioners appointed by Henry VIII, purported
that it had only two monks, who had servants
none, woods none, debts none; that the house
was wholly in ruins, and the value of the moveable goods only one pound three shillings and
eightpence, besides the bells, which might be
worth two pounds one shilling and eightpence.
On the opposite shore of Berks is the
village of Hurley, remarkable for its beautiful scenery, and the remains of its ancient
monastery, called Lady Place.
It was founded in the reign of William the Conqueror,
by Geoffry de Mandeville, and included
a cell for the Benedictine monks of Westminster Abbey.
At the dissolution, Lady
Place was granted to the family of Chamberlain, from whom it came into the possession of
the family of Lovelace.
Richard Lovelace
accompanied Sir Francis Drake on one of his
successful expeditions, when he gained as much
prize-money as enabled him to rebuild the present edifice.
The house is now, or was lately, unoccupied;
but when Samuel Ireland visited it in 1790 it
was in the possession of a Mr. Wilcox.
He describes the grand saloon as being decorated in a
singular style, and reputed to be the work of
Salvator Rosa, and expressly executed for that
apartment.
It was said, but Ireland could not
vouch for the truth of it, that the receipts of
Salvator Rosa for the work were in the hands
of the proprietor.
This house is remarkable
for having been, when in the possession of
Lord Lovelace, in 1688, the place where secret
meetings of the nobility were held to devise
measures to call in the Prince of Orange.
Their meetings were held in the vault, and
Mr. Wilcox caused the following inscription
to be placed at the end.
"Dirt and ashes!
Mortality and vicissitude to all.
Be it remembered, the monastery of Lady Place
(of which this vault was the burial cavern,)
was founded at the time of the great Norman Revolution,
by which the whole state of England was changed.
Hi motus animorum, atque hæc certamina tanta,
Pulveris exiqui jactu compressa quiescunt.
Be it also remembered, that in this place,
six hundred years afterwards,
the revolution of 1688 was begun.
This house was then in the possession of Lord Lovelace,
by whom private meetings of the nobility were assembled in this vault,
and several consultations
for calling in the Prince of Orange
were likewise held in this recess,
on which account this vault was visited by that powerful prince
after he had ascended the throne.
It was visited by General Paoli in 1780,
and by King George III. and his Queen,
on the 14th of November 1785".
Passing Hambleton[sic] lock and weirs, we arrive
at the pleasant village of the same name, only
remarkable for the very handsome monument
contained in the church to the memory of Sir
Cope D'Oyley.
The monument is of alabaster,
and consists of twelve figures as large as life,
executed in a superior style.
The inscription
bears, that it is to the memory of Sir Cope
D'Oyley, Martha his wife, and their five sons.
Sir Cope died in 1633.
Under the figure of
the knight is an epitaph in rhyme, and under
that of the lady is another, both of which are
epigrammatic, singular, and eccentric enough
to deserve repetition.
The knight's is as follows -
Ask not of me who's buried here -
Goe ask the Commons - ask the shiere.
Goe ask the Church, they'll tell thee who
As well as blubbered eyes can doe.
Goe ask the Herauld, ask the poore,
Thine ears shall hear enough to ask no more.
Then, if thine eyes bedew this sacred urne,
Each drop a tear will turn
T'adorn his tombe, or if thou canst not vent,
Thou bringst more marble to his monument!
Here was a paragon of excellence!
The wife also had her good qualities as abundantly as
her lord.
Thus saith the epitaph, in choice doggrel: -
Would'st thou, reader, draw to life
The perfect copy of a wife,
Read on, and then redeem from shame
That lost, that honorable name:
This dust was once in spirit a Jael,
Rebecca in grace, in heart an Abigail,
In works a Dorcas, to the church a Hanna,
And to her spouse a Susanna,
Prudently simple - providently wary,
To the world a Martha, and to heaven a Mary.
At a short distance beyond this village, is
the elegant seat of Mr. Freeman, called Fawley
Court.
It is a square edifice, built by Inigo
Jones, and stands in the centre of an extensive
lawn, from which there are delightful views
over the rural valley of the Thames.
During the unhappy civil wars under Charles I,
Fawley Court experienced some rough usage
at the hands of a detachment of the royal army
that were billeted upon it.
The dragoons, in
all probability suspecting the master to be a
Parliamentarian, made litters for their horses
out of sheaves of ripe wheat, destroyed his
library, and lit their pipes with the title deeds
of his estates, court-rolls, and other valuable
documents.
We are now in sight of Henley, on the
borders of Oxfordshire, called Henley-on-Thames, to distinguish it from other towns of
the same name.
The elegant stone bridge was
built in the year 1787, from a design of Mr.
Hayward, who, however, did not live to see
the commencement of the structure he had
planned.
It cost about ten thousand pounds.
It consists of five elliptical arches, ornamented
with a balustrade of stone work.
The key
stone of the centre arch is sculptured with a
head of Isis on one side, and with a head of
Thames on the other, both from the chisel of
the accomplished Mrs. Damer.
Henley is a town of considerable antiquity,
of which, however, it bears not the slightest
trace, having a jaunty and modern air, like a
thing of yesterday.
It was upon the accommodation of one of its inns, but whether the Bell or the Red Lion, it is now difficult to determine, that the poet Shenstone wrote those oft-quoted lines, which are a sad libel upon English hospitality -
Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.
There are other stanzas less known, but they
are all in the same strain; if Shenstone meant
and felt them, he was a very unfortunate man,
and knew not what it was to have a friend.
But he did not mean them.
Half of the smart
things that are written in disparagement of
human nature, are written by people who do
not mean them; and no doubt Shenstone would
have felt himself insulted, if anybody had
asked whether he did not give his brother
poet, the author of the "Seasons", when he
invited him to the Leasowes, a more cordial
welcome, than the mercenary greeting of an
inn.
It is all very well, as Shenstone says, to
"fly from falsehood's specious grin"; but what
necessity is there to fly from plate, and what
connexion is there between plate and falsehood?
unless perhaps in plated copper.
Shenstone
was in an ill-humour when he wrote; and his
praise of the inn of Henley must be taken for
no more than it is worth.
We are of the other
opinion, and detest the civility and scorn it,
that is only to be purchased by half-a-crown to the waiter.
Near Henley commences or ends the range
of hills reaching from this place through the
southern parts of Buckinghamshire, to Tring in
Hertfordshire, and known by the name of the
Chiltern Hills.
The Stewardship of these
Hundreds, as they are called, is a well-known
legal fiction, by which a member of Parliament
is enabled to vacate his seat.
By the law of
England, no man can resign honours, neither
can a member resign his seat; and also by the
law of England, any member accepting office
under the Crown, loses by that act his seat; so
that when a member from ill health or any
other cause, wishes to resign, he accepts this
nominal office, and its nominal salary, and his
object is accomplished.
At a short distance from Henley, on the
other side of the Thames, is Park Place,
known as having been the occasional residence of
George IV. before he was called to the Regency.
At the close of the last century, it was the
property of General Conway, governor of the
island of Jersey, who made many improvements
in it.
The mansion stands on a commanding
eminence, and is surrounded by a fine park, well
stocked with deer.
But the chief attractions
of the spot are a modern antique, and an ancient antique, if we may use the terms with
propriety, which ornament different parts of the
ground.
The modern antique is approached
by a subterraneous passage, leading to a valley
bordered with "sad cypress trees", where there
is a very pleasing imitation of the ruins of a
Roman amphitheatre covered with ivy.
The
ancient antique is a Druidical temple, found in
the Island of Jersey while General Conway
was governor, and presented to him by the
inhabitants as a mark of their respect and esteem.
The stones which compose the temple
are forty -five in number, and were all so carefully marked when taken down, as to make it
a matter of no difficulty to rebuild them precisely in their original form.
The circumference Of the temple is about sixty-six feet, and
its height seven.
It was discovered on the hill
of St. Helier, in Jersey, on the 12th of August,
1785, and in the inclosure were found at the
same time two medals, one of the Emperor
Claudius, and the other of a date which it was
impossible to decipher.
Having passed the small village of Wargrave,
on the Berkshire side, we arrive at the place
where the "Loddon slow "empties itself into
the Thames.
This stream rises near Sherborne,
in Hampshire, and passes Strathfieldsaye, the
seat of the Duke of Wellington, then along the
borders of Windsor Forest, into the Thames.
In Pope's "Windsor Forest", he introduces
the Episode of Lodona; or the Nymph of the
Loddon, pursued by the God Pan.
Thy offspring Thames, (the fair Lodona named,)
She scorn'd the praise of Beauty and the care,
A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair,
A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanced as eager of the chase, the maid
Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd,
Pan saw and loved, and burning with desire,
Pursued her flight; her flight increased his fire.
...
Now fainting, sinking, pale the nymph appears!
Now close behind, his sounding step she hears,
And now his shadow reached her as she run,
His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun,
And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injured maid;
Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain -
"Ah, Cynthia! ahl though banish'd from thy train,
Let me, oh let me, to the shades repair,
My native shades, there weep, and murmur there".
She said, and melting as in tears she lay,
In a soft silver stream dissolved away;
The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs and for ever weeps,
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the forest where she ranged before.
The classical reader need hardly be reminded
of the more beautiful story of Alpheus and
Arethusa, one of the sweetest that ever had
hate for its foundation, from which the above
is imitated.
The story has always been a favourite one with the poets; but there is an
incongruity about it, as connected with the
Thames and Windsor Forest, which renders
Pope's adaptation of it unpleasing, although
it has many fine lines to recommend it.
With the groves of Shiplake on one side of
us, and Sunning Hill and the green heights
around on the other, we pass a pleasant ait in
the river, and disembark at Sunning Bridge.
This village is agreeably situated on a rising
ground, and is of considerable antiquity.
It
was formerly the see of a bishop, whose diocese
included the counties of Berks and Wilts.
The see was afterwards removed to Sherbourn,
and thence to Salisbury, whose bishop is now
Lord of the Manor of Sunning.
The church
contains some ancient monuments, but they are
not remarkable.
There is a pretty epitaph on
an infant of the family of Rich, who have a
seat here,
The father's air, the mother's look,
The sportive smile and pretty joke,
The rosy lips, sweet babbling grace,
The beauties of the mind and face,
And all the charms of infant souls,
This tomb within its bosom holds.
A short but pleasant walk by the river side
conducts us to the ancient town of Reading,
the most considerable in the county of Berks,
standing upon the Thames and Kennett.
Reading town and Castle were important places
before the Norman Conquest, and in the wars
of the Danes and Saxons several times suffered severely.
A small nunnery founded
here in the year 980 by Elfrida, mother-in-law
of King Edward the Martyr, in expiation of
the murder of her step-son, having been suppressed by King Henry I, that monarch in 1120
or the following year, built a magnificent abbey, for two hundred Benedictine monks, and
dedicated it to "the honour of God, our Lady,
and St. John the Evangelist".
In this abbey,
part of the body of the King was interred eleven
years afterwards.
He died at Rouen from a
surfeit of lampreys.
His bowels were buried
in Rouen, and the corpse was then conveyed in
a bullock's hide to Reading, where it was interred with great magnificence.
The reason
of this wrapper, says Stowe, was that the effluvia' from it was so strong, that some persons
died of it, and he especially cites a physician
employed in preparing the body for the last
ceremony.
His daughter, the Empress Matilda, mother of King Henry II, and his second Queen, Adeliza, were also buried in this
abbey.
The abbots of this opulent foundation carried their heads very high in the world, were
mitred, sat among the bishops in Parliament,
and exercised very extensive jurisdiction.
The
last abbot, Hugh Faringdon, met a very common fate with abbots of King Henry the
VIIIth's time.
He was hanged, drawn, and
quartered at Reading, with two of his monks,
for refusing to surrender.
He should have
known his probable fate, and learned prudence;
for some score of abbots before his turn came,
had suffered in the same manner, and for the
same reasons.
The abbot of St. Alban's was
wiser, and surrendered quietly a few weeks
after the execution of his unhappy brother.
The abbey, when Camden wrote, was set
apart for the occasional residence of the King;
but he did not often visit it.
At the dissolution its revenues were valued at the sum of
one thousand nine hundred and thirty-eight
pound four shillings and threepence.
Some remains of it are still visible, including part of
our Lady's Chapel, and the refectory.
The
latter was eighty feet long, and forty broad.
Great part of the walls, which were eight feet
in thickness, were removed by General Conway
about the year 1787, to form the bridge near
Park Place, on the road between Henley and
Wargrave.
Of Reading Castle, which Leland conjectures to have stood at the west end of Castle
Street, no remains are now discoverable.
In the reign of King Henry II, in 1162,
there was a grand ordeal combat at Reading,
between Robert de Montfort, and the Earl
of Essex.
The ground of quarrel was, that
De Montfort had accused Essex of having traitorously suffered the Royal Standard of England to fall from his hands, in a skirmish with
the Welsh, at Coleshill, five years previously.
Essex denied the imputation, and De Montfort
offered to prove its truth by single combat,
and the challenge was accepted.
The King
declared his intention of being present, and the
lists were prepared at Reading.
Upwards of
fifty thousand persons assembled on the day
appointed.
Essex fought stoutly; but, losing
his temper, he gave an advantage to his opponent, which soon decided the struggle.
He was
unhorsed, and so severely wounded that he lay
in the arena to all appearance dead.
The fashion
was that the victor should cut off the head of
the vanquished, which De Montfort was about
to do, when, on the solicitations of the relatives,
the King interposed, and allowed them to carry
away the body for interment in the Abbey of Reading.
On their arrival at that place, they
found that Essex was not dead, but only stunned, and under the care of the hospitable
monks - like all their brethren of that age, well
skilled in medicine and surgery - he was soon restored to consciousness, and ultimately to health.
But his wounded mind was not so easily heal
ed.
He was disgraced in the world's eye, he
was vanquished, and therefore a traitor, in the
public opinion.
He resolved not to return to
a world which would look down upon him;
and taking the vows of the brotherhood, he
immured himself for the remainder of his life
within the walls of the abbey.
In the year 1218, a council was held here at
which Pandulph, the Pope's legate presided,
with the view of mediating between King John
and his barons.
The town has also been frequently the seat of councils and parliaments,
especially in the fifteenth century, when no
less than four parliaments were held between
the years 1439 and 1467.
In the first year of
Charles I, on account of the plague that raged
in London, and which carried away at least
thirty-five thousand people, the courts of law
were removed to Reading, the Lord Chancellor, and the judges of the King's Bench,
Exchequer, and Common Pleas, sitting in the
Town Hall, and in the Abbey.
But the greatest event in the history of
Reading is the siege it underwent by the Parliamentary army, under the command of the
Earl of Essex, in 1643.
The besieging army
consisted of sixteen thousand foot, and three
thousand horse; and the defenders of the town
under the Royalist governor, Sir Arthur Aston, consisted of but three thousand foot, and
three hundred horsemen.
Sir Arthur was seriously wounded at the commencement of the
siege, when the command devolved upon Colonel Richard Fielding.
When Charles I. heard
of the critical situation of the town, he sent
Commissary Wilmot with a detachment of horse
to its relief.
He managed to throw in an auxiliary party of five hundred men, with a considerable supply of powder; but Colonel Fielding,
aware of the hopelessness of the struggle,
demanded a truce, with the design of effecting
a capitulation.
In the mean time the King
advanced from Oxford, to relieve the place.
The Parliamentary army were vigorous in
their attacks, and were well supplied with provisions by the zealous Londoners, on their part
fully aware of the importance of reducing this
stronghold of the King, the nearest to the Metropolis.
A detachment under General Ruthven,
Earl of Bath, sent forward by command of the
King, to attack the Parliamentary army, with
the hope that the effort would be seconded by
the garrison of Reading, was driven back at
the bridge, and the next day the town capitulated, Colonel Fielding having stipulated that
the garrison should be allowed to march out
with all the honours of war.
He agreed at the
same time to deliver up all deserters.
"This
last article", says Hume, "was thought so ignominious, and so prejudicial to the King's interests,
that the governor was tried by a council of war, and sentenced to death for consent
ing to it".
This sentence was, however, remitted afterwards by the King.
The town suffered great damage during the siege; the fine
tower of St. Giles's Church, in particular, was
pierced by cannon ball, and rendered so insecure, that it was necessary to repair it lest it
should fall upon the heads of the passengers.
In the year 1688, a popular panic began at
Reading, which spread over a considerable part
of the kingdom.
The cry was, that the Irish
disbanded soldiers of King James's army were
ravaging and burning wherever they came.
The roads at that time being none of the best,
and there being few newspapers to carry intelligence into the towns and villages, each town
imagined that its neighbour was in flames, and
turned out its inhabitants to repel the mysterious and terrible marauders, of whom everybody
had heard, but whom no one ever saw.
This
alarm was called the Irish panic.
Reading, which now manufactures ribbons
and pins, was formerly more celebrated for its
clothing manufactures.
In the fifteenth century, there were, it was calculated, one hundred
and forty clothiers in the town.
In the reign
of Edward I, one Thomas Cole was popularly
known as "the rich clothier of Reading".
The
celebrated Archbishop Laud, who was born in
this town on the 7th of October, 1573, was the
son of William Laud, a respectable clothier.
This trade declined at the commencement of
the eighteenth century.
Among other well-known persons who were
born at Reading, may be mentioned the Lord
Chief Justice Holt; and in our own day, Thomas Noon Talfourd, the author of "Ion", who,
though a poet, may also become a Lord Chief
Justice, of whom Reading is justly proud, and
who is at present member for the borough.
The town is divided into two parts by the
river Kennett, which is navigable westwards to
Newbury.
By means of the Kennett and Avon
canal, a water communication is made between
the Thames and the Severn, from which this
town receives considerable benefit.
The prospect from the Forbury, an eminence
at the north-east side of the town, is very extensive, over the beautiful county of Oxford,
with its groves and parks, and pleasant waters,
and its country houses rising in rich profusion from every knoll.
On the south-west of
the town, is another eminence, which the geologist will do well to visit.
It is about four hundred yards from the river Kennett, and is called
Cat's-grove hill.
A stratum of oyster-shells
runs through the hill.
When the oysters are
taken out, the valves are closed as in the natural state, and on being opened, the animal is
found reduced to a powder.
In the stratum
of sand, which runs above this, the bones and
teeth of large fish have been frequently found.
There is yet one more incident connected
with Reading, on which the future tourist will
delight to dwell.
It was here that the poet
Coleridge was stationed as a dragoon, under
the name of Comberback, and here in a common
tap-room, amid the hubbub and noise of the bacchanalian troopers, he composed one of his finest
poems.
This place also witnessed his emancipation from the army.
Nathaniel Ogle, the
son of the Dean of Winchester, and captain of
the troop, in which the soi-disant Comberback
served, going into the stables at Reading, observed written upon the white-washed wall,
under one of the saddles, the mournful exclamation,
Eheu! quam infortunii miserrimum est fuisse felicem!
Struck with the novelty of such scholarship
and such sorrow in a common soldier, the captain inquired who had written it, and was in
formed that it was Comberback.
The future
philosopher and poet was sent for; examined
in the spirit of sympathy and kindness as to
his real name and previous history, when all
the truth was elicited.
His friends were soon
apprised of his situation, the runaway from
Jesus College, Cambridge, was recognised, and
a post-chaise having been sent for him to the
Bear Inn, Coleridge was whirled away from
the scene of his adversity, amid the congratulations of the officers and soldiers.
The poem
which he composed in the tap-room at Reading, modestly entitled "Religious Musings",
is perhaps his finest composition, and far superior to "Christabel", "Genevieve", or the "Ancient Mariner", which seem to have pleased
the world from their very eccentricity, but
which do not abound in such noble thoughts
and philosophic aspirations as his "Musings".
Within a short distance of
Reading, and on the banks of
the Kennett, stand the ruins
of Donnington Castle, once
the abode of the father of
English poetry.
This alone
would be sufficient to induce us, enthusiastic
lovers of the divine science of Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton, to diverge from the straight
path of our course to visit it, had the river Kennett no other reminiscences on which the rambler might dwell with pleasure as he wandered
along its banks.
Leaving the Thames for a while, we will
thread the mazes of
the Kennett swift, for silver eels renowned,
as far as Newbury and Donnington, and then
back again to the suzerain river of our chief
peregrination.
The villages that lie between
Reading and Newbury, on either side of the
Kennett, offer little to stay the steps of the
traveller.
Passing by Calcot, Theale, Jack's
Booth, - the very fine seat of Mr. De Beauvoir,
- Beenham, and Midgham, we arrive within a
very short distance of the remains of the ancient town of Silchester.
This latter place,
now a farm-yard, is deserving the attention of
the philosopher and the antiquary, as having,
in the time of the Romans, been one of the
principal stations; as indeed were all the towns
preserving the name of Ceastre, Cester, or
Chester.
The foundation of the streets can
readily be traced running in parallel lines across
the area.
The walls of the city, parts of which
are still standing, are exceedingly strong even
now, although they must have stood for at
least one thousand four hundred years.
Modern brickmaking will bear no comparison with
the old.
The shells of houses, as they are
rightly called, which are built now, almost like
Aladdin's palace in the course of a night, appear to the casual observer of their slim and
flimsy proportions, as if they would scarcely
last fourteen hundred days.
Not so these;
they seem yet as if they could endure the wind
and weather for a thousand years to come.
The wall on the south side is the most perfect,
and is about twenty feet high, and appears
originally to have been about twenty-four feet
thick.
At the distance of nearly one hundred
and fifty yards from the north-east angle of
the wall, are the remains of an amphitheatre,
similar to those which are to be seen near Dorchester.
Its high banks are now covered with
trees, and it has two entrances.
The bank or
wall is about sixty feet thick at the bottom, but
gradually decreases towards the summit, where
its thickness is but twelve feet.
The area is
now a swamp.
One deep part is still pointed
out, supposed to have been the den where the
wild beasts were kept, before they were let out
into the arena, to tear one another to pieces for
the gratification of the gentle colonists - reviving
in the wastes and wildernesses of the new country to which they had emigrated, the civilized
and humanizing sports of polished Rome.
We have strayed a little out of our course,
but regain the Kennett by the by-roads up to
Aldermaston.
Near Aldermaston, prettily situated on a hill, there is a fine view of the
windings of the river, and the various branches
into which it divides itself.
Proceeding parallel with the line of the Kennett and Avon
Canal, but on the southern side of the river,
through Brimpton, and over the waste of
Crookham Heath, we arrive at Newbury,
known to all men from the traditionary stories
of its great clothier, "Jack", and its battles
during the civil wars of Charles I.
The river
Kennett crosses the town near the centre.
The principal streets are disposed nearly in the
form of the Roman Y, the angles branching
off from the market-place, and the foot of the
letter being formed by the village of Speenhamland, to which the town is united.
"Jack of Newbury", whose name was Winchcomb, flourished in the reign of Henry VIII,
and was the greatest clothier of his age and
nation.
He kept a hundred looms at work in
his house; - great things in those days, when
there was no steam to aid the shuttles, and
spare the strength of man, while it performed
a thousand times his labour.
His house is now
taken down, and several smaller tenements
stand upon its site.
He rebuilt the parish
church, and was, in many other respects, a
great benefactor to his native town.
On the
invasion of England by the Scots, under their
monarch, in the year 1513, and when all
England zealously contributed both men and
money to repel the foe, considered so fierce
and barbarous, Jack of Newbury not only gave
men and money, but, like a feudal lord, his
own services.
He equipped one hundred men
at his sole expense, and marched at their head
in the royal armies, being present at the decisive battle of Flodden Field, when the flowers
of Scottish chivalry "were a wede away", as
the melancholy song says, alluding to the loneliness of Scottish fire-sides after that event.
Two of the most sanguinary battles fought
during the civil wars, between Charles I. and
his Parliament, occurred at Newbury.
The
first was a few months after the siege of Reading, already alluded to, when the Earl of Essex,
the general of the Parliamentary army, marching from Gloucester towards London, found
Newbury occupied by the royal troops.
He
had wished to avoid an action, on account of
the superiority of the royal cavalry, commanded
by Prince Rupert; but now finding one inevitable, prepared for the attack.
The militia,
composed chiefly of Londoners, who served
under the Earl of Essex, distinguished them
selves greatly, and both sides fought with much
obstinacy, until night put an end to the engagement, leaving the victory undecided.
Next
morning the Earl of Essex proceeded on his
march to London, still harassed by the royal
troops in his rear, and was highly complimented
by the House of Commons for his courage and
conduct in the emergency.
Among the noble
men in the King's army who lost their lives in
this battle, were the Earls of Sunderland and
Carnarvon, and Lucius Cary Viscount Falkland.
The virtues, learning, and accomplishments of the latter are well known, and received
due appreciation both from his contemporaries
and from posterity.
A singular instance of the
many which might be adduced of the fulfilment of a presentiment of approaching death,
is told in the case of this nobleman.
Ever
since the outbreak of the civil war, his natural
vivacity had forsaken him.
He mourned for
the woes of his country; became reserved and
melancholy; and, unlike the other gallants and
cavaliers of the age, paid little or no attention
to the neatness or appropriateness of his attire.
For months before his death, his negligence
in this respect became the subject of remark
among his companions.
On the morning of
the fatal battle of Newbury, he was observed,
however, to adorn himself with scrupulous
neatness, and pay an attention to outward show,
which had not been noticed in him for a long
time.
On being asked the reason, he said he
did not wish that the enemy should find his
corpse in a slovenly or indecent situation.
"I
am weary", added he, "of the times, and I
foresee great miseries for my country; but I
believe I shall be out of it all ere night".
He
fell as he had predicted, covered with wounds.
He was only in the thirty-fourth year of
his age.
The second battle of Newbury was fought
in the following year.
The Parliament desirous of striking some decisive blow against the
King, elated by his recent successes in the west
of England, gave orders to their generals, the
Earls of Essex and Manchester, and Waller,
Cromwell, and Middleton, to join their forces
and attack the King.
Charles took up his post
at Newbury, where, on the 27th of October,
1644, he was vigorously attacked by the Earl
of Manchester.
The Parliamentary soldiers
very soon after their first onset, recovered several pieces of cannon which had been taken from
them in Cornwall, which they embraced and
hugged in their arms, and kissed with tears of
joy, so great was their enthusiasm.
Their next
onset was increased in impetuosity by this excited feeling, and they hewed down the royal
troops with great fury, and made much slaughter.
Night again intervening, brought a cessation
to the battle, and saved the honour of the
Royalists, who fell back upon Donnington
Castle, where they stationed the brave Colonel
Boyce with a large quantity of ammunition and
stores, and thence retreated to Wallingford and
Oxford.
The Parliamentary forces then attacked Colonel Boyce, and so shattered Donnington Castle with their artillery, that its
principal towers were thrown down, and the
place reduced to a ruin, which it has ever since
remained.
It was this castle that, two hundred and forty four years previously, was the chosen retirement of Geoffrey Chaucer; and, as such, its
ruins, though the work of civil warfare, and
not of time, are hallowed to the eyes and hearts
of all lovers of English literature.
For the
greater part of his life, his residences appear to
have been the Savoy Palace in the Strand,
some apartments near the Custom-House of
London, and Woodstock Park, of which we
shall have occasion to speak hereafter, but the
last two years were passed at Donnington.
He
seems to have chosen it for reasons of economy.
His constant friend, relative, and patron, John
of Gaunt, being dead, an unfriendly monarch
being upon the throne, and his pecuniary affairs being in a state of some embarrassment, he
withdrew from the more public life he had
been in the habit of leading, to this seclusion,
only leaving it occasionally when summoned
to London on the business of some of his many
lawsuits.
Henry IV, the son of his friend,
ascended the throne a few months after Chaucer
had hidden himself here, and this monarch was
not unmindful of him.
The pipe of wine and
the annuity which he had enjoyed as poet laureate, and lost during the dissensions of
those unhappy times, were renewed and confirmed by Henry very soon after his accession,
and he also granted him an additional annuity
of forty marks.
The poet did not live long
to enjoy them: he died on the 25th of October, 1400, the second year of his retirement
to Donnington - some say at that castle, but
others, with more probability, at London, whither he had been summoned on some affair of
business.
Chaucer's son, Thomas, who was Speaker of
the House of Commons during the reigns of
Henry IV. and V, resided occasionally at Donnington, his principal seat being at Ewelm in
Oxfordshire.
The daughter and heiress of this
gentleman married the famous William de la
Pole, Earl, and afterwards Duke of Suffolk -
he who was so cruelly murdered in the Straits
of Dover, by two partisans of the House of
York, in the reign of Henry VI. The chief
of this unfortunate family, and great-grandson
of Alice Chaucer, was Edmund de la Pole,
beheaded in the reign of Henry VIII. on a
charge of high treason against that monarch,
and against Henry VII.
He was confined for
seven years in the Tower before he was brought
to execution.
At his death, all the estates once
possessed by the Chaucer family reverted to
the Crown.
Along with the title of Suffolk,
most of them were shortly afterwards bestowed
upon the favourite of Henry VIII, the famous
Charles Brandon.
Camden, who visited Donnington Castle long
before the artillery of civil warfare had reduced
it to ruins, describes it in his time as a small
but neat castle, situate on the brow of a rising
hill, having an agreeable prospect, very light,
with windows on all sides.
Evelyn, the lover
of trees, visited it when in its ruins, drawn
thither to view a large tree in the park, said,
according to tradition, to have been planted by
Chaucer, and under which he composed several
of his poems.
Of this tree the philosopher has
left us a description in his well-known work.
The tradition, that Chaucer composed poems
under this tree, seems to be devoid of found
ation.
He was a very aged, a very busy, and
a very ailing man, when he first went to
Donnington, and the only poem that he wrote
during that period, was a short one entitled
"The good Counsaile of Chaucere", supposed to
have been written a few days before his death;
and some of his biographers say, during the
few calm hours he enjoyed in the interval of
his last agonies.
At such a time it is not
likely that the Bard went under a tree to compose.
It was at Woodstock, as we shall have
occasion to mention hereafter, that Chaucer
loved to meditate and compose under his own
trees.
Evelyn says, that besides this tree at
Donnington, which was called Chaucer's Oak,
there were two others planted by the poet,
called the King's Oak and the Queen's Oak.
Some small remains of the castle, covered
with ivy, friend and adorner of decay, still so
licit the attention of the wayfarer as he passes
this celebrated spot.
Adjoining, a new house
has been erected, called Donnington Castle
House, the seat of the present proprietor of the
grounds.
There is another mansion in the
neighbourhood, situated in a grove, called Donnington Grove, from which a pretty view may
be obtained of the old castle of Chaucer.
These
grounds are watered by the Lambourne, a
brook which runs into the Kennett.
We traced the stream no further, but returned to Reading by the way we came, and
so across the bridge over the Thames to Caversham.
All the country lying between this
and Oxford is celebrated in the annals of the
civil wars of Charles I.
At every step we
tread, we come upon some memento or reminiscence of those disastrous times.
Caversham,
opposite to Reading, was for some weeks the
abode of Charles I, when he was a prisoner
of the army, and just prior to his removal
to Hampton Court Palace, from whence, as is
so well known, he escaped to the Isle of Wight.
At Caversham, though a prisoner de facto, he
was treated with more respect and consideration
than he received as he came nearer to London.
All his friends were allowed access to him; his
correspondence with the Queen was not interrupted, and his children were permitted to pass
several days with him.
Cromwell, who was
then at Caversham, was present during the first
interview of Charles with his family, and confessed afterwards that he had never witnessed
so tender a scene.
Both friends and foes have
since agreed upon the private virtues of the
man, although opinions are as much undecided
as ever, as to the errors of the monarch.
It
was here that Charles endeavoured to tempt
Cromwell with the Order of the Garter, and
the revival in his favour of the earldom, held
by a more virtuous Cromwell in the reign of Henry VIII.
It was from Reading and Caversham that
the army, finding itself stronger than the Parliament, marched to London, to overawe that
body.
They stopped mid-way on Hounslow
Heath, where that celebrated scene occurred,
when the Speakers of the two houses, Manchester and Lenthall, attended by eight peers,
and about sixty commoners, with maces and
all the paraphernalia of their office, claimed the
protection of the army; a protection granted
with shouts of joy.
The army marched on to
chastise the Londoners, and a military despotism forthwith began to establish itself.
From Caversham, proceeding up the now
narrow stream, we arrive at Purley Hall, a
gloomy-looking mansion, once the residence of
Warren Hastings.
It is erroneously said, that
in this house John Home Tooke composed his
well-known philological work, "The Diversions of Purley".
Home Tooke never resided
here, but at another place called Purley, in
Surrey.
From hence upwards to Wallingford, the county of Berkshire on the left, and
Oxfordshire on the right, is pleasant and picturesque, abounding with villages and country
seats; but the great bend of the river which
separates it from the high road between Oxford and London, has the effect of rendering
it very tranquil and retired.
The principal
villages which we must pass are, Mapledurham, Pangbourn, Whitchurch, Goring, Streatly,
Moulsford, Little Stoke, and North Stoke.
In the year 1674, a melancholy loss of life
took place on the Thames between Goring and
Streatly, or as the latter was sometimes called,
Stately.
There is a rare tract describing it,
entitled "Sad and deplorable news from Oxfordsheir and Barksheir, being a true and lamentable relation of the drowning of about
sixty persons, men, women, and children, in
the lock, near Goring in Oxfordsheir, as they
were passing by water from Goring feast to
Stately in Barksheir.
Printed for R. Vaughan,
in the Little Old Bailey, 1674".
The accident
occurred, to use the words of the author, "by
the watermen's imprudently rowing too near
the shore of the lock, when they were by the
force of the water, drawn down the lock,
where their boat being presently overwhelmed,
they were all turned into the pool, except four
teen or fifteen, and unfortunately drowned.
And to show how vain all human aid is, when
destiny interposes, this happened in the view
of hundreds of people, then met at the feast
of Stately near this fatal lock, who found the
exercise of their pastime disturbed, and their
jollity dashed by this mournful disaster".
The
author concludes his account of the calamity by a solemn address to the reader, in
which he warns all people to believe that this
was one of the signs of the approach of the
Day of Judgment!
The press at this time
teemed with pamphlets of "Strange News",
"Wonderful News", of "Battles in the Air",
"Showers of Blood", "Showers of Toads",
"Hailstones weighing three pounds", and inundations, storms, and earthquakes, - all thought
to foretell the speedy end of the world.
About two miles northward of North Stoke
is Wallingford, a town of the ancient Britons,
and as ancient probably as London itself.
There is here a very handsome stone bridge,
of nineteen arches, over the Thames.
The
town is supposed by some antiquaries, to have
been the chief city of the Attrebattii, and
that called Calleva in the Itinerary of Antoninus.
It is also said to have been the royal
seat of Comius, a king of the AttrebattiI.
It
was formerly surrounded by a wall, and is said
to have possessed twelve or fourteen parish
churches, of which however only three remain.
Close to the river side stand the ruins of its
fine old castle, famous for the sieges it under
went in the civil wars between Stephen and
Matilda.
It was long held by the partisans of
the latter; and Stephen built a fort at Crowmarsh, on the Oxfordshire side of the river, to
keep it in awe.
It was here finally that the
compromise was made between the contending
parties, which put an end to the effusion of
blood, and by which Stephen was allowed to
retain the throne for his life, upon the under
standing that Henry, the son of Matilda, should
succeed him.
Richard, Earl of Cornwall, was crowned King
of the Romans in this town in the reign of
Henry III.
The castle and its estates were
bestowed by Edward II. upon his favourite,
Piers Gaveston, who enjoyed them for five
years, until he was brought to the scaffold,
when they reverted to the Crown.
They were
bestowed upon Hugh Despencer, the succeeding favourite, with the title of Earl of Cornwall, which, ever since the time of Richard,
King of the Romans, had been an appendage
to these estates.
He did not enjoy them long,
but died the same death as his predecessor, and
Wallingford Castle remained in the possession
of the Crown until the time of Henry VIII.
when, by means of Cardinal Wolsey, it was
granted to Christ Church College, Oxford.
The honour of Wallingford, separate from the
castle, remained in the Crown, and was bestowed
by James I. upon his queen, and afterwards
upon his son Prince Charles.
The town had
begun to decline long before this time, having
suffered so severely from a plague in the year
1348, that it was more than half depopulated.
What trade it had was removed, and never
returned to it.
In Leland's time it must have
offered a mournful spectacle.
There were persons then alive, who pointed out the places
where its fourteen parochial churches had formerly stood, and showed the remains of its
ancient burial grounds.
At that time three
only of the fourteen churches remained, the
same number existing at this day.
St. Peter's,
the most modern of these edifices, has a singular tower and spire, built at the sole expense
of Judge Blackstone, so well known for his
Commentaries on the Laws of England.
The
Judge is buried here, and there is a handsome
monument to his memory.
Bensington or Benson, is a small village in
Oxfordshire, lying to the north of Wallingford.
At a small distance from this place, for
merly stood the castle of Ewelm, the residence
of Chaucer occasionally, but the principal seat
of his son Thomas, the Speaker, and afterwards
of his heiress and her husband, and their de
scendants, the De la Poles.
The situation not
being healthy, the original place was suffered
to fall into decay, and no traces of it now
exist.
Passing by Shillingford, and under the bridge
of the same name,
we arrive at the junction of
the Thame and the Thames; or, as poets have
loved to call it, the junction of the Thame and
the Isis - a name by which the Thames at this
place is known by collegians.
This name, from
its Grecian and euphonious sound, has long
been the favourite of the classical denizens of
Oxford, and it is a very common error to suppose that their designation of the river is the
true one.
Stowe seems to be the first writer
who gave the authority of an eminent reputation to this mistake.
He says in his "Survey
of London", that the river is called Isis from
its source to Oxford, and that on its junction
with the Thame, it becomes Thame-isis or
Thames.
But Stowe, usually so accurate, was
quite at fault here; for in the very next sentence, he says that the Thames begins at
Winchcombe, above Oxford; thus leaving all
the distance between Winchcombe and the junction of the Thame, about seventeen miles,
without any name at all.
Camden is more
accurate, and proves from irrefragable testimony of old documents, that the river, forty
miles west of Oxford, was always called the
Thames, or the Tems, and never the Isis.
The
source of the river too is always called the
Thames' head, and never the Isis' head; so
that the question will not admit even of a
dispute about it.
Isis must therefore be considered only as the classical name of the
Thames, and not as another river.
Dorchester is seated upon the Thame, at a
short distance from its junction with the
Thames.
It was formerly a town of some importance, but is now an inconsiderable village.
Above the junction of the two rivers, Thame and Thames, the
latter narrows considerably, and
the scenery loses much of its
beauty.
Passing several elegant villas at Burcot Clifton, or as it is some
times called, Clifton and Long Wittenham,
we arrive at Sutton Courtney, where the
scenery becomes more varied, and from thence
onwards to Culham and Abingdon.
The river
makes a considerable bend here, and the water
being very shallow, a new cut has been formed
a short distance below Culham Bridge, leading
in a more direct line to Abingdon.
The latter is an ancient borough town, formerly of
great importance, and now a very considerable
place, as the county-town of Berkshire.
It
consists of several well-formed streets, diverging from a centre, in which stands the market-house and Town-hall, and contains two
churches, dedicated to St. Nicholas and St.
Helen.
Camden conjectures, so ancient is this
town, that synods were held in it in the year
742.
It was formerly called Shovesham; but
when its abbey was built, by Ciss, King of the
West Saxons, about the year 675, it acquired
the name of Abbendon, or the abbey town, from
whence its present designation.
From "The
old booke of Abbendon", it appears that the
place "was in ancient times a famous city,
goodly to behold, full of riches, encompassed
with very fruitful fields, green meadows, spacious pastures, and flocks of cattle abounding
with milk; that the King kept his court here,
and hither people resorted, while consultations
were depending about the greatest and most
weighty affairs of the kingdom".
By this
kingdom, we are only to understand Mercia,
of which it was one of the principal towns.
The abbey was destroyed by the Danes, but
was rebuilt by King Edgar; and it is said that
William the Conqueror resided in it for a short
time, and also that his son Henry received the
principal part of his education from its monks.
Old Geoffry of Monmouth, so well-known for
his fabulous history of England, was one of
the abbots of this foundation, and was buried
within its walls.
In the reign of Henry V,
Abingdon acquired additional prosperity by the
erection of the bridge over the Thames at
Culham, and of another over the small stream
of the Ouse at Burford, a circumstance which
was commemorated in a Latin distich, formerly
inscribed on the great window, in the church of
St. Helen's, but which is now removed.
The
following translation of part of a Latin poem,
on the subject of this bridge, is mentioned by
Elias Ashmole,
King Henry V, in the fifth of his reign,
At Burford and Culham did bridges build twain.
Between these two places, but from Abingdon most,
The King's highway now may be easily past.
In one thousand four hundred and ten more by six,
This so pious work did his Majesty fix;
Ye passengers now, who shall travel this way,
Be sure that you mind for the founder to pray.
From some other barbarous rhymes on the
same matter, it appears that the gratitude of
the people of all this neighbourhood to the
King was very great.
Culham was formerly a
cut-throat place, "which had caused many a
curse"; but the bridge improved its character, and "all the country was the better,
and no man the worse".
Few folk there were that could that way wende,
But they were awed or payed of their purse;
Or if it were a beggar had bread in his bagge
He schulde be right soon ybid to go aboute,
And of the poor penniless that hiereward would
A hood or a girdle, and let him go without.
Many moe mischieves there were, I say,
Culham hithe hath caused many a curse;
Yblessed be our keepers we have a better waye
Withouten any peny for cart or for horse.
Thus accorded the Kyng and the Covent,
And the commons of Abendoun as the Abbot wolde.
The first quotation fixes the year of the erection; and the following distich marks the day: -
Upon the day of St. Alban they began this game,
And John Hutchyns laid the first stone in the King's name.
The work was also considerably aided by the
liberality of Geoffry Barbour, a merchant of
Abingdon, who gave a thousand marks towards
it.
The latter was buried in the abbey, but
his monument was removed at the dissolution
to the church of St. Helen's; the abbey, with
most of its monuments, and among others that
of Geoffry of Monmouth, being demolished.
Its annual revenues, according to Dugdale,
amounted at the time to one thousand eight
hundred and seventy-six pounds.
There was a handsome cross in the Market
place of Abingdon, erected in the reign of
Henry VI.
It was destroyed by the fanatics
during the civil wars before the Commonwealth, when so many valuable relics of antiquity, because they were thought to be popish,
shared a similar fate - and Charing Cross
among the rest.
Abingdon was made a free
borough by Queen Mary I, to be governed by
a mayor, bailiffs, and aldermen, and ever since
that time has sent members to Parliament.
The church of St. Helen, the most prominent object in the town, when viewed from the
river, was erected towards the close of the
thirteenth century, but has been much altered
and enlarged at different periods.
The chief
trade of Abingdon is in malt and flour, and
there are also considerable manufactories of
sail-cloth.
A little stream, called the Ock, falls into the
Ouse, another small stream at a short distance
from Abingdon, and they both join the Thames
at the south of that town.
Northwards, on the other side of the river,
in Oxfordshire, is Nuneham Courtney, formerly the seat of the Earls of Harcourt, and
now of the Archbishop of York, the inheritor
of their name and property.
From the windows
of this mansion, there are beautiful views in
every direction; to the north, are the spires
of the classic city of Oxford, and to the south,
Abingdon; to the east, the fertile county of
Oxford; and to the west, the rich vale of the
White Horse, and the downs of Berkshire.
The mansion was built by the Earl of Harcourt, in 1761.
It is situated in a park of
about twelve hundred acres, extending along
the bank of the Thames, which park with the
gardens, was laid out under the superintend
ence of the celebrated Brown, - Capability
Brown, as he was nicknamed in his day.
In
the garden, over the centre of the arch, was
a tablet, perhaps existing still, with an inscription from the pen of Andrew Marvel.
The mansion is situated on the rise of a hill,
with its front towards the west.
The front is
of stone, joined by inflected corridors to the
projecting wings.
The back has a handsome
bow window in the centre, supported by Ionic
pillars.
The house contains a valuable collection of pictures, and some curious tapestry,
formerly in the possession of Horace Walpole.
The Earl of Harcourt, soon after his mansion was built, placed in the grounds a remarkable piece of antiquity, known by the name of
Carfax, which formerly stood in the centre of the
High Street of Oxford.
The name is supposed
by some to have been derived from Carnifex; but
there is no evidence to show that it was ever
a place of execution.
Others derive it from
Carrefour, from its having stood in a carrefour,
a place where four roads meet.
Its history is
briefly told in the inscription placed upon it
by the Earl of Harcourt.
"This building, called Carfax,
erected for a conduit at Oxford,
by Otho Nicholson in the year of our Lord 1610,
and taken down in the year 1787 to enlarge the High street,
was presented by the University
to George Earl of Harcourt, who caused it to be placed here".
Passing Sandford Lock and Weir, and the
village of Iffley with its antique church, and
Shotover Hill, from whence there is a most
charming view over the city of learning, and
the rich adjacent country, we arrive within
sight of Oxford.
Just beyond the green meadows, where the small stream of the Cherwell
falls into the Thames, or the Isis as we must
call it while within these precincts,
stands the ancient and beautiful city, so rich in reminiscences to every English scholar, or man of refinement of taste, whether a scholar or not, in the
common acceptation of the word.
The Thames
boasts not only its metropolis of trade, not
only its metropolis of legislation, not only its
seat of royalty, but its "city of the muses",
which is, perhaps, taken altogether, the most
beautiful of them all - and certainly, as far as
remembrances are concerned, inferior to none.
Who, as he sees the students in their academical costume loitering about the elegant
streets, or observes them practising their favourite diversion of rowing upon the water,
does not recall to his mind the great men
departed, who, once in the same dress, and in
the very same places, followed the same pursuits; the statesmen, the divines, the orators,
the judges, and the poets, who shed a lustre
on the land of their birth, and the University
which gave them education?
A mere list of
them, dry as a catalogue, would fill more space
than we can afford to all our reminiscences of
the fair city.
And the events of its history
are so well-known to almost every Englishman, that it seems needless to repeat them,
whether they relate to the times of King Alfred, of Roger Bacon, of Cardinal Wolsey, of
Cardinal Pole, or of Charles I, which may be
called the five great epochs of its existence,
or of our own.
The little we may venture
to say upon the subject can have no novelty
for most readers, and if we dilate upon the
glories of its architecture, we shall be equally
following in an old track, and saying what
has been said thousands of times before, by
every traveller who has visited Oxford, and
by every book which has attempted to describe it.
The celebrity of the site has had the
effect of exciting so much attention, that not
a corner of the city has been left unexplored,
or an incident unnoticed, which is at all remarkable in her ancient or modern annals.
London, so immense, and in many parts so
uninviting, has not been half so well explored as
Oxford, and many historical spots in the metropolis have thus been comparatively unnoticed,
a great advantage to the rambler, who goes
upon a journey of discovery, to find out all the
nooks remarkable as the scenes of interesting
events, or the abodes of celebrated men.
But
in Oxford, everywhere so elegant, everywhere
so accessible, and moreover of such limited extent compared to London, there is no such
advantage; so that we must be content to be
come merely a retailer of old stories, or a suggester of things which almost every person may
have once known, but which many may have
forgotten.
That Roger Bacon pursued his studies in
Oxford, and was persecuted as a magician; that
King Alfred founded one college, and Cardinal
Wolsey another, and that in the troublous times
that preceded the Commonwealth, Oxford was
for a short period the Royalist metropolis of
England, none need even be reminded.
The following slight sketch of the history
of the city must therefore be taken, not because the reader will find it of much value, or
novelty, but because our Thames voyage would
be incomplete without it.
Great have been
the discussions among the learned as to the antiquity of Oxford, some claiming for it an existence of a thousand years prior to the time
of our Saviour, and ascribing its foundation to
Memprick, King of the Britons, from whom
they say it was called Caer Memprick.
Among
other fabulous names of Oxford may be mentioned Caer Bossa, Rhyd, Ychen, and Caer
Vortigern.
It has also been called, from the
surpassing beauty of its position among the
hills, Bellositum and Beaumont.
It acquired
the name of Oxenford from the Saxons, and
appears, if it existed at all before the Saxon
times, to have been a very inconsiderable place.
The University of Oxford was founded by
King Alfred in the year 886, who, it may
be mentioned by the way, was born almost
within sight of the city, at Wantage, only a
few miles on the other side of the Thames.
Oxford, however, appears to have been the
seat of learning before this period, for Grymbald
and John the Monk, established there by Alfred
in the year above mentioned, had to wage for
some time fierce war with the old students,
who did not approve of the new regulations
which they introduced.
After three years,
Alfred himself was obliged to go in person to
Oxford to reconcile their differences, which, how
ever, he failed in doing, and Grymbald shortly
afterwards retired to the monastery at Winchester, also founded by this King.
Alfred would
thus appear, not to have been the actual founder,
but the restorer of the University; but opinions
differ among the learned, as to which character
he is strictly entitled to.
Without pretending
to cast any new light upon the subject, we can
but say that Alfred either founded or restored
University College, which is allowed on all hands
to be the most ancient of the twenty colleges
of the University.
In the reign of Ethelred
(1002) the city and college were sacked and
burned by the Danes; but were restored within
five years.
The Saxon professors in the college, manifesting some opposition to the will
of William the Conqueror, as regarded teaching the English language, that prince stopped
the stipends granted them by King Alfred,
upon which they fomented a rebellion in the
city that took the king some time and much
trouble to suppress.
The present University College was erected
in 1634.
The Gothic hall is of more modern
date.
Baliol College was projected about the year
1260, by Sir John Baliol of Barnard Castle,
father of Baliol, King of Scotland, who settled
some annual exhibitions on certain poor scholars, till he could provide a house and other
accommodations for them.
He dying in 1269,
before his design could be executed, his widow,
the Lady Devergilla, hired a house in the town,
in which she placed her exhibitioners, consisting of a principal and sixteen fellows.
Here
they appeared to have remained for fifteen
years, when their patroness purchased a structure called St. Mary's Hall, which she rebuilt
at considerable expense, and which then acquired the name of Baliol College.
Merton College, on the south side of the city,
was founded by Walter de Merton, Lord High
Chancellor in the reign of Henry III.
The
college was originally established at Malden in
Surrey, but as the liberal arts could only be
taught at the University, the students were
transferred to Oxford, where a hall was built
for them in 1267.
The chapel of this college,
which is also the parish church of St. John,
was built in 1474, and contains the monument
of Sir Thomas Bodley, the founder of the Bodleian library.
In a house opposite this college, not now
existing, was born, in 1631, the celebrated Anthony à Wood, who laboured so much, and to
such good purpose, to illustrate his native city
and its university.
His "Athenae Oxoniensis"
is a treasury of curious information; but, like
many other great works, it procured the author
little renown in his life-time, and that little was
unpleasant, for it led to his expulsion from the
University.
He is described by his biographer
in the introduction to the "Athenae Oxoniensis",
as a person "who delighted to converse more
with the dead than the living; and was, as it
were, dead to the world, and utterly unknown
in person to the generality of the scholars in
Oxford.
He was so great an admirer of a solitary and private life, that he frequented no
assemblies of the said University, had no companion in bed or at board, in his studies, walks,
or journeys, nor held communication with any,
unless of some, and those very few, choice and
generous spirits; and truly, all things considered, he was but a degree different from an ascetic.
It was usual with him, for the most
part, to rise about four o'clock in the morning,
and to eat hardly anything till night, when,
after supper, he would go into some bye alehouse in town, or else to one in some village
near, and there by himself take his pipe and pot".
Honest Anthony, who also wrote "The History and Antiquities of Oxford", died in 1695,
in his sixty-fourth year, and was buried in his
well-beloved Oxford, where a monument is
erected to his memory, with the short inscription, "H. S. E.- Antonius Wood, Antiquarius".
Exeter College, founded in 1314, is so named
from Walter Stapylton, Bishop of Exeter.
Oriel College; first called St. Mary's, and
afterwards King's College, was founded by King
Edward II. in 1324.
To this society, whose
hall was inconvenient, Edward III. gave a larger
building, known by the name of l'Oriel, pro
bably from its long oriel window, and the college soon afterwards began to be exclusively
known by the same designation.
Queen's College, one of the most beautiful in
the University, was founded by Robert Egglesfield, Confessor to Philippa, Queen of Edward
III, in 1340.
It used to be the custom here
for the bursar on new year's day to present
each of the members with a needle and thread,
with the injunction, "take this and be thrifty".
This custom is said to have derived its origin
from the name of the founder - Aiguille etjil
(needle and thread) - from whence Egglesfield.
There is a story of Henry V, when Prince of
Wales, which is thought to have some connection with this custom.
Speed, the chronicler, relates, that having offended his father,
"he came into his presence in a strange disguise, being in a garment of blue satin, wrought
full of eylet holes, and at every eylet the
needle left hanging by the silk it was wrought
with".
This story, says Mr. Hone in his "Year
Book", puzzled many a head to discover its
meaning, until Mr. G. S. Green of Oxford
published his conjectures in the Gentleman's
Magazine.
"Prince Henry", says he, "having
been a student of Queen's College, his wearing
of this strange garment was probably designed
by him to express his academical character,
the properest habit he could appear in before
his father, who was greatly apprehensive of
some trouble from his son's active and ambitious temper, and much afraid of his taking the
crown from him, as he did at last.
The habit
of a scholar was very different from that of a
soldier in those days, that nothing could better allay the King's suspicions, than this silent
declaration of attachment to literature and renunciation of the sword".
The explanation
seems anything but satisfactory, for there is
no pretence for saying that a dress stuck full
of needles was the academical costume, and if
the King saw a declaration of attachment to
literature in such masquerading, he probably
could see as far through a millstone as the
worthy antiquary himself, who has given us
so luminous an explanation.
Popular tradition
was fond of attributing all sorts of mad-cap
tricks to the gallant Prince Henry, and this
seems one of them.
In that day, as in ours, if a
man of station committed one excess, the voice
of the people soon accused him of a hundred.
The ceremony of the boar's head on Christmasday, is also peculiar to this college.
The scholars have a pleasant story to account for it.
One of them, some hundreds of years ago, when
boars were common in England, was attacked
by a very wild one, in the vicinity of Oxford,
while he was busily employed in reading Aristotle.
Having no weapon to defend himself, he
took up his volume, and exclaiming "Graecum est", (it is Greek,) choked the animal by ramming it down his throat.
The crabbed words
were too much for him, and the boar expired in great agony.
New College was founded by the celebrated
William of Wykeham, the architect of Windsor Castle, in 1379.
Lincoln College dates from 1427, in which
year it was founded by Richard Fleming, Bishop
of Lincoln.
All Souls arose ten years later.
Its founder
was Henry Chicheley, Archbishop of Canterbury.
There is an ancient custom in this college,
celebrating the discovery of a large mallard or drake, in a drain or sewer, when the
foundation of the building was laid.
This celebration takes place on the 14th day of January,
when the scholars dine in the hall, and sing
the following bacchanalian ditty: -
Griffin, bustard, turkey, capon,
Let other hungry mortals gape on,
And on the bones their stomach fall hard,
But let All Souls' men have their mallard.
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
It was a swapping, swapping mallard!
The Romans once admired a gander
More than they did their chief commander,
Because he sav'd, if some don't fool us,
The place that's called the head of Tolus.
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
It was a swapping, swapping mallard!
The poets feign Jove turned a swan,
But let them prove it if they can;
As for our proof 'tis not at all hard,
For it was a swapping, swapping mallard!
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
It was a swapping, swapping mallard!
Therefore let us sing and dance a galliard
To the remembrance of the mallard,
And as the mallard dives in pool,
Let us dabble, dive, and duck in bowl!
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
Oh, by the blood of King Edward,
It was a swapping, swapping mallard!
The magnificent Magdalen College, at the foot
of the fine bridge of the same name over the
little river Cherwell, was founded in 1458, by
William Wainfleet, Bishop of Winchester.
It
however owes its splendour to Cardinal Wolsey,
who, in the year 1492, being bursar and fellow
of the college, erected the lofty tower, so great
an ornament not only to the college but to the
city.
The scholars had a May-day custom
here, which used formerly to attract great crowds
to witness it.
The scholars assembled exactly
as the clock struck five, and chanted a Latin
hymn in honour of the May, when the bridge
was generally thronged with people to hear it.
A lamb was then roasted whole for breakfast
on the leads of the tower.
This part of the
custom was abolished, and a dinner substituted,
at which lamb formed the principal fare.
Brazen Nose College was founded in the year
1511, by William Smith, Bishop of Lincoln,
and Chancellor of the University, and Richard
Sutton of Prestbury, near Macclesfield.
They
gave it the name of Brazen Nose, from its
being built on the site of an ancient hall, commonly known by the same designation, which
it had received from a large brass nose upon the
gate.
Corpus Christi College was established only
two years after the last, under the patronage
of Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester.
Christ Church College is one of the now few
remaining testimonials of the magnificent taste
of Cardinal Wolsey.
It was begun in the
year 1525, and was to have been called Cardinal College after its founder, but in consequence of his fall before the completion of his
design, it was called King Henry VIIIth's
College, until the year 1545, when it received
its present name.
Samuel Ireland, in his "Picturesque views on the Thames", pronounces an
opinion upon the architectural beauties of this
college with its fine church, in which every
one must agree.
"Of its stately entrance, and
happy selection of Gothic proportions, too
much cannot be said in commendation.
The
spacious and noble quadrangle inspires the
mind on a first view, with every idea of ancient grandeur, and were there no other remains
of the Cardinal's princely mind, this alone
would bear lasting testimony to his unbounded munificence.
The beautiful roof of the
elegant staircase leading to the hall, is supported
only by a single pillar, which with the Gothic
fret-work in the ceiling of the spacious hall
above, and the vaulted roof of the choir par
ticularly, said to have been constructed under
the direction of Wolsey, are truly deserving
of critical observation.
The tower was designed
by Sir Christopher Wren, and harmonizes well
with the rest of the building".
The church is
a cathedral which had formerly a bishop, but
is now governed by a dean, who is the head
of the college.
Trinity College was founded in 1555, by Sir
Thomas Pope, Lord Mayor of London.
The
chapel was erected by Sir Christopher Wren,
in 1695, as well as one of the courts.
St. John Baptist College was founded in the
same year by Sir Thomas White, another citizen and alderman of London.
Jesus College was founded in 1571, by Hugh
Price, Doctor of the Canon Law in the Univer
sity, who procured a charter from Queen Elizabeth.
The Queen agreed to furnish the timber for the building, on condition that she
should have the first nomination of the principal, fellows, and scholars, and that it should
be called Jesus College.
Wadham College was founded by Nicholas
Wadham, "some time a gentleman commoner
in the University, and Dorothy his widow".
Mr. Wadham had formed the design of erecting and endowing this college shortly before
he died, and by his will left money for that
purpose.
Accordingly, in 1609, Mrs. Wadham
purchased the site of a dissolved priory of the
canons of St. Austin, in the north skirts of the
town, and erected a noble quadrangle, adorned
with the statues of herself and her husband
over the western gate.
Pembroke College was founded by Thomas
Tisdale, Esq. and Dr. Richard Wightwick.
The first of these gentlemen, by his will dated
in 1610, left £5000 and considerable additions to his bequest being made by the latter,
the college was founded in 1624, and named
in honour of William Earl of Pembroke, then
chancellor of the University.
Worcester College was originally called Gloucester Hall, from its being a seminary for educating the monks of Gloucester.
On the dissolution of the religious foundations, it fell
into the King's hands, and was given by Queen
Elizabeth to Mr. Doddington.
It was purchased of the latter gentleman by Sir Thomas
White, the same who founded the College of
St. John the Baptist, and by him annexed to
that institution.
Being additionally endowed
in 1714 by Sir Thomas Cooke, of Astley, near
Worcester, it was erected into a separate college under its present name.
Hartford College, the twentieth, was originally
called Hartford Hall, from Elias de Hartford.
It was endowed by Dr. Richard Newton, in
1740, and erected into a college in that year.
Besides the twenty colleges, there are five
halls, which are neither endowed nor incorporated, but which are governed by their respective principals, whose salaries arise from
the fees paid by students and the rental of
their lodgings.
They are the remains of former academical houses, and are called St. Edmund's, St. Magdalen's, St. Alban's, St. Mary's,
and New Inn Hall.
The University is governed by a chancellor,
(the Duke of Wellington,) a high steward, a
vice-chancellor, and two proctors, and returns
two members to Parliament.
The city of
Oxford returns the same number.
This elegant metropolis of learning abounds with public buildings,
that rise up in every street, soliciting the notice of the traveller.
Besides its
noble colleges and its churches, are the Bodleian Library, the Clarendon Printing Office,
the Badcliffe Library, the Theatre, the Ashmolean Museum, the Observatory, the Physic
Gardens, which are all deserving of more than
casual attention, but which, as we do not write
a guide-book, we shall not describe, but merely
mention.
The traveller who arrives in Oxford suddenly from London, may well be surprised at
the remarkable contrast.
Stepping into one of
the comfortable carriages of the Great Western
Railway, after breakfast, he will arrive in time
for an early luncheon at the fairest city in
England, and, to use the words of a writer
in the Quarterly Review, "will come from
noise, and glare, and brilliancy, to a very different scene; a mass of towers, pinnacles, and
spires, rising in the bosom of a valley from
groves which hide all buildings but such as
are consecrated to some wise and holy purpose;
the same river which in the metropolis is covered with a forest of masts and ships, here
gliding quietly through meadows, with scarcely a sail upon it; dark and ancient edifices
clustered together in forms full of richness
and beauty, yet solid as if to last for ever,
such as become institutions raised, not for the
vanity of the builder, but for the benefit of
coming ages; streets - almost avenues of edifices
which elsewhere would pass for palaces, but
all of them dedicated to God; thoughtfulness,
repose, and gravity in the countenances and
even dress of their inhabitants; and mark, instead of the stir and business of life, and the
roar of carriages, the sound of hourly bells,
calling men together to prayer".
This is all
very well, and appears very true to the casual
observer; but it is only a description of the
surface of things.
The solemn halls resound
sometimes with the voice of "uproarious" jollity.
These men, looking so quiet in their
academical costumes, can be roysterers when
they will; they can fight, swear, smoke, row, and
drink, and love a horse-race or a gaming-table
better than they do the pages of Tacitus, or the
Bible.
They are the men for "Rum Booze",
"Rum Fustian", "Flip", "Swig", "Brown
Betty", "Pope", "Cardinal", "Bishop", "Lawn
Sleeves", and other Bacchanalian mixtures,
which all come under the one generic term
of "Oxford Night-caps", and a full account of
which may be found in a little tract, published
a few years ago under that title.
However
these things do not strike the stranger, and
Oxford appears to him quiet, as the abode of
learning ought to be.
The High-street is considered the most beautiful in the world.
Even Dr. Waagen, fresh
as he was from the "Unter den Linden" of Berlin, which the Prussians vaunt as the finest
in Europe, acknowledged the vast superiority
of Oxford.
But it has other claims upon the
attention than those of mere beauty: here
Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer, the three great
martyrs of Protestantism, suffered for conscience' sake, and no reader of English history can
pass the street without remembering with melancholy interest those events, and treading reverentially upon the hallowed ground.
It was
here that Latimer exclaimed to Ridley, when
tied to the stake, "Be of good cheer, brother,
we shall this day kindle such a torch in England, as I trust in God shall never be extinguished".
And it was here that Cranmer, a
few months afterwards, performed that heroic
act of thrusting into the fire, and holding it
there till it was consumed, the right hand which
had signed his recantation, exclaiming all the
while, strong in soul, "This unworthy right
hand that did it! this unworthy right hand that
did it!"
No memorial has hitherto stood upon the
exact spot of the martyrdom, to point it out to
the respect of posterity; but this want is now
about to be supplied.
Funds have been sub
scribed, plans have been sent in, and one finally
fixed upon for "The Martyrs' Memorial".
The design chosen, which is said to be pre-eminently beautiful, is that of Messrs. Scott and
Moffatt, the former of whom is architect of
St. Mark's Church, at Summer Hill, Birmingham, and grandson of the Rev. Thomas Scott,
the author of the well-known Commentary on
the Holy Bible.
The monument will consist
of an elaborate hexagonal cross, of a character
corresponding with the crosses erected by Edward I. to the memory of Queen Eleanor, but
larger, and more richly decorated.
The second
story will contain, in niches, on the alternate
sides, statues of the three martyrs, which
from the situation of the monument, will face
three different streets.
The site chosen is
appropriate, being in front of the church
of St. Mary Magdalen, in which parish the
martyrdoms took place, and opposite to the
end of the very fine avenue leading from St.
Giles's to St. Mary Magdalen Church, which
will be highly favourable to the effect, when
approached from that direction.
The height
of the cross will be about seventy feet, which
is about one-fourth higher than the majority of
the ancient crosses in this country.
A portion
of the fund is also to be appropriated to the
erection of a new aisle to the church, and to
rendering the side opposite which the cross will
be placed, and which is much dilapidated, conformable in character to the cross.
This aisle
is to be called the Martyrs' Aisle.
The patron saint of Oxford is St. Frideswyde; but the church formerly dedicated to
her, is now the Cathedral of Christ Church.
Her supposed relics were translated from an
obscure to a more public place in the church
in the year 1180, on which occasion it was reported that divers miracles were performed:
the blind saw, the deaf heard, and the dumb
spoke in Oxford, as the bones were brought
into the light of day.
The church was accidentally burned down two years afterwards,
but the precious relics appear to have been
saved.
The houses of Oxford, at this time, says
Anthony à Wood, were built only of wood
and straw; but afterwards they began to imitate the people of London, where the constant disastrous fires had led to the building of
houses of brick and stone".
In the poorer districts of Oxford, where the inhabitants could
not afford such expensive dwellings, it was
ordered that between every five or six houses
built in the old fashion of wood and straw,
there should be erected a strong brick or stone
wall to prevent the extension of any accidental fire.
It was formerly the custom for the Chancellor of the University and all the scholars, to
go in procession twice a year to the relics of St. Frideswyde, once in the middle of Lent,
and once on the feast of Ascension.
In the
year 1268, as they were marching through the
town towards the place where the holy bones
were preserved, a Jew, it is said, tore the crucifix from the hands of the priest who carried
it, threw it on the ground, trampled on it, and
broke it to pieces.
What became of the offender is not stated; but most likely, if there
is any truth at all in the story, he was not long
afterwards an inhabitant of this world.
All
the Jews in Oxford were fined for the outrage,
and with the proceeds a marble cross was erected on the spot, near the entrance to the church,
with this inscription: -
Quis incus auctor erat? Judsei: quomodo? Sumpto
Quis jussit? Regnam: quo procurante? Magistris
Cur? Cruce pro fracta.
ligni: quo tempore? Festo
Ascensus Domini: Quis erat locus? hie ubi sisto.
This cross remained till the reign of Henry VI,
when it fell down, and was never restored.
One other reminiscence of the classical city,
and we have done.
On a bridge called Folly
Bridge, there formerly stood a tower, said to
have been the residence of Friar Bacon, and to
which an ancient tradition was attached.
The
bridge was built, according to Anthony à Wood's account, as early as the Conquest, by
Robert D'Oyley, upon the site of one still
older; and the tower known as Friar Bacon's
study, was at the south end.
It was said of
this tower, that it would stand until a wiser
man than the friar passed under it: some reproach, it has been hinted, to the learning of
the University, for it stood several centuries,
though all the wise men of Oxford in their successive generations passed beneath it.
There
are no remains of it now; it was found an
obstruction, and was pulled down somewhere
about the year 1780, to make room for other
improvements.
It was in this study that the friar was long
believed by the vulgar to have held converse
with the devil, and to have constructed that
famous brazen head, so renowned in the annals
of necromancy, in conjunction with another,
named Friar Bungay.
The history of this
brazen head, that was to deliver oracles, was
one of the earliest works printed in England.
When they had finished their work, after
seven years' hard labour upon it, says the legend, they were so exhausted that they lay
down to sleep, first charging their servant that
if it spoke he should waken them immediately.
The servant being a clownish fellow,
paid but little attention, and the brazen head
spoke, and said,
"Time is".
There was a long pause, and the head again spoke, and said in a
solemn voice,
"Time was".
Still no notice was taken, the friars slept, unconscious of their
great loss, and after another long pause, a voice
pronounced
"Time is passed",
and immediately
with a noise as loud as thunder, the head fell
to pieces, and the friars awoke, and saw their
labour and art had been of no avail, and heard
a fierce storm of thunder and lightning, and
hail and wind, which raged over the city of
Oxford, to announce that the devil, who had
spoken in it, had taken his departure.
A similar brazen head was also believed to have been
constructed at Oxford, by Dr. Robert Grostest, Grosse-tete, or Greathead, for his name is
variously written, who was Bishop of Lincoln
about the time that Roger Bacon flourished.
The earliest notice of this head appears as follows, in "Gower's Confessio Amantis".
For of the great clerk Grostest
I rede how redy that he was
Upon clergy an hede of brasse
To make and forge it for to tell
Of such thinges as befell,
And seven yeares businesse
He layd, but for the lacknesse
Of half a minute of an houre
Fro first that he began laboure,
He lost all that he had done.
Some have gone so far as to say, and there
may be some truth in it, that Brazen Nose
College derives its name from one of these
brazen heads.
Dr. Friend, in his "History of
Physic", says that Bacon drew articulate sounds
from the brazen head, by an artificial application of the principles of natural philosophy.
Very likely he amused himself by frightening
the vulgar by experiments which now would
be perfectly intelligible, but which acquired for
him then a reputation which was far from
agreeable in its consequences to himself.
There is a water communication from Oxford
to many parts of the kingdom.
Besides the
noble river eastward to London, it has a communication with the Severn westward by
means of the Thames and Severn canal, and
with Wiltshire and Berkshire by means of the
Thames and the Kennett and the Avon canals,
and it also communicates with the Trent, the
Humber, and the Dee.
Steamer Passing the Nore Light Vessel
ABOVE TITLE PAGE OF VOLUME II
Passing from Oxford into
Berkshire, and on through Botley, we follow the windings
of the Thames for about two
miles, by the by-road, till we arrive at Witham, the seat of the Earl of Abingdon, and so on to the ancient site of Godstow
Nunnery, famous for its legendary and poetic
associations.
Who has not heard the touching
story of "Fair Rosamond? "a story upon which
historians in later years have attempted to throw
discredit, but which will ever hold its place in
the popular heart.
And here we are upon the
scene of it.
Here on this bank the "Rose of
the World" passed the innocent years of her
early girlhood; and here she was buried, with
that insulting epitaph so well known
Hic jacet in tumba, Rosa Mundi, non Rosamunda;
Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet;
inscribed however in later years, when her
royal lover, so faithful to her memory, was no more.
How sweet are the lines of the neglected and
almost unknown poet, Daniel, upon this subject! We quote his Complaint of Rosamond,
premising, that the poet succeeded Spenser as
Laureate, in the year 1599, soon after which
the poem was published.
After describing the grief of Henry II. on discovering the body of
his beautiful mistress, he continues
Thus as these passions do him overwhelm,
He draws near to the body to behold it,
And as the vine married into the elm
With strict embraces so doth he enfold it.
And as he in his careful arms doth hold it,
Viewing the face that even Death commends,
On senseless lips millions of kisses spends.
"Pitiful mouth!" said he, "that living gavest
The sweetest comfort that my soul could wish,
O be it lawful now that dead thou havest
This sorrowing farewell of a dying kiss!
And you, fair eyes, containers of my bliss,
Motives of love, born to be matched never,
Entombed in your sweet circles, sleep for ever!
"Ah, how, methinks, I see, Death dallying seeks
To entertain itself in Love's sweet place,
Decayed roses of discoloured cheeks
Do yet retain the hues of former grace,
And ugly Death sits fair within her face,
Sweet remnants resting of vermilion red,
E'en Death itself might doubt that she were dead!
"Wonder of beauty! oh, receive these plaints,
These obsequies, the last that I shall make thee,
For now my soul that now already faints,
That loved thee living, dead will not forsake thee,
And hastes her speedy arms to overtake thee.
I'll meet my death and free myself thereby,
For, ah! what can he do, that cannot die?
"Yet, ere I die, thus much my soul doth vow
Revenge shall sweeten Death with ease of mind,
And I will cause posterity shall
How fair thou wert above all womankind.
And after ages monuments shall find,
Showing thy beauty's title, not thy name,
Rose of the world! that sweeten'd so the same!"
The beauty of the quotation may plead excuse for its length, and some reader, perhaps unaware that such a poet as Daniel ever wrote, may be tempted to stray into his pages, where he will find much to reward him.
Rosamond's funeral was celebrated here with
great splendour, as the poet hints; and King
John afterwards bequeathed a considerable sum,
that the holy virgins of Godstow might relieve
with their prayers and pious masses the souls
of his father and Fair Rosamond.
Upon the
interment itself, great sums were lavished by
the disconsolate king, and the parents of the
lady.
The tomb was of the most exquisite and
costly workmanship, but much of it was destroyed when priestly bigotry ordered the removal of the body, as too impure to be buried
within consecrated ground.
Hugh, Bishop of
Lincoln, visiting the nunnery in 1191, two years
after the death of Henry, and about twenty
after the death of Rosamond, and observing a
tomb covered with velvet, silk, and cloth of
gold, and magnificently lighted up with wax
tapers, perpetually burning, inquired whose it
was, and being informed that it was Fair Rosamond's, he ordered that "the harlot should be
taken thence, lest through her the Christian
religion should be scandalized." It was, however, only removed from the church of the nunnery, and not from the precincts altogether.
Speed says, "the chaste sisters gathered her
bones from the chapter-house whence they had
been conveyed, and put them in a perfumed
leathern bag, enclosing them so in lead, and laid them again in the church, under a fair
large grave-stone, about whose edges a fillet of
brass was inlaid, and thereon written her name
and praise."
At the dissolution of the nunnery,
Speed says that the bones were so found.
Leland confirms this account, adding, "Rosamond's tomb at Godstow nunnery, was taken
up of late: it is a stone with this inscription
"Tumba Rosamundæ.' Her bones were enclosed in lead, and within that in leather: when
it was opened, there was a sweet smell came out of it."
This nunnery, sacred to her affecting memory, was founded in the reign of Henry I. by
Editha, a matron of Winchester, in consequence
of a dream she had.
It would appear, that
this lady had long meditated the pious work of
founding a nunnery, but was at a loss where to
erect it, until she dreamed that the most fitting
place would be on the bank of the Thames, to
the west of Oxford.
Her confessor persuaded
her that the dream was an intimation of the
will of Heaven, and the nunnery was founded
at Godstow accordingly, Editha becoming the
first abbess.
Two sides of the nunnery remained till about
the year 1769, when they were blown down by
a high wind.
Part of the wall and the chapel
still exist, and belong to the Earl of Abingdon.
Keeping on the same side of the Thames, we
pass by Godstow Bridge, and follow the course
of the river for awhile to Swinford Bridge,
which we cross, and proceed to the ancient village of Ensham - termed, like Kingston, "a famous place" even in the days of the Saxon
Heptarchy.
It once possessed an abbey, a
small portion of the ruins of which still remain,
founded early in the eleventh century, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary and St. Benedict.
A singular custom formerly prevailed here on
Whit Monday, as we are informed by Samuel
Ireland in his "Picturesque Views." It was
the privilege of the towns people to be allowed
to cut down as much timber in the neighbouring wood, as could be drawn into the courtyard of the abbey by men's hands only, which
timber was to be their own, if they could succeed in dragging it out again!
This was a very "ingenious device" on the part of the reverend
fathers: the timber once got in, they allowed
very little of it to be pulled out again, as it was
a part of the stipulation, that the monks and
the servants of the abbey should place every
impediment in the way of its exit that they
were able.
From hence to Woodstock is a pleasant walk
of about four miles, following part of the way
the stream of the Evenlode, a petty tributary
of the Thames.
The town of Woodstock derives most of the interest attached to its name,
from the magnificent palace of Blenheim; but
its ancient interest springs from the park and
ancient palace of the kings of England, which
latter was pulled down by order of the great Duke of Marlborough.
In this palace King
Alfred translated "Boetius on the Consolations
of Philosophy"; the work which was after
wards the solace of the poetical James I. of
Scotland, when a prisoner in Windsor Castle.
In the time of King Etheldred, a parliament
assembled at Woodstock, between which period
and the reign of Henry I. the town fell somewhat into decay.
The latter, the only one of
the early monarchs who had a cultivated mind,
or took any delight in the recreations which
taste and a love of literature are so abundant
in affording, was pleased with the beauties of
the surrounding scenery, improved the palace,
and added several suites of apartments to it,
at the same time enlarging and replanting the
park, and enclosing it with a substantial stone
wall.
Here also, as we learn from Stowe, he
established the first menagerie ever known in
England: "the King, for his pleasure," says
the annalist, "desired the wonderful things
of other countries, as lions, leopards, lynxes,
and camels, of the which England had none,
craving them from kings.
He had a park
called Woodstock, in which he kept them,
and put there, among others, a beast called
"Stryr," or otherwise called a "Porpentine",
sent him from William of Montpelier."
The
same historian says the park was seven miles in
compass, that it was the first ever enclosed in
England, and that divers villages, churches,
and chapels were destroyed to make room
for it.
In the reign of Henry II, the palace of
Woodstock was inhabited by the beautiful
Rosamond.
Here the royal lover built her
the celebrated bower in the midst of the labyrinth, the theme of popular poets, and the
delight of romance readers ever since.
To
quote the most popular of all the ballads ever
made upon it,
The King for her defence
Against the furious Queen,
At Woodstock builded such a bower,
The like was never seen.
Most curiously that bower was built
Of stone and timber strong,
One hundred and fifty
Did to this bower belong,
And they so cunningly contrived
With turnings round about,
That none but with a clue of thread
Could enter in or out.
Though the authorities differ upon the point,
whether this fair lady was poisoned by Queen
Elianor, all agree that the Queen discovered
her retreat.
Higden, the monk of Chester,
whose account is followed by Stowe, says, "the
Queen came to her by a clue of thread or silk,
and so dealt with her, that she lived not long
after."
Holinshed says, "it was the common
report of the people, that the Queen found her
out by a silken thread, which the King had
drawn after him out of her chamber with his
foot, and dealt with her in such sharp and
cruel wise, that she lived not long after".
Speed says, that the Queen "discovered her by
a clue of silk, fallen from Rosamond's lap as
she sat to take air, and suddenly fleeing from
the sight of the searcher, the end of her silk
fastened to her foot, and the clue still unwinding, remained behind, which the Queen followed, till she had found what she sought, and
upon Rosamond so vented her spleen, as the
lady lived not long after.".
Upon the dissolution of the religious houses, her tomb at Godstow, as we have already stated, was examined,
and attracted some attention, and a cup being
found upon it, the popular notion that she was
poisoned was either originated, or acquired additional strength.
However this may be, it is
certainly worth notice that none of the old
historians attribute her death to poison, and
that the oldest ballads and poems made upon
her sad fate with which we are acquainted,
only date as far back as the reign of Elizabeth.
The popular ballad of Thomas Delone, already quoted, appears not to have been pub
lished till 1612, as may be seen from the introduction to it by Bishop Percy, in his "Relics of Ancient Poetry:"
Daniel's "Complaint of Fair Rosamond" was published somewhat
earlier.
There is this to be said in favour
of the popular version, - found popular, and
made still more so by the poets, - that there
is nothing improbable in the story of her poisoning.
Queen Elianor is allowed on all hands
to have been a jealous, violent, and bad woman.
Poor Rosamond had but one sin to answer for,
but her rival Elianor had many.
She led a
life of promiscuous gallantry before her marriage
with Henry, and afterwards excited his sons
to rebel against him, and distract the kingdom.
No traces of this famous bower and labyrinth
have existed for centuries, but the concurrent
testimony of all the historians impel us to believe that they did exist as represented.
Some
slight remains of a bath, amid the groves on
the northern part of the park, are pointed out,
which are believed to have formed part of the
bower of Rosamond.
In Woodstock park resided for many years
the father of English poetry, venerable, well
beloved, most worthy Geoffrey Chaucer.
Many
have asserted that he was born in Woodstock.
The learned Camden once countenanced this
opinion, for, speaking of Woodstock, he says
"having nothing in it else remarkable, it can boast of having produced our English Homer,
Geoffrey Chaucer."
Leland doubted whether he
were born in Berkshire or Oxfordshire; but if
we may judge from the poet's own words, that
great honour belongs to the city of London.
Speaking of the disturbances in London, when
the mob destroyed the Savoy palace, where he long resided with his royal friend, John of
Gaunt, he says, "The city of London that is
to me so dear and sweet, in which I was forth
grown, and more kindly love have I to that
place than to any other on earth, as every
kindly creature hath full appetite to that place
of his kindly engendering."
However this may be, Woodstock is nevertheless classic ground,
for if Chaucer were not born there, he resided
there.
"His house," says Dr. Urry, "was a
square stone house, near the park gate, which
still retained its name in 1721.
Many of the
rural descriptions in his poems appear to be
representations of the actual scenery of the
park. Thus,
"And right anon as I the day espide.
Ne longer would I in my bedde abide,
But unto a woode that was mee fast by
I went forth myself alone and boldily,
And held the way downe by a brooke side
Till I came to a land of white and grene,
So fair an one had I never in bene,
The ground was grene, ypowdered with daisye
The flouris and the grevis alike hye,
Al grene and white was nothing ellis sene."
These lines appeared to Dr. Urry to be an
exact portraiture of the way from Chaucer's
house down by the brook side, through part of
the park to the vale, under Blenheim Castle.
The nightingale in that poem is represented as
saying to the sleeping bard that it would sing
The morrow after St. Valentine's day
Under a maple that is fair and grene,
Before the chamber window of the Quene
At Wodestocke upon the grene laye."
The scene of his poem of the Dream is also laid
in Woodstock Park, where it appears, when
not engaged in study, his favourite diversion
was to walk.
Yet perhaps these morning
walks among the trees, which he describes in
various parts of his works with such luxuriance of poetry, were the times when he
studied most.
He made acquaintance with
nature in her solitudes, studied her sweet face in
his early rambles, and was thereby enabled to
paint her so well.
Chaucer, from the busy life
he led in London, being mixed up so intimately with all the affairs of the powerful
John of Gaunt, shared naturally the evils of
that prince's fortunes.
In the troubles that
ensued in London, after the citation of
Wickliffe, and the arrest of Comberton, late
Mayor of London, Chaucer became obnoxious
to the King, and was obliged to fly to the
Continent to avoid imprisonment.
On his
return, he determined to mix himself up
no more in political questions, and John of
Gaunt, being then absent on his expedition to
recover the kingdom of Castile and Leon,
which he claimed in right of his wife, he had
an additional reason for keeping himself secluded from the world.
He, therefore, retired to
Woodstock, and busied himself, in revising
and correcting his poems.
The exact time of his
final departure from Woodstock to Donnington,
where he passed the last two years of his life,
is not known with certainty.
We have already
in our account of the river Kennett given some
account of these years.
So, farewell, Chaucer,
of whom we will say in the words of old Lydgate
My maister Chaucer, chief poet of Britayne,
Whom all this landè shoulde of righte prefer,
Sith of our language he was the load star,
That madè first to distil and raine
The gold dew drops of speech and
Into our tonguè through his excellence."
In Woodstock Palace, the Princess Elizabeth was confined by her sister, Queen Mary,
for a short time, during which captivity, as we
learn from Hentzner, the German traveller,
she wrote the following lines with a piece of
charcoal upon her window shutter, being denied the use of pens and paper.
The lines
were first printed in Hentzner's book, and afterwards at the private press of Horace Walpole,
at Strawberry Hill, from whence they were
transferred into Percy's Relics.
"In Hentzner's
book", says Dr. Percy, "they were wretchedly
corrupted," but were restored, as they now follow, by Horace Walpole.
O fortune, how thy restlesse wavering state,
Hath fraught with cares my troubled will,
Witness this present prisonn, whither fate
Could bear me, and the joys I quit.
Thou causedest the guiltie to be losed
From bandes wherein are innocents inclosed,
Causing the guiltless to be straight reserved,
And freeing those that death had well deserved.
But by her envy can be nothing wrought,
So, God, send to my foes all they have thought.
ELIZABETH, prisoner. A.D. MDLV".
These lines are of little or no value in themselves, but they become of interest from the
station of the writer, and the strait to which
she was reduced for want of writing materials.
Shenstone has written a poem upon the subject.
Woodstock Palace and Park, with all their
poetical and romantic associations, have, in later
years acquired a still dearer place in the hearts
of the lovers of English literature, by the beautiful novel of Sir Walter Scott.
It is impossible for any one who has read it, to wander
in that park without conjuring up the remembrance of the gentle Alice, the doughty old
Sir Harry Lee, and his honest dog, and the
iron warriors, and canting hypocrites of that day, with stern old Cromwell giving his orders
to batter down the walls that he might take
possession of that last stronghold of royalty.
Woodstock Park and Palace were also the
scene of that famous ghost story related so minutely in Glanvil's book of Witchcraft, in the
form of a continuation to his wondrous tales,
by Dr. Henry More, and entitled, "A Transcription of a Narrative out of the Natural History of Oxfordshire, of the strange passages
that happened at Woodstock, Anno 1649,
when the commissioners for surveying the
manor house, park, deer, woods, and other
demesnes belonging to that manor, sate and
lodged there."
Their first act was to efface
every symbol of royalty; and a noble old tree,
which had stood for centuries in the park, was
uprooted by their order, merely because it bore
the, to them obnoxious, name of the King's
Oak.
Immediately their troubles began; fearful noises were heard in the chimneys, bricks,
tiles, and stones, rattled about their ears at all
hours of the day and night; invisible hands
pulled the clothes off their beds; shrieks and
groans, and the clanking of chains were heard;
their lights were suddenly extinguished, no one
knew how; and glasses and bottles broke mysteriously wherever they attempted to lay hands
upon them.
The bewildered commissioners
betook themselves to penitence and prayer, and
watched all night with Bibles and drawn
swords to repel the evil spirits that so tormented them.
But all in vain; when worn out
with watching they retired to rest towards
the morning, they found logs of wood in their
beds instead of pillows, and were drenched
unaccountably with green ditch water, as they
attempted to lie down.
Their eyes became no
less bewildered than their ears; their fear became so great that they indulged each other's
dread with the marvellous, and swore to each
other that they actually saw the devil scratching with his hoof upon a candle to put it out;
that they saw legions of imps in every corner of the house; that Beelzebub walked up
and down the great room every night, howling
in a most fearful manner, and sometimes making a noise as great as if a whole park of artillery had been fired off.
Finding that their
prayers were inefficacious, and enjoying no
peace or rest for several days and nights, they
finally determined to quit Woodstock altogether, which they did in the firm belief that
it was the abode of the devil and ten thousand
of his evil spirits.
Some years afterwards it
was discovered that the man who played the
devil to such perfection on this occasion was
one Giles Sharp, the clerk of the Commissioners, a pretended republican, but in reality
a loyalist, who had passed his early years in
Woodstock, and who resorted to this trick to
frighten away these rude spoilers from the hallowed abode of the royalty of England.
The credulity of the commissioners rendered his deception comparatively easy; their contagious fears
carried it on for him; and, aided by a few dexterous cavaliers, the object was accomplished
even beyond his hopes.
The truth was not
discovered till after the Restoration.
Woodstock manor remained unoccupied, or
nearly so, for about fifty years, when it was granted by Parliament in testimony of the nation's
gratitude for the brilliant exploits of the Duke
of Marlborough.
Sir John Vanburgh was employed to build a suitable edifice, and the palace of Blenheim was the result.
Yet the hero
for whom it was intended never had the pleasure of inhabiting it; and, as may be seen from
an interesting chapter in Mr. D'Israeli's[sic] "Curiosities of Literature," it became a source of annoyance to him for the remainder of his days.
Parliament neglected to provide positively and in a proper manner the necessary funds, which
were always charged upon the civil list of
Queen Anne until her death, when the workmen, whose wages had been long in arrear,
were glad to accept one third of their claims.
Sir John Vanburgh feared his total ruin: the Duke of Marlborough groaned in bitterness of spirit, lest he should be forced in some way
or other to pay a penny out of his own pocket,
for the expenses of a building which was to
have been erected at a nation's cost, and ultimately died without enjoying his princely
abode, leaving his hostile Duchess and the architect to fight out the question of expense be
tween them.
This fine building has been condemned by
some as too massive, while others have regarded its massiveness as its great beauty.
The
north, or grand front, extends from wing
to wing three hundred and forty-eight feet;
and the centre is supported by pillars of the
Corinthian order.
The southern front has a
handsome portico, surmounted by a colossal
bust of Louis XIV, taken from the gates of
Tournay by the victorious Marlborough.
The approach to the front of the mansion is over
a lofty bridge, which was originally built at
the desire of the great Duke himself over a
very narrow stream, which gave rise to the following epigram in allusion to his well-known
parsimony:
The lofty bridge his high ambition shows,
The stream an emblem of his bounty flows.
The stream, however, was afterwards widened
by the celebrated Capability Brown, who is reported to have said that the Thames, envious of
the nobler expanse of water which his art had
formed, "would never forgive him for what
he had done at Blenheim".
Near the bridge stands a column one hundred and thirty feet
high, the plinth of which is inscribed on the
four sides with the exploits of the Duke of
Marlborough.
The interior of the mansion is
fitted up with great magnificence, and contains
a picture gallery with many fine pictures, some
of which were presented to the Duke by the
citizens of Antwerp and other towns in Flanders.
The library is also a fine room, upwards of two
hundred feet in length, occupying the whole
range of the west front, and containing a collection of books valued at thirty thousand
pounds.
The park, of about two thousand
seven hundred acres, is laid out, as the parks
of English noblemen usually are, in a style
of great taste, and true appreciation of the
beauties of natural scenery.
Where Nature
is niggard she is aided by art, and where
bountiful, turned to the best advantage.
Two
sycamore trees upon an eminence mark the site
of the ancient palace of Henry II, which was
pulled down by the first Duke of Marlborough,
at the advice of Lord Godolphin, because he
thought it would obstruct the view from the
windows of Blenheim.
Having lingered a sufficient time at this historical spot, we must retrace our steps to the
neighbouring banks of the Thames, and proceed onwards from Ensham or Eynsham to
Stanton Harcourt.
The village of Stanton, called
Stanton Harcourt, from the residence of the Earls of Harcourt, before they removed to
their more magnificent seat at
Nuneham Courtney, is pleasantly situated
within view of the Thames, about two
miles from the bank, and derives considerable
interest from the fact that Pope was for some
months an inmate of the hospitable house of
the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, in the year
1718, and that there he finished the fifth volume of his translation of Homer.
In the
tower of the chapel is a room still called Pope's
Room, which is the one he occupied as his
study during the summer of the year mentioned.
The poet recorded the completion of
his fifth volume by writing the date with a
diamond on a pane of red glass, which was
afterwards taken out of the window by a succeeding owner of the mansion, and preserved
with great care as a relic of genius.
Mr.
D'Israeli, who mentions the circumstance in his
"Curiosities of Literature" in his chapter upon
"Literary Residences," states his belief that
the pane is still preserved among the treasures
of Nuneham Courtney.
The following is a
fac-simile of the writing, taken from "Ireland's
Picturesque Views," the author of which states that the pane was lent to him by the Earl
of Harcourt.
Gay was also a visitor in the
summer of 1718, with his brother poet, at
Lord Harcourt's; and they composed together, during their residence there, a poem
upon the tragical death of two lovers, who
were struck dead by lightning while at work
in a neighbouring hayfield.
The picturesque
church of Stanton, contains several ancient monuments of the family of Harcourt,
who have been settled in the place since the conquest.
Among others, a monument to the memory
of Sir Robert Harcourt, and of Margaret, his
wife, who lived in the reign of Henry VI, has
excited considerable notice from the fact that
both the husband and wife wore the insignia of the noble Order of the Garter, and
are so represented on their tomb.
There is a
modern monument to the memory of the Hon.
Simon Harcourt, son of the Chancellor, who
died in 1720, and for which Pope, at the request of Lord Harcourt, wrote the following
epitaph:
To this sad shrine, who e'er thou art, draw near:
Here lies the friend most lov'd - the son most dear,
Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship must divide,
Or gave his father grief but when he died.
How vain is reason - eloquence how weak,
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak;
Oh, let thy once loved friend inscribe thy stone,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own.
Dr. Johnson, in his critical notices of Pope's
epitaphs, written for the "Universal Visitor,"
and afterwards appended to his Life of Pope,
objects to the last two lines, and wishes they
had been omitted, as "they take away from
the energy without adding to the sense"; of the
remainder the critic says, "It is remarkable for
the artful introduction of the name, which is
inserted with a peculiar felicity, to which
chance must concur with genius, which no man
can hope to attain twice, and which cannot be
copied but with servile imitation." This praise
is as ill applied as the previous censure.
It
does not seem at all clear that because the poet
was obliged to tell the grief which the father
could not speak, that either reason was vain,
or eloquence weak.
We might ask whose reason was vain, and whose eloquence was weak?
It may be said that the eloquence of the poet
was weak in telling such grief as the father
must have felt; but where is the vanity of
reason?
The plain fact is, that Pope did not
write good epitaphs, to which we may add that
very few men can.
In England especially we
are sadly deficient in taste, in this respect, and
might take example of the French, who are
generally content to express their grief in prose,
for real sorrow has no leisure to make rhymes.
What can be more affecting than the simple
words upon a tomb-stone in the cemetery of
Père la Chaise:
"Oh mon fils! mon fils!"
No epitaph that poet ever wrote can equal
this.
We follow the still narrowing stream of the
Thames until we arrive at New Bridge, where
it receives the waters of its tributary, the
Windrush; the latter rises, like the Thames,
among the Cotteswold hills, enters Oxfordshire
near Burford, and passes by Witney, famous
for the manufacture of blankets, into the
Thames.
It has been alleged that the superior whiteness of the Witney blankets arises
from the nitrous qualities of the water of the
Windrush.
The Thames runs through an uninteresting
country for ten or twelve miles, especially on
the Oxfordshire side, until we arrive at Tadpole Bridge, where the scenery improves a little.
At the distance of about two miles is
Bampton, which can only be classed as a considerable village now, but was formerly a town
of some consequence, and still claims that rank.
It is seated on a little rivulet that runs into
the Thames, and was a town of some note at
the Conquest.
Bampton gave birth to John
Phillips, the author of the "Splendid Shilling,"
which for some time was the most popular
poem in the English language; but which has
long been consigned to a fifth -rate place, though
it still boasts its admirers.
He was also the
author of a poem called, "Cider", and of another
called "Blenheim", the latter being written
at the instigation of the Tory leaders soon after
that great victory; "probably," says Johnson,
"with an occult opposition to Addison," who
was celebrating the same victory for the Whigs.
The father of Phillips was the Rev. Dr. Ste
phen Phillips, minister of Bampton, in the
rectory of which the poet received the first
rudiments of his education.
It is related of
him, that he was always remarkably fond of
having his hair combed - a fondness which did
not forsake him when he quitted the paternal roof at Bampton.
When at school, at Winchester, instead of joining in the amusements
of the other boys, he retired to his chamber, where he would sit for hours together,
enjoying the luxury of a combing, which he
persuaded or paid somebody to perform upon
him.
He wore his hair long and parted in the
middle, after the fashion of the portraits of
Milton, of whom he was a most enthusiastic
admirer.
Upon this subject of combing, the
following anecdote of Isaac Vossius is given as
a note by the editor of Dr. Johnson 's "Lives of
the Poets," to account for the propensity of
young Phillips.
The book quoted is the treatise of Isaac Vossius "De Poematum cantu et
viribus Rythmi," Oxen, 1672, p. 62.
"Many
people take delight in the rubbing of their
limbs and the combing of their hair, but the
exercises would delight much more if the servants at the baths, and the barbers were so
skilful in this art, that they could express any
measures with their fingers.
I remember that
more than once I have fallen into the hands of
men of this sort, who could imitate any measures of songs in combing the air, so as some
times to express very intelligibly iambics,
trochees, dactyls, & c. from whence there arose
to me no small delight."
Leaving Bampton and its rectory, we pass
by the small village of Clanfield, to Radcot
bridge, with Farringdon Hill rising behind it.
There was a bridge over the Thames at Radcot, in the fourteenth century, as we learn from
the old chronicles, which tell of a battle that
was fought upon it, or near it, between Vere
Earl of Oxford, the favourite of Richard II,
and the Barons, who had assembled an army
to resist his power and influence.
The Earl
of Oxford, then known by the title of
Duke of Ireland, was at the head of five
thousand men, and rode forth as Stowe says,
"in stately and glorious array, thinking none
durst have encountered him;" but when he
came to the bank of the river, which it was his
object to pass, on his way to London, where
he was certain of support from the citizens,
he found the army of the Barons drawn up on
the Oxfordshire side, to oppose his passage.
Being a coward, as royal favourites generally
are, he no sooner saw their superior force than
he fled, leaving his second in command, Sir
Thomas Molineux, to fight the battle as he
could.
In the encounter that ensued Sir
Thomas entered the Thames on horseback,
and a fierce combat took place in the midst
of the water between him and Sir Thomas Mortimer, a captain in the army of the Barons.
As Molineux was springing up to the bank,
his opponent caught off his helmet, and struck
his dagger into his brains, and he fell back a
lifeless corpse into the stream.
The Duke of
Ireland galloped down the bank till he was
out of sight, when he dismounted, took off his
armour, and swam across.
He ultimately effected his escape to Flanders, where he died
in exile five years afterwards.
Farringdon Hill, surmounted by its grove,
about two miles from the Thames, is a prominent object in the view for a great distance,
and a sort of landmark for the four counties of Oxford, Gloucester, Berks, and Wilts.
It rises by a gradual ascent from the Vale of
the White Horse, and from the top there is
an extensive view of one of the most fertile
and luxuriant districts in England.
Pye, the
Laureate, wrote a poem in praise of its beauties, with which he was well acquainted, having long resided in the neighbourhood.
His
house, which he built for himself, became after
his death, the property of Mr. Hallett.
The town of Farringdon stands on the western acclivity of the hill, and is a place of considerable antiquity.
Its castle, of which there are now no remains, was built during the civil
wars in the time of King Stephen.
Its site
was granted to some monks of the Cistercian
order, who built an abbey upon it, which, at
the suppression, was granted by Edward VI.
to his ambitious uncle, Lord Seymour.
Near
Farringdon are the remains of a camp of a
circular form, supposed to be of Danish origin.
It is two hundred yards in diameter, and is
surrounded by a ditch twenty yards wide.
Antiquaries have conjectured that it was the camp
of the Danes, who were defeated near this
place by King Alfred.
At the commencement
of the present century, when the north rampart
was levelled, quantities of human bones and
coals were found; and the former are frequently dug up by the labourers, who search
for peat in the swampy ground about a mile
south of the hill.
From Farringdon, a walk of about four miles,
by the side of the great Coxwell and Eaton
woods and the domain of Buscot Park, leads us
to the small market-town of Lechlade, in Gloucestershire, and St. John 's Bridge over the
Thames.
The church, erected in the fifteenth
century, is a handsome building with an embattled tower, and inspired Shelley to write some
melancholy verses, when he lingered within its
precincts one fine summer evening, in 1815,
when he came ashore from his boat in his pilgrimage to the sources of the Thames.
At Lechlade and its neighbourhood there is
truly a "meeting of the waters."
The Thames
before its arrival at this town is little better
than a brook; but it here receives the waters of
four small streams, the Colne, the Churn, the
Lech, and the Rey, which united first render
it navigable.
From Lechlade to the source
there is not sufficient depth of water to be
serviceable to commerce, and a canal has been
formed by the side of it, whereby the navigation is carried on to the Severn.
Upon one of these streams, the Colne, is the
town of Fairford, at the distance of two miles
from Lechlade.
It is celebrated for its elegant
church, containing a handsome painted window, founded by one John Tame, a merchant
of London, in the fifteenth century, and a
native of Fairford.
Tame was the captain of
his own vessel, and captured in the high seas,
when England was at war with Spain, a Spanish vessel bound to Rome, containing, among
other valuable articles, a quantity of stained
glass, intended as a present to the Pope.
These are the windows that at present adorn
the church, and are generally considered as the
work of Albert Durer.
The glass was taken
out and buried during the civil wars, and so
preserved from the violence of the bigots of
that day, and when all danger was over, the
windows were put up again, but not in the
same places as before.
These windows, or compartments of windows, are twenty- eight in
number, and chiefly represent biblical subjects.
Connoisseurs doubt whether the windows were
the work of Albert Durer, notwithstanding
the general belief, and the alleged opinion of
Vandyck, who is reported, it is not known
on what authority, to have said, that "the
workmanship was so exquisite, no pencil could
exceed it."
The church is visited by all travellers who pass in that direction, and a man
is appointed to show the paintings for a gratuity, without which nothing is to be seen
in England, if it has four walls to enclose
it.
The church itself, independently of its windows, is a handsome specimen of the architecture of the age in which it was built.
It
consists of a nave, chancel, and side-aisles, with
a tower in the centre.
The interior is well
finished, containing an elegant carved oak
screen, surrounding the chancel.
Returning again to the Thames, we pass the large village of Kempsford, also containing a
handsome church; near which there is a tradition, that John of Gaunt once had a residence;
and from thence upwards, to Cricklade.
At
the latter place the water is occasionally not
above fourteen inches in depth, and so narrow
at some places as to offer but little difficulty to
a vigorous leaper.
It was once thought, that Cricklade was formerly called Greeklade, from
a Greek college it is said to have possessed,
and which was afterwards transferred to Oxford.
Camden gives the weight of his authority to demolish this opinion, and it is now
considered, by well-informed antiquaries, to have derived its name from two British words,
cricw and ladh, signifying a stony or a rocky
country, as it is about here.
Cricklade is an
inconsiderable place, though it was formerly
notorious enough in the annals of elections, for
the shameless venality of its inhabitants.
There are several places in the neighbourhood of Cricklade well deserving of a visit.
The ancient town of Cirencester, upon the
Churn, from whence it derives its name; and
the magnificent seat of Lord Bathurst at Oakley Park.
The pilgrim to the sources of the
Thames will do well to leave the direct course
of the Isis, as the people hereabouts persist in
calling it, and follow the course of the Thames
and Severn Canal towards Cirencester, and
thus bring both those places within the circuit
of his rambles.
Then returning to Cricklade,
he may trace the narrow stream up to the hills.
where it takes its rise, and drink the water at
its fountain-head.
Cirencester is a clean, neat, quiet town, not
so large or so important as it used to be, but
still a very tidy, quiet, respectable place, put
ting one in mind of a ci-devant beauty, who in
the course of tell-tale years has lost the freshness of her charms, and is no longer a reigning
toast, but has become a decent spinster; still
good-looking, somewhat prudish, very precise
in her personal appearance, and remarkably
well-behaved.
Cirencester (its inhabitants, for
brevity's sake, pronounce it something like the
word "sister") boasts of its Roman origin, and is
put down in Antoninus' Itinerary under the
name of Durocornovium.
Remains of the Roman military way between it and Gloucester
are still traceable.
The site of a great part of
the former city, for it was a city once, though
but a small town now, has been converted into
pasture or garden lands, or corn-fields; and
many remnants of antiquity have been at various times turned up by the plough or the
spade, such as pieces of mosaic pavement, rings,
intaglios, coins, and carved stones.
In the
year 1723 an entire mosaic pavement was dug
up, with a large quantity of coins.
We learn
from Dr. Stukely, who bought several of the
relics discovered here, that one Mr. Bishop, the
owner of a garden in the town, dug into a
vault, sixteen feet long and twelve broad, supported by square pillars of Roman brick, three
feet and a half high.
Several other vaults of a
similar form, but somewhat smaller, were discovered close by.
They were thought by the
doctor to have been the foundation of a Roman
temple, there having been found in the same
place several stone shafts of pillars, six feet
long, and immense bases of rough stone.
These,
with the cornices very handsomely moulded
and carved, with modillons, and the like ornaments, were converted into hog-troughs by
some man who had no reverence for antiquity,
and thought much more of his live pigs than
of dead Romans.
Some of the stones of the
bases were fastened together so strongly with
cramps of iron that the workmen, failing in
drawing them asunder, procured the aid of
horses to accomplish the task.
Dr. Stukely
had the front of his house paved with them.
It is supposed that the Emperor Constantine,
son of a British lady, was crowned King of the
Britons in this city.
It suffered severely several times during the wars of the Danes and
the Saxons, as well as in the civil wars of the
time of King Stephen.
Being a strong place,
and seated on a commanding line of road, it
was a position of some importance whenever
the realm was convulsed by internal commotion; and in the dissensions of Henry III. and
his Barons it was taken and retaken by one
or the other party.
In the first year of the reign of Henry IV.
it was the scene of events, which, in the hands
of a romance writer, might be turned to good
account.
The Dukes of Exeter and Surrey,
Montague Earl of Salisbury, and others, adherents of the deposed King Richard II, formed
a design to murder Henry IV. at a grand tournament at Windsor, to which they had invited
him.
Their design being discovered by the
Duke of Aumarle, one of the conspirators, to
his father, the Duke of York, and by him to
the King, the conspirators went from Windsor
to Abingdon, Farringdon, and Cirencester, lead
ing about with them a priest, named Maudelen,
whom they represented to the country people
as King Richard.
This man bore an extra-ordinary resemblance to Richard,
then a prisoner in Pomfret Castle; and being in royal
armour, with the crown upon his helmet, all
the country round was deceived.
They were
lodged in the abbey of Cirencester for some days, when, imagining
that they were suspected by the people of the town, who kept a
strict watch over all their proceedings, and stationed a strong guard at the abbey doors, the
Duke of Exeter employed some of his soldiery
to set fire to the town, that in the confusion
that would ensue they might all make their
escape.
The design failed; the flames were
speedily extinguished, and the people of Cirencester were so enraged that they assembled in
great crowds, broke open the abbey doors,
seized the Dukes of Exeter and Surrey, and
Lord Salisbury, and without form of trial of
any kind, cut off their heads in the market
place.
Their adherents, to the number of about one hundred, were made prisoners.
Twenty seven of them were beheaded in one
day at Oxford, three at London, and one at
Bristol.
King Henry, to reward the townsmen of Cirencester for the service they had
done him, granted them all the goods of the
deceased nobles and their adherents, with the
exception of their money, plate, and jewels.
He also ordered, that every season four prime
does should be sent to the men, and six bucks
to the women of the town, together with a hogshead of choice wine.
He also granted the
town a charter of incorporation, which it enjoyed till the reign of Elizabeth, when it was
annulled.
Cirencester suffered some damage during the
wars of the Revolution, and became a parliamentary garrison in the year 1642.
Prince
Rupert took it by storm, and made upwards of
a thousand prisoners.
Oakley Park, near this town, the seat of
Earl Bathurst, was described by Pope as the
"finest wood in England".
Addison, Gay,
Pope, Swift, and many other of the literati of
that day, were often the guests of Allen Lord
Bathurst, the Mææcenas of his time.
To him
Pope addressed his well-known epistle on the
Use of Riches, more often quoted, perhaps,
than any of his works, not even excepting his
"Essay on Man."
The park is said to be
twelve miles in circumference, and contains an
ancient circular tumulus, called Grismond's
Tower, so named from a Danish chieftain, conquered by King Alfred, and supposed to be
buried here.
On opening it some years ago
several urns were found, containing ashes and
burnt bones.
In the park there is also a ruin
called Alfred's Hall, where it is traditionally
reported, that he signed a treaty with another
Danish leader, named Gothrum.
The mansion
is a spacious structure, and contains a good
collection of paintings.
Within two miles of Cirencester is the source
of the Thames - a clear fountain in a little
rocky dell, known by the name of Thames
Head.
This is the little infantine stream - so
great a giant when it arrives at its full growth:
What reflections we might make upon human
affairs in general, from the mere sight of this
oozing well; what a homily we might preach
upon this text - the small beginnings of great
things, and what encouragementmight be held
out to humble genius from it.
Truly, the
course of a river bears no bad comparison with
the career of an able man, who makes his own
fortune in the world.
How slight is his beginning! yet, how full of confidence he runs on
in his career, dashing over some obstacles,
and turning round others - obliged to take a
tortuous course, that his waters may not be
changed into an inland lake, or be dispersed in
ponds over a marshy country; and that he may
arrive at the sea of death, whither he must
come at last, with a wealthy and powerful
name!
See, too, how he gathers tribute as he
passes - how smaller minds bear homage unto
his, and are content to obey his impulses, and
run with him in a mingled stream!
See, too,
how by his well-acquired wealth he increases
the wealth of others - how, by the judicious
distribution of his capital, he affords employment, and consequent profit, to thousands.
Thus we have seen our Thames: here he is a
little child at play, crawling timidly about,
and ignorant of his own strength; by and by
he becomes able to walk alone, as at Lechlade, where he is first navigable.
Still gaining
strength, and increasing in stature, he becomes
like a boy, lingering in quiet nooks, and in
woody places, and leading a happy life of it.
Next we have him at Oxford, a youth at college -
his mind filled with reminiscences of antiquity, and assuming a classical name which does
not belong to him, half for frolic and half for
ambition.
Next, emancipated from college, we
have him turning courtier at Windsor - dallying in the consciousness of his youthful grace
to gain a smile from royalty, and push his fortune in the world by means of royal favour.
This he soon discovers is an idle fancy; and
his good sense tells him to trust to his own
strength for success, and to make himself useful to the world at large, and not a mere
hanger-on at a palace.
He therefore quits the
court, widening and deepening as he journeys
on; his mind expands, as it were, while his
physical strength increases.
He now makes
himself a reputation - his character is known
over the world - he becomes concerned in mercantile speculations, in which he is universally
successful, and so full of probity, that traders
from all parts of the world give him unlimited
credit.
They would as soon believe any monstrous improbability, as his failure or bankruptcy.
Now he is rich indeed; and his house
(which may be called all London ) becomes the
mart of the world, and thousands of merchant princes attend every day at his levee.
He spreads wealth wherever he goes; and a
whole population live by him.
This is his
prime of life - his busy period - and he goes on,
full of years and honour, till he is swallowed up
in the dark ocean of death!
The little dell, whence issues the gentle
stream, is, in hot seasons, perfectly dry; but
the drought that stops the supply at the fountain head, has but slight effect upon the course
of the stream.
It has so many different feeders
from various parts of the country, that at Lechlade and Cricklade it runs on its usual course,
uninfluenced by the scarcity at the head.
There is an amusing story told of a simple cockney,
who, on his way from Bristol to London, turned
aside to visit the source of the river he was so
proud of.
It was a warm summer; - there had
been no rain for three weeks, and the spring
was dried up: - "Good God!" said he, with an
expression of the utmost alarm and sorrow,
"what ruin this must cause at London!
Whatever will the poor people do for water!"and
his busy fancy conjured up a direful picture of
a thousand ills consequent upon the stoppage
of the stream: no more ships arriving at London, laden with the wealth of the world - the
bankruptcy of rich merchants - the shutting up
of 'Change - the failure of the Bank of England
- the anguish of ruined families - and the death
of thousands in the agonies of thirst!
The Germans tell a similar story of a traveller
who visited the springs of the Danube, and
which, as we are upon this subject, may serve as
a pendant to the story of our cockney.
The
traveller in this case was a Swabian, and when
ever the Germans wish to palm off a joke, a
Swabian is sure to be the butt.
On noticing
in what a small stream the water trickled at the
source of that great river Danube, he formed the bold resolution of stopping it up!
He put his hand across it; and as he fancied the various
cities upon its course deprived of their supply
of water by his deed, he exclaimed, in the pride
of his heart, "What will they say at Vienna?"
Having now, O reader, traced with thee this glorious river, from London upwards to its fountain head - having diverged with thee sometimes to the right hand and sometimes to the left, in search of memorials of history and antiquity, and pleasant recollections of biography, romance and poetry; having lingered in leafy woods, by flowery hedge-rows, and in enamelled meads, wherever it was likely we might find quiet and seclusion, and food for meditation; traced footpaths leading into lonely spots, and wandered into unfrequented places, in search of health for the body and amusement for the mind - we are now ready for another series of rambles in thy company, which we shall commence accordingly in our next chapter.
We proceed, in pursuance of our original plan, to follow the
Thames to the sea, and note
his memorabilia in that more
important part of his course.
As London was our first point
of departure, so it must be our second.
We
must again take ship at London Bridge; and
as we sail through the narrow passage left by
the all but innumerable vessels that are moored
on either side, take a longer view, and consider
at greater length than when our course was
upwards, the mercantile glories of England.
It is a trite remark, that the world in general
does not appreciate either the beauties or the
advantages which are continually in its sight.
How few of the inhabitants of London are
sufficiently aware how truly magnificent in
every respect is the spectacle of this forest of
shipping.
Even to the eye how picturesque
are these black hulls, reposing in the water,
with their taper and elegant masts, adorned
with the banners of every civilized nation,
pointing upwards to the sky.
But how much
more beautiful the prospect becomes, when we
reflect, how great the cultivation of the arts of
peace must have been before such an assemblage of the engines of commerce could ever
have been collected together.
Were it not for
these vessels, and the myriads that crowd the
ports of England, how low we should be in the
scale of nations, how little would be the progress of manufacture, of science, of art, and
of literature.
These heavy-looking hulls are
the depositories of the national wealth, which
they bring from every nook of the globe, to
be afterwards distributed into the humblest
cottages of the realm.
By their means the
ploughman and the artisan of England fare
better than the kings and nobles of a barbarous age; having a more comfortable dwelling
to keep out the wind and rain, and sleeping
upon a softer bed than the great men of antiquity.
By their means also the shopkeeper
enjoys luxuries which all the wealth of a feudal
chief could never have purchased; and new
wants are continually created, all tending, in
the effort to supply them, to raise mankind in
the scale of civilization.
But before we sail downwards with the tide,
and get out of sight of the mass of buildings
composing ancient London, we must not forget
that many of them solicit our attention.
We
shall have more to say of the shipping and its
wonders when we arrive at the docks.
The
approaches to the new bridge have been the
means of clearing away many old historical
houses on both sides of the river; but after all
there is little to be regretted.
Narrow, crooked, and filthy streets have been pulled down,
and replaced by rows of palaces; and a stranger to London, who had seen it twelve years ago,
would hardly recognize it again in these places.
The old public buildings, however, have been
suffered to remain.
Of these the most conspicuous is the world-renowned Monument, built
by Sir Christopher Wren in commemoration of
the great fire of 1666.
On the other side, in Southwark, stands the
venerable gothic church of St. Saviour, with
the Ladye Chapel adjoining, which has lately
been restored, by a public subscription, from
the decay into which it was rapidly falling.
The church abounds in curious monuments of
the olden time.
One of them is to the memory
of John Gower the poet, who shares with
Chaucer the merit of being one of the fathers
of English verse.
He is, perhaps, the earliest
bard who makes mention of the Thames.
He
relates, in one of his quaint neglected poems,
that being on the river in his boat, he met the
royal barge containing Henry IV.
As I came nighe
Out of my bote, when he me syghe (saw)
He bade me come into his barge,
And when I was with him at large,
Amongest other thynges said,
He had a charge upon me laid.
Gower was a rich man for a poet, and contributed large sums to the rebuilding of the
church.
It has been said, that it was wholly
built with his money; but this is erroneous.
Lest any modern stripling, too fond of the
unprofitable society of the Muses, should take
courage by the reflection that one of the earliest
of English poets was able to build a church,
we present him with the following epigram,
which will explain the mystery.
This church was rebuilt by Gower the rhymer,
Who in Richard's gay court was a fortunate climber;
Should any one start, 'tis but right he should know it,
Our wight was a lawyer as well as a poet.
He was a "fortunate climber," not only in the court of Richard II. but of the Lancaster
who deposed him.
Like other poets, he worshipped the rising star; and his reward was, to
use his own words, that the new King "laid a
charge upon him."
It is commonly supposed
that he was laureate to both these princes; but
the office, if he ever held it, was merely honorary.
He was buried in this church [St. Saviour's], where his
monument may still be seen.
From its proximity to the Globe Theatre
and others on Bankside, many of the players
of the times of Shakspeare who resided in the
neighbouring alleys, found a final resting-place
in this church when their career was over.
Among others, unhappy Philip Massinger,
steeped in poverty to the lips, died in some
adjacent hovel, and was buried like a pauper
at the expense of the parish.
No stone was
placed upon the spot; but in the parish register
this entry was made - "March 20th, 1639-40,
buried, Philip Massinger, a STRANGER."
The church is sometimes called St. Mary
Overy's, or St. Mary's-over-the-river, by which
name it was founded before the Conquest, for
a priory, to the superior of which belonged, before the building of the bridge, the ferry over
the river.
Leaving this ancient building and its poets,
we turn to the other side of the stream, where
Billingsgate, a more renowned spot, claims our
attention.
The contrast is certainly great
enough between poetry and Billingsgate.
Topographers, however, cannot help these violent
transitions; they do not make their subject,
but take it as they find it.
Billingsgate is a
spot famous wherever English literature is cultivated, or its language spoken.
The name has
become synonymous over nearly one half of
the civilized world with foul and violent language.
It is the chief fish-market of London,
and the peculiar phraseology, and the frequent
quarrels of its female merchants, have procured
for it this unenviable notoriety.
The ward in
which it is situated, and from which it takes its
name, is one of the oldest in the city.
Fabian,
Grafton, and others, maintain it to have been built by and named after a British king, called
Belyn, who reigned more than three hundred
years before the Christian era.
According to
tradition, there was a pinnacle over the gate,
surmounted by a vessel of burnished brass, in
which the ashes of King Belyn were inclosed
after his body had been burned, in conformity with the usage of those times.
The place appears to have been known as a fish-market so
early as the time of King Ethelred in 1016.
In the reign of Edward I. an ordinance was
published, regulating the prices at which the
fish might be sold.
It may not be uninteresting to cite a few of the items.
Twenty
herrings were to be sold for a penny; a dozen
of the best soles for threepence; the best
mackerel a penny each in Lent, and one half
penny out of Lent.
Salmon and pike were
exceedingly dear.
From Christmas to Easter
the price of the best salmon was five shillings,
and after Easter three shillings.
A pike was
sold for the lawyer's fee, six and eightpence.
Eels, lampreys, and oysters were cheap; a gallon of oysters being sold for twopence, and eels
and lampreys from sixpence to eightpence a
hundred.
Some further regulations with respect to Billingsgate were published in the
reign of Edward III, who claimed a variety of
taxes from every ship that discharged its cargo
at that place.
Adjoining Billingsgate is the Custom House,
a long handsome building, which looks like
what it is.
How few of the thousands whom
business attracts to it every day know, or
knowing, remember, that one of the first comptrollers of the customs for the port of London,
probably the very first, was no less a personage
than Geoffry Chaucer.
This office, a very lucrative one, was bestowed upon him by King
Edward III. in the year 1375.
The articles
chiefly under the superintendence of the poet
were wool and hides, with a proviso that he
should personally execute the office, and keep
the accounts of it with his own hand.
In the
year after Chaucer's appointment great peculation was discovered in other branches of the
customs, and many of the offenders were discovered and prosecuted.
Not a word of complaint, however, was ever breathed against the
father of English poetry.
His biographers say
that he was not continued in his office after
the accession of Richard II. owing to the jealousy with which the King regarded all the
friends and dependants of John of Gaunt, the
great artificer of Chaucer's fortunes.
But when
that ambitious prince regained the favour he
had lost, he was not unmindful of his friend
and brother, for they married two sisters, and
procured him a pension, and the annual grant
of a pipe of wine from the customs of London.
There appears to have been no Custom
house, properly so called, in the time of Chaucer, for in the year 1385, after his dismissal -
if dismissed he were, which is a very doubtful
point - John Churchman, one of the Sheriffs of
London, in consequence of the general complaint of the merchants, erected a convenient
house for the collection of the customs.
But not
withstanding this, vessels discharged their cargoes at various other places on the river, and so
continued to do for nearly two hundred years.
In the year 1559, an act was passed to compel all merchant vessels to proceed with their
goods for inspection at the New Custom-house,
which was built expressly for the purpose.
This
edifice was destroyed in the great fire of 1666,
and another was shortly afterwards constructed
at an expense of nearly ten thousand pounds.
This building met the same fate as its predecessor, having been burned to the ground with a
hundred and twenty houses in Thames Street,
in January 1714.
It was again rebuilt at the
expense of the government, and lasted till
February 1814, when fire for the third time
destroyed it.
A larger and more commodious
edifice was then begun, which was not completed until 1817.
The site was formerly
part of the bed of the river, and great expense
was incurred in making a sure foundation.
The builder contracted for a hundred and sixty
seven thousand pounds, and twelve thousand
pounds additional for the piling; but, when
completed, the total charge amounted to three
hundred and forty-six thousand pounds, and
twenty-four thousand pounds for the piling.
Notwithstanding all this care and expense, the,
foundation was insecure.
The long room gave
way in 1824, when considerable damage was
done.
A new front upon a safer foundation,
was shortly afterward completed, under the
superintendence of Mr. Smirke.
And now we have arrived at
The towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed;
at the place which, of all others upon the
Thames, merits the most notice.
Could we by
any means read the true and intimate history
of this solemn edifice; could the dumb walls
speak, and tell us of the groans they had listened to, the prayers they had heard, the ravings
of remorse, or the wail of innocence that had
echoed within them when not a living soul
was near; could we force them to deliver up
their awful secrets of unmerited suffering,
blighting tyranny, and of guilt, misery, and
despair in all their various shapes; how harrowing would be the recital, and what hitherto
unopened pictures of the human heart would
be spread out before us to cheat us of our sympathy for thousands who are now for ever beyond its reach.
The Tower of London, of all
other dungeons in the world, would, perhaps,
tell the saddest tale.
The dens of the Inquisition may have witnessed more suffering; St.
Angelo of Rome, or the Bastile of Paris may
have had more victims; but it is not for the
mere greatness of suffering, or the number of
sufferers, that men in general weep; it is for
the glory, or the patience, or the beauty of a
few victims that they shed most tears.
The
same individuals who hear with callous indifference of the slaughter of ten thousand men,
or the burning of twenty cities, melt into tears
for the misery of one.
Hence the peculiar
interest that attaches to the captives of the
Tower, including so many who have left a
never-dying fame, whose names are household
words to us, and the leading incidents of whose
career are engraven upon our memory.
Who
does not remember the sad story of Wallace,
imprisoned in these cells?
of Henry VI, Whose place was filled, whose sceptre wrung from him,
Whose balm washed off wherewith he was anointed?
Of Clarence drowned in the Malmsey butt?
of the royal babes smothered by the orders of the
bloody Richard?
of the ambitious Bohun, Duke of Buckingham?
of the conscientious Sir Thomas More?
the tender, and innocent Anne Boleyn?
the guilty Catherine Howard?
the mild and accomplished Cromwell, Earl of Essex?
the chivalrous Earl of Surrey?
the proud Duke of Somerset?
the quiet and erudite Lady Jane Gray?
her sad spouse, Lord Dudley?
the pious martyrs, Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer?
the amorous, and high vaulting Earl of Essex?
the accomplished Raleigh?
and the forlorn Arabella Stuart?
But we cannot go through the long list of victims,
which stretches out like Banquo's progeny.
Crowned and mitred and coronetted spectres
start up before our mental eye, in long array,
making us, as we reflect upon their fate, thank
God that the "good old times" are gone for ever,
and that we live in an age when law reigns paramount, and the axe is idle, except for the hewing of wood and the breaking of granite.
The Tower was not always used as a dungeon.
It was until the time of Elizabeth, a
royal palace, in which it was customary for the
sovereigns to spend the first few days after
their accession.
Much difference of opinion
has existed as to whether it were built by Julius
Cesar.
It seems now to be generally acknowledged by those who are the best informed,
that a fortress was erected upon the spot by
the Romans, but that the present edifice, or
great White Tower, is the work of William
the Conqueror.
Rufus expended large sums in adding to and fortifying the building.
Henry III. imitated bis example, and taxed
the Londoners very sorely for the purpose.
In his reign, the outer walls fell down, it is supposed, by an earthquake, "for the which
chance, "say the old historians, "the citizens
of London were nothing sorry".
A brick wall
was built by Edward IV. as well as that part
of the structure known by the name of the
Lion's Tower.
The store-house was begun
by James I, and completed in the reign of
William III.
The various bulwarks are named
The Lion's Tower, Middle Tower, Bell Tower,
Beauchamp Tower, Dwelling Tower, Flint
Tower, Bowyer Tower, Martin Tower, Castle
Tower, Broad Arrow Tower, Salt Tower, Well
Tower, Cradle Tower, Lantern Tower, St.
Thomas's Tower, Hall Tower, Bloody Tower,
and Wakefield Tower.
It is now twenty years since it has been
used as a state prison: the last prisoners being
Thistlewood and his accomplices, committed in
1820.
It is now chiefly famous for its beautiful
armoury; its Jewel Room, containing the regalia
of England and Scotland; and its Record Office,
in the Wakefield Tower, containing the parliamentary rolls from the reign of King John to
that of Richard III, a survey of the manors of
England, a register of the ancient tenures of all
the lands, a perambulation of forests, a collection of charters granted to colleges and corporations, and various other state papers.
It
formerly contained a menagerie, but the wild
beasts have been removed within the last eight
or nine years to the Zoological Gardens in the
Regent's Park.
At the distance only of a few yards from
the Tower, the stranger's eye will not fail
to notice a large unseemly stack of buildings,
numbered and lettered like a constable of
police, and overlooking all the neighbouring
structures by half its height.
It forms the
range of warehouses of the St. Katherine's
Dock Company, and, with the docks adjoining,
was opened with great pomp on the 25th of
October 1828.
The docks cover an area of
nearly twenty-four acres, of which eleven and
a half form the wet-docks.
The canal leading
from the river to the great basin is only one
hundred and ninety feet long and forty-five
broad, but is of such a depth, that ships of
seven hundred tons burthen may enter at any
time of the tide.
The expenses of the undertaking amounted to the immense sum of one
million seven hundred thousand pounds; and
during the year and a half that the works
were in progress, two thousand five hundred
workmen were daily employed.
Upwards of
twelve hundred houses, in one of the most
wretched parts of London, were pulled down
to provide space, and among them the venerable
church and hospital of St. Katherine.
Perhaps none but the antiquary, so enthusiastic as to love not only the fine wrecks but
the rubbish of past ages, will regret the demolition of this district; especially when it has
been applied to uses so beneficial to the trade
of the first commercial emporium of the world.
There are, nevertheless, some incidents connected with its history, which it may be in
teresting to record.
St. Katherine's hospital was founded by
Matilda, wife of King Stephen, and dedicated to the patron saint in pure and perpetual
alms for the repose of the souls of her son
Baldwin, and daughter Matilda, who were
buried in her life-time in the church of Trinity
Priory.
She reserved to herself the right of
nominating the master or custos of the hospital
upon every vacancy, a right which has ever
since been exercised by the queens consort of England.
Elianor, queen of Henry III, was
not satisfied with so small a jurisdiction.
Offended at many abuses which had crept into
the administration of the hospital, and desirous
of wresting it altogether from the control of
the prior and canons of the Holy Trinity, in which it had been vested by its original foundress, she instituted proceedings in the civil
and ecclesiastical courts to dispossess them.
She was long unsuccessful in her object, but
she persevered, and after many struggles and
great expense, so intimidated the prior and
canons, and so wore out their patience by vexatious prosecutions, that they were glad to surrender their rights into her hands.
She there
upon dissolved the hospital in the year 1268,
and founded another with the same name and
for similar purposes, but to be governed in a
different manner.
According to tradition, it was in this building that Raymond Lulli, the shining light of
the Hermetic philosophy, took up his abode
when he was invited to England by King Edward II. to make gold for him out of brass and
iron.
It is not certain however, that that alchymist was ever in England.
There was an
other Raymond, a Jew of Tarragona, whom
some writers have mistaken for Raymond Lulli,
and who had an apartment in the Tower of
London, where he tried some experiments in
the prevalent delusion of gold making.
In the church of St. Katherine Cree, removed
with the hospital, to which it was an adjunct,
was buried the famous painter, Hans Holbein,
the protege of Erasmus and Sir Thomas More,
and much employed by Henry VIII. and Edward VI.
For nearly two centuries a sermon was annually preached here under rather remarkable
circumstances.
Sir John Gayer, once Lord
Mayor of London, was shipwrecked on the
coast of Africa on his return to Europe after a
successful adventure to the East.
While bewailing his fate upon the shore, he perceived a
huge lion making his way towards him, on
which he fell upon his knees, and prayed fervently that God would deliver him.
The animal, strange to say, turned round after taking
a good view of him, intending perhaps to eat
him another day, and a ship arriving in sight
shortly afterwards, perceived the signal of the
merchant, and carried him to Europe.
On
his return to London, he placed the sum of
£200 in the hands of trustees, the interest of
it to be applied for ever in the purchase of
bread for the poor, and twenty shillings annually to be paid to the minister of St. Katherine's upon the 10th of October, the day of his
deliverance, for preaching a sermon in commemoration of that event, and the mercy of
God towards him.
Upon the death of Sir Herbert Taylor in
1839, the last Master of the hospital, some misunderstanding arose as to whether a queen
dowager preserved the same rights to the appointment as she enjoyed when a queen consort.
It was decided that the right expired
with her husband, and is now in consequence
merged in the Crown.
The hospital has been
removed to the Regent's Park since the demolition of the old edifice.
It was somewhere in
this district, the exact spot, alas! unknown, that
the author of that divine poem "The Faerie
Queene" was born.
We indulge the hope that
some happy rummager among ancient manuscripts, will yet discover the name of the street
that was the birth-place of so great a man as
Edmund Spenser.
We are now fairly in the middle of that narrow strip of water, left free for the navigation
by the innumerable vessels on either side,
which is called the Pool.
To the left of us
lies Wapping - low, dirty, smelling strong of
pitch, and renowned in the songs of Dibdin;
and to the right, Bermondsey and Rotherhithe,
both well entitled to share with Wapping this
character of filthiness.
But squalid and mean
as they look, they teem with wealth, no inconsiderable portion of it their own, and the
remainder warehoused with them for the convenience of those who dwell higher up the stream.
The London Docks alone, which may be
said to form part of Wapping, contain wealth
enough to purchase the fee simple of a principality.
They cover a space of nearly sixty
acres, and were about three years in construc
tion, having been commenced in 1802, and
completed in 1805.
The great dock is twenty
nine feet deep, covers twenty- four acres of
ground, and is capable of containing two hundred sail of merchantmen at a time.
Mighty
indeed is the trade of London, as the books
of this and the other docks might show.
There is sublimity in commercial accounts
when the items are millions of gallons of wine
or brandy, millions of hogshead of sugar, or
tens of millions of pounds of tea.
The quantity of wine always in bond in these docks
averages, it is computed, five millions of gallons; and the cellarage which contains them
would, in earlier ages, have been esteemed a
wonder of the world.
The average quantity
of pepper in bond, is estimated at ten millions
of pounds; of tobacco, unmanufactured, twenty
three millions of pounds; and of tea, at the
East India Docks, further down the river, fifty
one millions of pounds.
The value of the
latter alone, at the very lowest calculation, is
£5,000,000 sterling.
What a pyramid it would make were it
piled in a heap! what bushes must have been
planted, and flourished, and been stripped of
their leaves to produce it! and what an area
it would cover if spread abroad upon the
ground!
The wine annually brought into
London, this huge den of living men, would form a lake where ships of war might ride;
the rum, another; and the brandy a canal to
join them together.
The tobacco, were it distributed, would provide every man, woman,
and child in our islands with a pound of poisonous weed; and the indigo annually imported would dye father Thames in all his course
from Cotteswold to Gravesend, as blue as the
skies above him.
The number of ships and
men that are employed in bringing all these
commodities from every part of the world into
the Thames is computed at nearly four thousand of the former, and seventy thousand of
the latter, in addition to eighteen or twenty
thousand coasting and smaller vessels which
annually enter the port of London, laden with
coal and grain, and other indigenous commodities, employing, at the lowest calculation, six
men to each vessel.
Besides these, nearly ten
thousand men are constantly employed in load
ing and discharging vessels, and half that number of watermen in navigating barges, wherries,
and other small craft.
The gross amount of
custom dues paid on the enormous traffic of
London was, in the year 1834, no less than
£8,692,298 sterling, and in the following years
until 1839, about £9,000,000.
A traveller proceeding down or up the
Thames does not see one quarter of the navies
engaged in this surprising amount of trade.
Though on each side of him vessels, apparently
innumerable, are moored, choking up the very
stream by their multitudes, there are still greater
numbers of ships, richer and more bulky, almost hidden from the view in the snug basins
of the docks, stretching downwards into the
heart of thickly-peopled districts, and bringing
occupation and subsistence to many a swarming hive of amphibious labourers, living half
upon the land and half upon the water.
The man tempted, for the first time, to dive
into these far recesses, is astonished at the
number of canals and drawbridges, and basins,
that meet his sight; at the odour of tar and
pitch, that subdues every other by its poignancy, and at the clink of hammers, the creak
ing of cranes and pullies, the loud "Yo, yo!"
or the reckless curse of the sailor, which are
the only sounds that smite upon his ear.
The
immediate vicinity of the docks upon the Middlesex shore of the Thames would form a city
of itself; and such a city! a city of floating
palaces, in which the only spires would be taper
masts; and the houses on land mere adjuncts
and outhouses to those upon the water; a city,
of which the inhabitant of the more lordly districts of the west could hardly form a conception, without a personal visit.
The very population is different to that in
other parts of London, and is composed of a
motley multitude of all hues and nations.
There may be seen lounging the slim, but
fierce, Lascar; the brown Malay; the heavy
Russian; the swarthy negro; with a less noticeable crowd of Americans, Hollanders, Germans, Swedes, Frenchmen, and Portuguese,
who all seem in the streets to have nothing
else to do but to swear, and sputter, and smoke,
and drink, but who, once upon ship-board, are
the very models of bustling activity and cheerful labour.
But the glories of our river are not only to
be found upon its bosom and on either side,
but underneath it.
The mass of its waters rolls
over a work, which is one of the most remarkable instances of what the ingenuity and enterprise of man can accomplish.
This is the
Tunnel, now almost completed, the admiration
of civilized Europe, and to many a stranger
from afar the most wonderful of all the curiosities of England, and the first place on his
memorandum-book to be visited and examined.
Some years ago a still bolder undertaking was
projected: a tunnel underneath the Thames at
Gravesend, where the stream is considerably
wider, and the influence of the ocean tides
more perceptible.
It was commenced on the
Gravesend side in the year 1798, and some
slight progress was made; but the difficulties
were found so great that the plan was abandoned.
The next tunnel was projected at Rotherhithe, in 1809, by Mr. R. Trevethick, and was
intended for foot-passengers only.
Some progress was made with the works, but, for
want of encouragement, they were abandoned;
and nothing more was heard of a tunnel until
the year 1823, when the present undertaking
was suggested by Mr. Brunel.
An act of Parliament to form the company was granted in
1824; the foundation stone was laid with great
ceremony on the 2nd of March 1825, and the
works have ever since been continued, and have
now [ 1840 ] reached beyond low-water mark on
the opposite shore, so that the most difficult
and dangerous portion has been completed.
But
this result has not been obtained without accident and loss of life.
Father Thames has more
than once rolled the large volume of his waters
into the excavation; the first time in May
1827, when there were upwards of one hundred and twenty workmen in the shaft, who
all escaped; and a second time in January in
the following year, when six poor men were
drowned.
On both occasions the damage was
soon repaired: bales of cotton or wool, and
loads of impermeable clay were deposited in
the bed of the river where the irruption took
place, the leak stopped, the invading waters
pumped out, and the works resumed.
A third
and a fourth time the Thames; - not like a
strong marauder who breaks wildly through the
fences set up to restrain him, but like an insidious foe; - has penetrated and oozed through
the soft strata of his bed, and filled the tunnel.
On the last occasion, in November 1837, one
man, who had drunk too freely of strong drink,
and had fallen asleep in the shaft, was drowned.
All the other workmen, being awake and
attentive, received due notice of the impending
deluge, and escaped without any difficulty.
The opening to the tunnel is on the Surrey shore, a
little to the eastward of the church of St. Mary,
Rotherhithe.
The tunnel is thirty-eight feet
in width, with a double road for carriages going
and returning, with pavements for foot-passengers.
The height of the arch is twenty feet,
and the crown of it in its whole extent is
protected by masonry the most solid that the
art of man can make; and there is a thickness
of fifteen feet of earth between it and the bed
of the river.
The length of the tunnel, when
completed, will be thirteen hundred feet.
Again, upon the bosom of the river, we pass
on the left, Execution Dock, noted as the spot
where pirates were formerly hung, and Limehouse, full of sea-faring people, and mentioned
by Shakspeare in his Henry VIIIth, as famous
for its blackguards, and by Ben Jonson also
for the same reason.
Beyond, we catch sight
of the steeple of Stepney, to which parish all
seamen in the merchant service pay their
monthly threepence for poor-rates, to raise a
fund for the maintenance of such poor as are
born at sea, and who are entitled to a settlement in Stepney, provided they have not obtained another anywhere else.
On the wall of
the church was formerly a stone, affixed there
in the year 1663, which, if we may believe the
inscription upon it, once formed a part of the
renowned Carthage.
It has since been removed into the vestry.
Stepney Church is
noted for a monument to the memory of one
Dame Rebecca Berry, who died in 1696, and
who is supposed to have been the heroine of
the once popular old ballad of "The Cruel
Knight, or the Fortunate Farmer's Daughter."
In the reign of King Edward I, a parliament was summoned to meet at Stepney, in the house of Henry Walleis, then Mayor of
London.
The Barons, who chiefly composed
the assembly, demanded of the King the confirmation of the charter, which he had promised
them for their aid in his Scottish wars.
After
certain delay, the King agreed, but when the
document was ready for signature, the King
inserted the words, "the rights of our crown
saved ", upon which the Barons broke up the
conference and went away.
Edward not wishing to offend such dangerous personages, sent
for them again to Stepney some weeks afterwards, as we learn from Stowe, and struck out
the obnoxious words, which, had they been
allowed to remain, would have afforded continual occasion of dispute and ill-feeling.
On the other side of the river are Bermondsey
and Rotherhithe, or, as the latter is more commonly called, Redriff, the first place where docks
were constructed for the convenience of the
commerce of London.
The great dry dock here
has existed for nearly two centuries.
The great
wet dock was finished in the year 1700.
After
the bursting of the South Sea Bubble, in 1720,
the directors took a lease of this dock, where
their ships, engaged in the whale fisheries of
Greenland, landed their unfragrant blubber.
The docks are still used for the same purposes,
and are known by the name of the Commercial
Docks.
Adjoining are the Great East Country
Dock, and several smaller ones.
It was at Rotherhithe that King Canute is said to have begun his famous trench to Vauxhall, for the
purpose of besieging London.
The channel
through which the tide of the Thames was
turned in the year when London bridge
was first built of stone, is supposed by
Stowe and other writers to have taken the
same course.
In the parochial church of St. Mary, Rotherhithe, is buried one with whose name and affecting history all the youth of England are
familiar - Lee Boo, Prince of the Pellew Is
land, who died of the small pox in 1780, at
the early age of twenty, after he had learned
the manners, and studied the civilization of
England, and formed the praiseworthy design
of introducing them into his own country.
Still amid the multitude of ships, we arrive
at the Isle of Dogs, famous for its spacious and
convenient docks, for the reception of vessels
engaged in the trade of the West Indies.
They cover a space of two hundred and four
acres, and comprise an Import and an Export
Dock, the former covering an area of thirty
and the latter of twenty four acres, and from
twenty to twenty -nine feet deep.
The warehouses are large, and adapted for the reception,
to use a sailor's expression, of "the mountains
of sugar and the rivers of rum ", that are required for the tea and the grog of our immense
population.
A canal runs right across the neck
of land formed by the winding of the river, and
completes the circumference of water, which
justifies the appellation of island.
It is three
quarters of a mile long, and two hundred feet
wide, and was excavated at the expense of government, in the year 1799, under the powers
of an act of Parliament for improving the port
of London.
It is a great convenience to vessels
of heavy tonnage, as by its means they avoid the tedious navigation round the Isle of Dogs,
about four times the distance.
The Isle of
Dogs is thought to derive its name from having been the place where the King's hounds were
kept in the days of Henry VIII.
This place
acquired some notoriety in the year 1835, as
the spot where the recruits for the British
Auxiliary Legion in Spain assembled prior to
their embarkation, and studied a little of the
art of war which they were so soon to practise.
They were contemptuously called the Isle o' Doggians.
Before we pass Rotherhithe, on the opposite
side, we must not omit to point out to the
reader's notice, Cuckold's Point, with the pair
of horns affixed to the top of a pole.
There is
a legend connected with this matter, which we
shall relate when we arrive at Charlton, a few
miles further down the stream.
A cottage covered with ivy,
just before we arrive at Deptford, marks the boundary between the counties of Kent and
Surrey.
Adjoining is Deptford Dock-Yard, founded by Henry VIII. and es
teemed one of the most complete repositories
for naval stores in Europe.
The yard covers
about thirty acres of ground, and contains every
convenience for making, repairing, and fitting
out ships-of-the-line.
Artificers in wood and
in iron have here large ranges of workshops
and store-houses, where the hammer and the
axe are scarcely ever idle, even in peace, but
where, in time of war, they are plied incessantly
in the construction of those floating bulwarks
for which England is renowned, and which
carry a hundred and twenty guns and a thousand men, to guard her shores from the invader,
or to bear her fame with her victories to the remotest seas of the ocean.
The number of work
men employed here during the war was about
two thousand; but it has since been reduced
at least one-half.
The Victualling Office for
the navy adjoins the Dock-Yard.
The site
was purchased by the government in 1745,
from the family of Evelyn, and a handsome
range of buildings erected.
They were burned
down four years afterwards with most of their
valuable stores.
The present structure, upon
a much more extensive plan than its predecessor, was immediately commenced.
It contains storehouses of various kinds, a spacious
cooperage and brewhouse, houses for curing
meat and fish, slaughter-houses, bake-houses,
and other buildings, including residences for
the principal and many subordinate officers,
among whom are the clerk of the cheque, the
hoy taker, the clerk of the brew house, the
clerk of the cutting house, the clerk of the
dry stores, the chief brewer, and the chief
baker.
In the river opposite was formerly moored
the Golden Hind, the vessel in which Drake
sailed round the world.
Queen Elizabeth paid
him a visit on board this vessel in the year
1581, upon which occasion she conferred the
honour of knighthood upon her subject, who
had conferred more honour upon her reign and
nation, than it was possible for her or any other
potentate to bestow upon him in return.
An
immense concourse of people assembled on
both sides of the river to catch a glimpse of
their sovereign; and a small wooden bridge,
on which were stationed about two hundred
people, broke down, and they were all precipitated into the river.
Happily they were all
saved.
The Queen had passed over it a few
minutes previously, and the rush of people
caused it to break.
But the most interesting circumstance connected with the Dock-Yard of Deptford is,
that it was the residence for a short period of
the great northern reformer, the Czar Peter.
The Czar being wearied of the monotony of
London, sick of its crowds, and disgusted with
the rudeness of the people, who forced themselves upon him, and paid money to the servants for permission to see him feeding "like
any other wild beast ", and anxious moreover
to see the dock-yards of England, the chief
cause of his journey to our shores, bethought
himself of taking a house at Deptford.
Sayes' Court, immediately adjoining the
dock, the property of the celebrated John Evelyn, so well known for his love of trees, was at
that time rented by Captain, afterwards Admiral Benbow, and his term of occupancy being
near its expiration, the government made arrangements that it should be taken for the
Czar.
Poor Evelyn had often complained of
Captain Benbow that he was a very bad tenant,
that he was not polite, that he did not take
sufficient care of his darling shrubberies and
neat hedges; but little did he think when he
agreed that the Imperial Muscovite should
succeed him, what a change for the worse he was
making, and what a fell destroyer and Vandal
among shrubs he was admitting to his grounds.
Scarcely was the Czar installed, when the work
of destruction commenced.
A door-way was
broken through the boundary wall of the dock,
that he might pass at once from Sayes' Court
to the yard, where, by the by, as everybody
knows, he spent a great deal of his time looking at the workmen, talking to them, working
with them, and perfecting himself in the business of a ship-builder.
But though he was a
builder of ships, he was a destroyer of plants,
a knocker down of holly hedges, a rude trampler upon gooseberry bushes, and one that cared
not for lilies and roses.
Sport to him, but almost death to his philosophic landlord, were
the doings at Sayes' Court.
In the first place,
the Czar required exercise, and as a garden
was the very spot for it, he amused himself
every morning by trundling a wheelbarrow
through a gap which he made in the very
hedge of holly that was dearest of all others
to the heart of John Evelyn.
But though he
might disfigure, he could not destroy it; it was
too strong for him; - too well made to be trampled down; - a circumstance which Evelyn
thus commemorated in his "Sylva," after he
had got rid of the intruder.
"Is there under the heavens," said he, with
mingled melancholy and triumph, "any more
glorious and refreshing object of the kind, than
an impregnable hedge of about four hundred
feet in length, nine feet high, and five in diameter, which I can still show in my ruined
garden at Sayes' Court (thanks to the Czar of
Muscovy) at any time of the year, glittering
with its armed and variegated leaves, the taller
standards at ordinary distances blushing with
their natural coral? It mocks the rudest assaults
of the weather, beasts, or hedge-breakers, et illum
nemo impune lacessit!"
It does not appear that the Czar ever found
out the truth of the last observation, or that
it could apply to him at all, unless he were
scratched by the good man's brambles.
He
did just as he pleased, and no remonstrances
were ever made, for it was part of the English
hospitality shown him by the government, that
they paid for all the damage he occasioned,
knowing well that it was not done wantonly,
but from the nature and habits of the man.
The house did not fare better than the garden.
Evelyn 's servant, who seems to have been a
sort of spy in his master's interest upon the
actions of the Czar, thus wrote to him after
Peter had taken up his abode in that once
clean and comfortable mansion.
"There is a
house full of people right nasty.
The Czar
lies next your library, and dines in the parlour
next your study.
He dines (twice a day) at
ten o'clock and six at night, is very seldom at
home a whole day, very often in the King's
yard, or by water, dressed in several dresses.
The King is expected there this day: the best
parlour is pretty clean for him to be entertained
in.
The King pays for all he has."
Though Saye's Court was let empty to the
Czar, and furnished for him by William III,
and though he only occupied it for three
weeks, a surveyor, appointed by the King,
reckoned, in conjunction with Evelyn's gardener, that the damage done to his house and
grounds was to the amount of a hundred and
fifty pounds, which sum, it appears from
Evelyn, was afterwards paid by the King.
Evelyn, in his Diary, under date of the 3rd
of June 1658, mentions, that a large whale was
killed in the Thames opposite his house: - "A
large whale," says he, "was taken betwixt my
land butting on the Thames and Greenwich,
which drew an infinite concourse to see it, by
water, horse, coach, and on foot, from London,
and all parts.
It appeared first below Greenwich, at low water, for at high water it would
have destroyed all the boats.
After a long
conflict, it was destroyed with a harping iron,
struck in the head, out of which spouted blood
and water by two tunnels; and after a horrid
groan, it ran quite on shore, and died.
Its
length was 58 foot, height 16, black-skinned
like coach-leather, very small eyes, great tail,
only two small fins, a peaked snout, and a
mouth so wide that divers men might have
stood upright in it; no teeth, but swathed the
slime only as through a grate of that bone
which we call whalebone; the throat yet so
narrow as would not have admitted the least
of fishes."
While at Saye's Court, the Czar received a
visit from the great William Penn, who came
from Stoke Pogis to see him, accompanied by
several other Quakers.
Penn and he conversed
together in the Dutch language; and the
Czar conceived from his manners and conversation, such favourable notions of that peaceful
sect, that during his residence at Deptford he
very often attended the Quaker-meetings, conducting himself, say his biographers, "with
great decorum and condescension, changing
seats, and sitting down, and standing up, as he
could best accommodate others, although he
could not understand a word of what was said."
But the chief pleasure of Peter, when he was
not in the dockyard, was to sail about in a
small-decked boat on the Thames, accompanied
by his favourite Menzikoff, and three or four
others of his suite, whom he instructed in the
art of managing a boat, he himself generally
acting as the helmsman.
After spending five
or six hours at this work, they used to repair
to a public house in Great Tower Street, near Tower Hill, where they smoked their pipes,
and fuddled themselves on beer and brandy.
The landlord, flattered by the preference given to his house by his royal guest, had his head
painted and put up as his sign.
It remained
till the year 1808, when a virtuoso, taking a
fancy to it, gave the landlord a new sign,
copied from the original, in exchange for it,
where it remains to the present day.
Evelyn was at this time a hale, hearty old
man, in the seventy-seventh year of his age.
His son, also named John Evelyn, and a man
of great literary accomplishments, and one of
the commissioners of the revenue for Ireland,
died at Saye's Court, the year after the Czar
left it.
He was imbued with tastes similar to
his father's, and translated a poem on gardens
from the Latin of Renatus Rapin.
He also
translated the Life of Alexander the Great,
from Plutarch.
He died in his forty-fifth
year.
His father lived to eighty-six.
No traces now remain of the house and
gardens of this family.
The former was pulled
down in the year 1728, and the parish work
house now stands upon its site.
And as for the
garden, time, and the neglect, or convenience
of successive ages, have proved enemies to it,
more rude than the Czar.
Part of it now
belongs to the Government, and is covered by
the slaughter-houses of the Victualling Office;
and on the small remainder potatoes and cabbages have taken the place of the impregnable
holly-hedges and vistas of tall trees, which
once, as Lord-keeper Guildford expressed it,
made the grounds look so pleasant and "so
boscaresque."
Deptford was formerly called West Greenwich, and is said to derive its present name
from the depth of the ford over the little river
Ravensbourne, which here discharges itself
into the Thames.
The ford has long since
been superseded by a bridge.
The latter is
memorable in history for the total defeat of
Lord Audley and his Cornish rebels in the
year 1497.
Headed by that nobleman, Flammock a lawyer, and Joseph a blacksmith of
Bodmin, they had advanced from Taunton,
with the design of taking possession of London.
The Kentish men flocked to their standard; and on their arrival at Blackheath they
amounted altogether to about sixteen thousand
men.
Lord Daubeny, who had been sent
against them by King Henry VII, made a
furious attack upon them at Deptford Bridge,
and after great slaughter, put them to flight.
Lord Audley, Flammock, and Joseph, were taken prisoners, and shortly afterwards executed
on Tower Hill, the latter boasting in his hour
of death, that he died in a just cause, and that
he would make a figure in history.
This little
stream, which here is called Deptford Creek,
rises on Keston Heath, near Hayes Place, and
runs a course of about twelve miles, passing
by Bromley, Lewisham, and the borders of
Blackheath.
An old legend is told, to account
for its romantic name.
It is said, that Julius
Cæsar, on his invasion of Britain, was encamped with all his force a few miles southward of
its source.
The army was suffering a good
deal for the want of water, and detachments
had been sent out in all directions, but without
success, for a supply.
Cæsar observed, that a
raven frequently alighted near the camp, and
conjecturing that it came to drink, he ordered
its arrival to be diligently noted.
His command was obeyed; and the visits of the raven
were found to be to a small clear spring on
Keston Heath.
The wants of the army were
supplied, and the spring, says the legend, and
the rivulet of which it is the parent, have ever
since been called the Raven's Well, and the
Ravensbourne.
It is, as some poet in the
Table Book calls it,
A crystal rillet, scarce a palm in width,
Till creeping to a bed, outspread by art,
It sheets itself across, reposing there;
Thence through a thicket, sinuous it flows,
And crossing meads and footpaths, gathering tribute
Due to its elder birth from younger branches,
Wanders, in Hayes and Bromley, Beckenham vale
And straggling Lewisham, to where Deptford Bridge
Uprises, in obeisance to its food.
Small and insignificant though it be, it is nevertheless a stream which has a name in history.
More than one tumultuous multitude
has encamped upon its banks, shouting loud
defiance to their rulers.
Blackheath, its near
neighbour, bore Wat Tyler and the angry
thousands that followed in his train; and, in
the Ravensbourne perchance, many of these
swarthy artisans stooped down to drink the
limpid waters, when, inflamed by revenge, and
the hope of plunder and absolute power, they
prepared to march upon London.
Jack Cade
and his multitudes encamped upon the same
spot, and the Ravensbourne, after an interval
of eighty years, saw its quiet shores disturbed
by men met for the same purposes, and threatening blood, because, feeling the scourge of oppression,
they knew no wiser means of procuring relief, and were unable to distinguish between law and tyranny on the one hand, and
freedom and licentiousness on the other.
Perkin Warbeck met his adherents on the
same place; and Flammock and his Cornish
men were here hewed to pieces, as already
stated, by the victorious captains of Henry VII.
Nor are these deeds of blood and turmoil the
only events that signalize the Ravensbourne.
At Hayes Place, near the spot where it first
oozes from the sward, lived the great Earl of
Chatham, and there was born his renowned
son, William Pitt.
Besides its dock and victualling yard, Deptford is noted for two hospitals belonging to
the Corporation of the Trinity House, or pilots
of London.
A grand procession comes from London to these hospitals annually on Trinity
Monday, accompanied by music and banners,
and welcomed by the firing of cannon.
Among the most famous residents of this town, besides the Czar Peter and John Evelyn,
already mentioned, were Cowley the poet, and the Earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral of England, and the victor of the Spanish Armada.
The house he inhabited was afterwards
converted into a tavern, called the Gun; and
his armorial bearings, sculptured over the chimney piece of the principal apartment, were long
shown to the curious.
But Deptford has a neighbour more magnificent and more renowned than itself - Greenwich
Hospital - the pride of England, by the great waters
flourishing, and the glory of the Thames.
The
approach to it by the river, is in the highest
degree beautiful and striking.
Those to whom
it is familiar, pass it by without emotion; but
the stranger, and especially he that knows
something of its history, never refrains from
warm admiration.
The homage is forced from
him whether he will or no, by the splendour
of the noble hospital, standing so proudly upon
the brink, and the greatness of the uses to
which it is applied.
Hail, noblest structure, imaged in the wave!
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave;
Hail, blest retreat, from war and shipwreck, hail!
No ostentatious charity raised that edifice to
feed the hungry and clothe the naked, and be
lauded for it; but national justice reared it and
maintains it, and national gratitude will foster it
evermore.
And no great thanks to it either.
Like the private gratitude spoken of by the
diplomatist who studied the human heart so
well, it burns brightly, not so much for past
benefits, but from a keen sense of those which
are to come.
Kindness to the worn-out veteran
is one of the surest means of raising up the race
of the young and vigorous to succeed him; and
our nation in maintaining this hospital, is but
keenly alive to its own interest after all.
As Greenwich owes all its importance to its
hospital - as that edifice is not only the chief
beauty, but the distinguishing characteristic of
the place, and that which singles it out not
only from every other town in Great Britain,
but in the world, it may naturally be expected
that it should receive the first notice at the
hands of the topographer; but, as it is of modern growth, and the successor only of palaces
that existed before its time, we will begin at
the beginning, and not speak further of Greenwich Hospital, prominent though it be, until
we arrive at it chronologically.
The manor of Greenwich, called in the early
records, East Greenwich, belonged formerly to
the abbey of St. Peter at Ghent.
At the dissolution of the alien priories, it was granted by
Henry V. to the monastery of Sheen, or Richmond.
It remained in the possession of the
monks for a very short time, being seized by
the Crown upon the disgrace of the bishop of
Baieux.
Henry VI. in the eleventh year of
his reign, granted it to his uncle, Duke Humphrey, that Humphrey, with whom, according
to the vulgar saying still in use, everybody
who has no dinner is supposed to dine.
Being
pleased with the spot, the Duke built a palace, extending, with its various courts, from
the river to the hill on which the Observatory now stands: there is a good view of
it in Hasted's "History of Kent."
It was
named Placentia, and sometimes the Plaisaunce.
Upon his death it became the property of the
Crown.
Edward IV. enlarged the Park, and
restocked it with deer, and then bestowed it
as a residence upon his queen, Elizabeth Widville.
Henry VII. occasionally resided in it;
and Henry VIII. at one period of his reign
was so much attached to it, that he passed
more of his time at Greenwich than at any
other of his palaces.
He adorned and enlarged
it at considerable expense, and made it so magnificent, as to cause Leland, the antiquary, to
exclaim with rapture unbecoming an antiquary,
as he gazed upon it.
How bright the lofty seat appears,
Like Jove's great palace, paved with stars!
What roofs! what windows charm the eye!
What turrets, rivals of the sky!
It should be said, however, that the antiquary wrote his praises in Latin, and that these verses are the translation of Hasted, the historian of Kent.
Henry VIII. was born in the palace, and there also was born his daughter Mary, as well as his great daughter Elizabeth - the circumstance connected with Greenwich, that of all others rendered it most dear to the mind of Samuel Johnson, who exclaims in the introduction to his Satire upon London -
On Thames's bank in silent thought we stood,
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood,
Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth,
We kneel and kiss the consecrated earth,
In pleasing dreams that blissful age renew,
And call Britannia's glories back to view.
A great fallacy of the lexicographer as to the
age of either Henry or Elizabeth being a blissful one; but let that pass.
It was a merry one
for the aristocracy of the court in some respects,
especially during the time of Henry, and had
there been any safety for their heads, they at
least would have had but little to complain of,
whatever might have been said by the people.
Tilts and tournaments succeeded each other
with great rapidity while he wielded the sceptre.
On Shrove Tuesday, 1526, the King, with
eleven knights, fought against the Marquis of
Exeter with the like number in Greenwich
Park; upon which occasion Sir Francis Bryan,
one of the combatants, had his eye poked out
by the point of a spear.
While the King was
indulging himself with sports of this kind, he
published an edict at Greenwich against the
less costly amusements of his subjects.
"Commissions", says Stowe, "were awarded into
every shire for the execution of the same, so
that in all places tables, dice, cards, and bowls,
were taken and burned; but when young men
were restrained of these games and pastimes,
some fell to drinking, some to ferreting of
other men's conies, and stealing of deer in
parks, and other unthriftiness."
But Henry
was not an enemy to the amusements of the
people, provided they were conformable to his
own notions; and his tournaments were visited
by thousands of his subjects, who had free ingress and egress while they lasted, and ample
accommodation besides.
His Christmas festivals which he held in Placentia, were no less
splendid than his exhibitions of chivalric sports.
Revels, masques, disguisings, and banquets
right royal, distinguished them from all the
entertainments of former sovereigns.
So much
admired for its magnificence was the banquet
he gave to the French ambassadors at this place
in 1528, that honest old Stowe is obliged to
confess, that "he lacked a head of fine wit,
and also cunning in his bowels," to describe it
with sufficient eloquence.
The great tilt-yard
was covered, and converted into a banqueting room.
The Hampton Court banquet
given by Wolsey to the same personages just
before, was, says the annalist, a marvellously
sumptuous one; yet this at Greenwich excelled
it as much as gold excels silver, and no beholder
had ever seen the like.
In the midst of the
banquet there was tourneying at the barriers,
with lusty gentlemen in complete harness, very
gorgeous, on foot; then there was tilting on horseback with knights in armour, still more
magnificent; and after this was an interlude
or disguising, made in Latin, the players being
in the richest costumes, ornamented with the
most strange and grotesque devices.
"This
done," continues Stowe, "there came such a
number of the fairest ladies and gentlewomen
that had any renown of beauty throughout the realm, in the most rich apparel that could be
devised, with whom the gentlemen of France
danced, until a gorgeous mask of gentlemen
came in, who danced and masked with these
ladies.
This done, came in another mask of
ladies, who took each of them one of the French
men by the hand, to dance and to mask.
These
women maskers every one spake good French
to the Frenchmen, which delighted them very
much to hear their mother-tongue.
Thus was
the night consumed, from five of the clock until
three of the clock after midnight."
After the King's marriage to Anne Boleyn,
he took her to reside at Greenwich; and when
it pleased him to declare the marriage publicly,
and have her crowned, he ordered the Lord
Mayor to come to Greenwich in state, and escort her up the river to London.
It was on
the 19th of May, 1533, and father Thames had
never before borne on his bosom so gallant an
array.
First of all the mayor and aldermen,
with their scarlet robes and golden chains, followed by the Common Councilmen in their
robes, and by all the officers of the city in
their costume, with triumphant music swelling upon the ear, and their gay banners floating upon the breeze, walked down to the
water-side, where they found their own barges
ready to receive them, and fifty other barges,
filled with the various city Companies, awaiting
the signal of departure.
Then, amid the firing
of cannon, and the braying of trumpets, the procession started.
A foist, or large flat-bottomed boat, took the lead, impelled by several
fellows dressed out to represent devils, who at
intervals spouted out blue and red flames from
their mouths, and threw balls of fire into the
water.
"Terrible and monstrous wild men
they were," says Stowe, "and made a hideous
noise.
In the midst of them sat a great red
dragon, moving itself continually about, and
discharging fire-balls of various colours into the
air, whence they fell into the water with a
hissing sound.
Next came the Lord Mayor's
barge, attended by a small barge on the right
side filled with musicians.
It was richly hung
with cloth of gold and silver, and bore the
two embroidered banners of the King and
Queen, besides escutcheons splendidly wrought
in every part of the vessel.
On the left side
was another foist, in the which was a mount,
and on the mount stood a white falcon, crowned
upon a root of gold, environed with white and
red roses, which was the Queen's device, and about the mount sat virgins, singing and playing melodiously."
Then came the Sheriffs and
the Aldermen, and the Common Councilmen
and the city Companies in regular procession,
each barge, having its own banners and devices, and most of them being hung with arras
and cloth of gold.
When they arrived at Greenwich, they cast anchor, "making all the
while great melody."
They waited thus until three o'clock, when the Queen appeared, attended by the Duke of Suffolk, the Marquis
of Dorset, the Earl of Wiltshire her father,
the Earls of Arundel, Derby, Rutland, Worcester, Huntingdon, Sussex, Oxford, and many
other noblemen and bishops, each one in his
barge.
In this order they rowed up the
Thames to the Tower stairs, where the King was
waiting to receive his bride, whom he kissed
"affectionately and with a loving countenance"
in sight of all the people that lined the shores
of the river, and covered all the housetops in
such multitudes that Stowe was afraid to mention the number, lest posterity should accuse
him of exaggeration.
On the birth and baptism of the Princess
Elizabeth, in the month of September follow
ing, the people of London were gratified with
the sight of a similar procession to Greenwich
and back again.
The royal couple continued
to reside alternately at the palaces of Placentia
and Hampton Court until the year 1536, when
poor Anne Boleyn became no longer pleasing,
in the eyes of her lord.
On May day, in that
year, Henry instituted a grand tournament in
Greenwich Park, at which the Queen and her
brother, Lord Rochford, were present.
The
sports were at their height, when the King,
without uttering a word to his Queen or anybody else, suddenly took his departure, apparently in an ill-humour,
and proceeded to London, accompanied by six domestics.
All the
tilters were surprised and chagrined; but their
surprise and chagrin were light in comparison
to those of Anne Boleyn.
The very same
night, her brother and his friends, Norris, Brereton, Weston, and Smeton, were arrested, and
conveyed up the river to the Tower, bound
like felons.
On the following morning, the
Queen herself was arrested a few hours afterwards and conveyed to the same prison, where
on the fifth day of her captivity, she indited
that elegant and feeling epistle to her tyrant,
dated from "her dolefull prison in ye Tower",
which every one has read and hundreds have wept
over.
The King had long suspected her truth;
and the offence he took at the tilting match
was, that she had dropped her handkerchief,
accidentally it would appear, but which he conceived to be a signal to a paramour.
On the
nineteenth, the anniversary of her coronation,
and triumphal procession from Greenwich
three years before, her young head was smitten from her body by the axe of the executioner, within the precincts of that building
where she had received the public kiss, in sight
of the multitudes of London! Alas! poor Anne!
When his next Queen died at Hampton
Court, Henry was so grieved that he could
not look upon that palace without shedding
tears.
He retired first to Westminster, and
then to Greenwich, where he kept his Christmas in his mourning apparel.
But the gloom
was not of long continuance.
Greenwich soon
became as gay as ever, and on the public reception of Anne of Cleves it was a scene of great
splendour and rejoicing.
The park was adorned with banners and festoons of the most
magnificent description, and filled with all the chivalry of England, attendant upon the Sovereign.
Nobles, Knights, Bishops, and Ambassadors thronged in those ancient avenues, and
free ingress was also permitted to the people,
as Henry rode towards Blackheath, to meet
his new bride.
After him rode the Lord
Chancellor, and then Sir Anthony Browne,
(afterwards husband of Lord Surrey's fair Ger
aldine,) holding the King's horse of state by a
long rein of gold; and then the multitudinous
array of pages, esquires, and men at arms, followed by the nobles and their retainers; and
the Lord Mayor of London, and all the dignitaries of the city, and the several companies
in their holiday attire.
Tilts and tournaments
were celebrated every day in the park; while
on the river opposite the palace, the water
quintain and other aquatic sports of the age,
were exhibited for the entertainment of the
Queen, and the numerous retinue of foreigners
who had accompanied her from Calais.
The
nuptials were celebrated in the chapel of the
palace.
During the reign of the two succeeding
Sovereigns, Greenwich lost that renown for gaiety which it had acquired from the festivals
and constant hospitality of Henry.
Edward
VI. occasionally visited Placentia, and there he
died in his sixteenth year.
Mary was also an
occasional inhabitant of the palace.
During
one of her visits, a singular accident occurred.
The captain of a vessel proceeding out to sea,
observing the banner of England floating from
the walls, fired the customary salute, in honour
of royalty.
By some oversight, the gun was loaded, and the ball was driven through the
wall into the Queen's apartments, to the great
terror of herself and her ladies.
None of them
received any hurt.
With the reign of Elizabeth, the glories of
Greenwich revived.
It was her birth-place;
the favourite residence of her unfortunate mother, and dear to her for that reason, and in
the summer months, it became during nearly
her whole reign, the favourite seat of the court.
She did not spend so much money in it as
her father, neither was she so fond of tilts and
tournaments as he was, nor was she altogether
so fond of show and ostentation: but she contrived somehow or other to live in continual
gaiety, sometimes by giving entertainments, and
a great deal oftener by accepting them.
On the
2nd of July, 1559, the year after her accession,
the citizens of London entertained her with a
grand muster of their forces in Greenwich
Park.
Eight hundred pikemen in their corslets, four hundred arquebusiers in their coats
of mail, and two hundred halberdiers, were
escorted by the Lord Mayor, Sheriffs, Alder
men, and other dignitaries in their coats of
velvet, and their chains of gold, over the bridge
to the Duke of Suffolk's in Southwark, where
they were reviewed by the Lord Mayor.
They
encamped that night in St. George's Fields,
and early on the following morning, commenced their march to Greenwich.
They stationed themselves in the park on their arrival,
and there waited until five in the afternoon,
when the Queen appeared in the gallery at
the back of the palace, and the exhibition of
their warlike skill commenced.
Dividing themselves into two bands, they fired their shotless guns at each other, and a mêlèe began,
presenting all the outward appearances of a
regular battle, except the spilling of blood.
This lasted for about an hour, when the Queen
thanked the Lord Mayor for his politeness
in commanding the show, and withdrew into
the palace.
The bands then broke up, and
amused themselves till night fall by tilting,
running at the ring, the quintain and other
sports, when they marched back again to St.
George's Fields in the order they had come in.
This warlike Lord Mayor, was Sir William
Hewett, a cloth-worker, whose apprentice Osborne became the founder of the present ducal
family of Leeds.
Within the same month, Elizabeth herself
gave a grand entertainment; but she forgot
to invite the Lord Mayor.
A rural banqueting
house was erected in the park, made of fir poles and birchen branches, with all their green
leaves about them, and variegated with festoons of flowers, both of the field and the
garden, the rarest that then grew, being intermingled with roses, lilies, gillyflowers, lavender, and marigolds, and every description of
sweet smelling herbs and rushes in profusion.
Besides this rural bower for the "Queen of
Beauty and of Hearts", as she was called, and
loved to be called as well as Queen of England, tents were erected in various parts of the
park, for the accommodation of the visitors,
in which there was abundant store of meat and
drink for all who chose to partake.
The
sports began by a tournament.
This was followed by a masked ball and a banquet, and
the whole concluded with a display of fire
works, and a discharge of artillery.
The old annalists make constant mention of
Elizabeth's proceedings at Greenwich.
The
following account of a ceremony observed on
Maundy Thursday, in 1572, is given in Nichols's interesting "Progresses" of that Sovereign.
The court being then at Greenwich,
the Queen, according to ancient custom, washed the feet of the poor on that festival.
Being
in her thirty-ninth year, thirty-nine poor persons attended in the hall of the palace to receive the royal alms.
Their feet were washed, first by the yeomen of the laundry with
warm water and sweet herbs, and afterwards
by the sub-almoner, then by the almoner, and
lastly by the Queen herself, the person who
washed, making each time a cross on the pauper's foot, above the toes, and kissing it.
This
ceremony was performed also by the Queen
kneeling, attended by thirty-nine gentlewomen, after which clothes, victuals, and money
were distributed to them by the almoner in the
Queen's presence.
James II. is said to have
been the last Sovereign who performed this
ceremony.
The dole is still kept up: the
number of recipients annually increasing with
the age of the Sovereign.
The same year, as Elizabeth was proceeding
down the Thames to Greenwich in the royal
barge, a serious accident occurred.
She was
sailing with the French ambassador, the Earl
of Lincoln, and her Vice-Chamberlain, and
discoursing, says Stowe, "about divers weighty
affairs", when, as she came between Deptford
and Greenwich, she passed a small boat in
which was one Thomas Appletree, servant to
Master Henry Cary, who was amusing himself with a loaded arquebus, and shooting rashly at objects on the side of the river.
Suddenly a shot was heard, and one of the water
men in the royal barge, who sat within a few
feet of the Queen, fell into the bottom of the
boat, crying out in the most piteous manner
that he was shot through the body.
His arms
having been stretched out in the act of rowing,
the shot had passed clean through both of
them, and he bled profusely.
"The Queen's
Majesty," says the annalist, "showed such
noble courage as was most wonderful to be
spoken of, comforting the man, and telling him
to be of good cheer, for that every care should
be taken of him."
Appletree, the unfortunate
cause of the accident, was apprehended, thrown
into prison, tried, and sentenced to death on
the fourth day afterwards.
A tall gibbet was
erected on the river side between Greenwich
and Deptford, exactly opposite to the place
where the waterman was wounded, and the
man brought out for execution.
The prayers
for the dead were said, the rope was placed
round his neck, and every one awaited the
signal that was to send the poor wretch into
eternity, when a messenger arrived from the
Queen, with her free pardon for the offender.
A cruel experiment after all, and anything but
a just one.
Greenwich is constantly mentioned by the
flattering poets of that day, and the river Thames
is complimented on its great good fortune in
bearing so lovely a Sovereign continually on
its bosom in her progresses from her capital
to her summer palace.
As the age of the Queen increased, so did the flattery of the
poetasters.
One in particular, said that the
very fish in the Thames raised their heads out
of the water, to gaze upon her beauty.
Sir
John Davis, writing in 1599, when she was
sixty-six years of age, has the following acrostic among a collection of about thirty others,
all in the same strain.
It is addressed to
Flora.
Empress of flowers, tell where away
Lies your sweet court this May:
In Greenwich garden alleys,
Since there the heavenly powers do play
And haunt no other valleys.
Beauty, virtue, majesty,
Eloquent Muses three times three,
The new fresh flowers and graces
Have pleasure in that place to be
Above all other places.
Drayton in a poem published in "England's Helicon "in the following year, thus eulogizes the Thames, and flatters Elizabeth, under the name of Beta.
O thou silver Thames, O clearest crystal flood,
Beta alone the phenix is of all thy watery brood,
The queen of virgins, only she,
And thou the queen of floods shalt be,
Let all the nymphs be joyful then
To see this happy day,
Thy Beta now alone shall be
The subject of my lay.
Range all thy swans, fair Thames, together in a rank,
And place them duly one by one upon thy stately bank,
Set them together all a good
Recording to thy silver flood,
And crave the tuneful nightingale
To help ye with her lay,
The osell and the thrusslecock,
Chief music of our May.
See how the day stands still admiring of her face,
And Time, lo, stretcheth forth his arms our Beta to embrace,
The Sirens sing sweet lays
The Tritons sound her praise,
So pass on Thames, and hie thee fast
Unto the ocean sea,
And let thy billows there proclaim
Our Beta 's holiday.
We'll strew thy shores with pearls where Beta walks alone,
And we will pave her princely bower with richest Indian stone,
Perfume the air, and make it sweet,
For such a goddess it is meet;
For if her eyes, for purity,
Contend with Titan 's light,
No marvel then although they do
So dazzle human sight!
Decker still more complimentary, as he thought,
indulged in the following, in the prologue to
his "Old Fortunatus."
"Some call her Pandora, some Gloriana, some Cynthia, some Bel-phebe, some Astrea; all by several names to
express several loves, yet all these names make
but one celestial body, as all these loves meet
but to create one soul.
We are of her country,
and adore her by the name of Eliza. -
Blessed name! happy country!
Eliza makes the land Elizi-um!"
Hentzner the German traveller, who saw
the Queen at Greenwich in 1598, tells the
plain truth of this goddess of beauty.
"Next
came the Queen," says he, "in the sixty-fifth
year of her age, very majestic; her face oblong,
fair but wrinkled; her eyes small, yet black
and pleasant; her nose a little hooked; her lips
narrow, and her teeth black (a defect, the
English seem subject to, from their too
great use of sugar).
She had in her ears two
pearls with very rich drops; she wore false hair,
and that red.
Upon her head she had a small
crown.
Her bosom was uncovered, as all the
English ladies have it till they marry, and she
had on a necklace of exceeding fine jewels.
Whoever speaks to her, it is kneeling, and now
and then she raises some with her hand.
In
the ante-chapel next the hall, petitions were
presented to her, and she received them most
graciously, which occasioned the exclamation,
Long live Queen Elizabeth!
to which she replied,
"I thank you, my good people!"
Bearing in mind this description and contrasting it with the overflowing flattery of all the
poetasters, we may smile with Horace Walpole,
and exclaim with him,
"What! all this worship offered to an old woman with bare neck,
black teeth, and false red hair!"
The history of the old palace of
Greenwich, after the death of
Elizabeth, loses its chief attractions.
With her died its gaiety
and splendour; the long processions by water, the rural pavilions in the park,
the maskings and revellings by moonlight,
the tilting by day, and the flattering verses of
the rhymers, all ceased together; - and James,
in the ensuing summer, took up his abode in
Greenwich without ostentation, and without
welcome.
The new King did not like to hear
of his predecessor.
He frowned upon those
who suggested the peacefulness or the splendour of her reign, and the name of Elizabeth
was heard in her halls no more.
Soon after his accession, the sage Marquis de
Rosni, better known by his subsequent title
of Duke de Sully, complimented the King
on the part of his great master Henry IV.
Sully went by water to Greenwich in the barges
of the King, accompanied by a hundred and
twenty gentlemen of his household; the banks
of the river being lined with the multitudes
of London to witness the procession.
"I was
shown into a chamber," says the Duke in his
Memoirs, "to partake of a collation, contrary
to the usual custom of England, which is not
to regale ambassadors, or offer them even so
much as a glass of water.
His Majesty having
sent to request my presence, it took me a
quarter of an hour before I could reach the
foot of the throne- a delay which was occasioned as much by the crowd of courtiers who
were there already, as by my having ordered
my whole household to walk before me.
The
King no sooner saw me, than he came down
two steps from the throne, and would have
come down the whole of them, so eager was
he to embrace me, had not one of the ministers
(Cecil) whispered in his ear that he ought not to go any further.
If I, replied the
King aloud, honour this ambassador more
than I have done others, I do not expect that
it should become a precedent.
I bear him a
peculiar love and esteem for the affection which
I know he bears to me, for his constancy to
our religion, and for his fidelity towards his
master.
But I cannot tell," adds Sully, "all
the flattering things he said of me."
After
this public audience, the King made him ascend
to the highest step of the throne, where they
had a long private conversation about various
matters: - the virtues of Henry IV. - the designs of Spain - but chiefly about hunting, to
which, as is well known, James was passion
ately addicted.
A few days afterwards Sully had a second
audience, when the King led him away alone,
through several apartments, into a little private
gallery, meanly enough furnished, where they
had another long conversation about the affairs
of Europe.
Sully's third visit to Greenwich
was to dine with the King.
It was on a Sunday, the 29th of June, 1603, and Sully arrived
at ten in the morning, with all the gentlemen
of his household.
He first went to church
with the King, and nothing particular passed
till the service was over, and they had sat down
to dinner, when James began to talk to him
about his favourite diversion of hunting, and
the state of the weather as influencing it.
Sully was surprised to see that the domestics
all went upon their knees to serve the King
a piece of regal pomp which he had not been
accustomed to in his own country.
During
nearly all dinner time the discourse was about
hunting, when accidentally the name of Elizabeth was introduced.
James spoke of her with
contempt, and even went so far as to say,
that long before the death of that princess, he
in Scotland swayed her counsels, and disposed
of all her ministers, by whom he asserted he
was much better served and obeyed than she
was.
"He then", says Sully, "asked for wine,
and his custom is never to mix any water with
it, and holding his glass in his hand towards
Beaumont and me, drank to the health of the
King, Queen, and royal family of France.
I
acknowledged the honour, and proposed the
royal family of England, making particular
mention of his children, when the King bent
down his head and whispered in my ear that
he should propose as the next toast - the double
union which he contemplated between the two
royal families.
I received the proposition with
every outward sign of joy, and also whispered
that I was sure Henry would not hesitate for
an instant between his good brother and ally
of England, and the King of Spain, who had
already made some overtures upon the same
subject."
At another audience a few days afterwards,
they had a private conversation which lasted about four hours, the King with his own hands
shutting the doors as they passed through the
galleries, to make sure that they were alone,
and then kissing the ambassador twice before
discussing the weighty matters they had met
to talk about.
Before the farewell audience,
he said he would not give Sully the trouble
to come to Greenwich, but would come himself to London to receive him.
He did so;
and told Sully he was so grieved at his departure, that he was obliged to go out hunting
to forget his sorrow in that agreeable exercise.
During his residence at Greenwich, James
made some additions to the palace, erected a
new wall to the park, and commenced a summer-house, called the House of Delight.
He
did not live to complete the latter, which
was finished by Henrietta Maria, Queen of
Charles I. who employed Inigo Jones as the
architect.
The King and Queen did not reside so often at Greenwich as their predecessors
from Henry VIII. had done; and after the
consummation of the revolution by the beheading of the King, the palace was for a long time
deserted.
An order was issued by the House
of Commons for the sale of the palace with the park and lands adjoining; but it was
not sold, having been presented along with
Hampton Court as a residence for the Protector.
Cromwell, however, seldom visited it, and the
palace was allowed to fall into decay.
After
the Restoration it was found in so ruinous a
condition, that Charles II. caused the greater
part of it to be taken down, and a new palace
erected in its stead.
This edifice forms the
western wing of the present hospital, and was
built by Webb, son in law of Inigo Jones.
Charles II. also enlarged the park, and had
it replanted and laid out in its present avenues
and shady walks by the great philodendron,
John Evelyn.
He also erected the Observatory on the top of the hill, for the use of
Flamstead the astronomer royal, furnished it
abundantly with mathematical instruments, and
made a deep dry well for the observation of
the stars in the daytime.
From this hill, all
English, and most American astronomers, commence the calculation of the longitude.
The
expense of all these improvements was about
thirty-six thousand pounds.
No progress was made in the palace, in the
reign of James II, but, in that succeeding, the
kindheartedness of the amiable Queen Mary,
suggested an idea to her husband which totally
changed the character of the building, and eventually rendered it that which we now behold
it, not only the boast but the glory of England,
and more truly magnificent than the most splendid palace that ever in this world was erected
for the convenience or the gratification of Kings.
At Mary's solicitations, a grant of a certain
house, built by King Charles II, with the lands
appertaining thereto, was made for the use of
disabled English seamen and their children, and
for the widows and children of such as had
lost their lives in the service of their country.
After her death, King William carried on her
benevolent designs, appointed commissioners to
aid the work, and solicited the contributions of
his subjects for the same end, as the necessity of
his own affairs did not permit him to advance
the considerable sums which the undertaking
required.
Another wing was forthwith commenced, under the superintendence of Sir
Christopher Wren, and the works being continued by every succeeding Sovereign, were finally completed in the reign of George II.
In that of George I. the forfeited estates of
the Earl of Derwentwater, amounting then to six thousand per annum, but of more considerable value now,
were appropriated for the
maintenance of the hospital.
Besides the revenues from these estates,
the Hospital has various sources of income; including a payment of
sixpence per month from all seamen and marines in the royal navy or merchant service;
the duties arising from the North and South
Foreland light-houses; the rents of the market
at Greenwich; various fines for fishing in the
Thames with unlawful nets and at improper seasons; and forfeited and unclaimed prize money.
The hospital consists of four distinct piles of
buildings, which stand on a noble terrace upon
the river's bank, extending about eight hundred
and sixty-five feet, and are called after their
founders, King Charles', Queen Mary's, King
William's and Queen Anne's buildings.
In
Queen Mary's, to the east fronting the river, is the celebrated chapel, to which all strangers
resort; and in King William's, the west wing,
is the still more celebrated Hall, painted by
Thornhill, and containing portraits of the most
celebrated naval heroes who have arisen in our
isle since we became supereminent as a sea-faring, and a sea-conquering people; models of
ships of war, and, lastly, what may be considered
more precious than all, the identical coat, worn
by the great Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar,
carefully enclosed in a glass case from the touch
of the visitor; but bearing many too perceptible marks that no care can preserve it from
the destructive touch of time, and the tiny
tooth of the devouring moth, which together
have made sad inroads upon the hallowed
relic.
In the upper hall is preserved another relic the funeral car, in which the body of Nelson
was conveyed with all the pomp befitting the
gratitude of a great nation to the illustrious
dead, to St. Paul's Cathedral.
Of all the pageantry that Greenwich has witnessed since it
became a town, this was, if not the most magnificent, the most grand and impressive.
The
body, after lying in state for three days, in the
Hospital, during which it was visited by immense multitudes, was conveyed on the 8th
of January, 1806, up the river to Whitehall,
followed in procession by the City Companies,
in their state barges.
The flags of all the vessels in the river were lowered half-mast high, in
token of mourning, and solemn minute guns
were fired during the whole time of the procession.
The body lay all that night at the Admiralty, and, on the following morning, was
removed on a magnificent car, surmounted by
plumes of feathers, and decorated with heraldic
insignia, to its final resting place in St. Paul's
Cathedral.
From the Admiralty to St. Paul's,
the streets were all lined with the military.
The procession was headed by detachments of
the Dragoon Guards, the Scots Greys, and the
Ninety-second Highlanders, with the Duke of
York and his staff, the band playing that sublime funeral strain, the "Dead March in Saul."
Then followed the pensioners of Greenwich
Hospital, and the seamen of Lord Nelson's
ship the Victory, a deputation from the Common Council of London, and a long train of
mourning coaches, including those of the royal
family, the chief officers of state, and all the
principal nobility of the kingdom.
When the
coffin, covered with the flag of the Victory,
was about to be lowered into the grave, an
affecting incident occurred: the attendant sailors who had borne the pall, rushed forward,
and seizing upon the flag, before a voice could
be raised to prevent them, rent it into shreds,
in the intensity of their feelings, that each
might preserve a shred as a memento of the
departed.
Greenwich Hospital now lodges about three
thousand old and disabled seamen, to attend
upon whom are upwards of a hundred nurses,
widows of seamen.
Each pensioner, besides a
liberal allowance of clothes and provisions, receives a small weekly sum for tobacco and other
indulgences to which he has been accustomed;
the sailors one shilling, the mates one shilling and sixpence, and the boatswains two shillings and sixpence.
A library is also provided for their exclusive use.
It is a pleasing sight to see
them sitting in the sunshine in the porches of
their palace, or swarming about in the green
alleys of the Park, with their old-fashioned cocked hats and coats; some feeding the deer, some
lying at full length upon the sward, others turning over under the trees the smoke-coloured
leaves of some well-fingered manual, and others
again, standing upon Flamstead Hill, with telescope to their eye, watching the arrival or departure of some vessel, with her white sails spread,
careering swiftly through the waters of the
Thames, and soliciting the loiterer, for a penny
fee, to do likewise.
The view from this hill is
most agreeable and noble.
Right underneath
lie the glades of the Park, and the twin domes
of the Hospital, and the eye, taking a wide
range, roams to the right and left, over the
busy bosom of the river, covered with ships,
and boats, and steam vessels, bearing wealth
and passengers to and from the great heart of
England.
The latter itself is dimly visible to
the west, crowned with a corona of perpetual
smoke, from which the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral emerges grand and imposing, its gilded ball glittering in the sunshine,
while all below is dim and cloudy.
Every variety of view
afforded by a flat country may be seen from
this hill; the busy town, the busy water, the
retired woodland, and the fine open country,
dotted with herds of cattle, and enlivened with
clumps of trees, from which village churches
peep modestly forth, farm -houses, villas, and
fields of waving grain.
Of the patron saint of Greenwich, to whom
in former days its church was dedicated, and
which still bears his name, an old legend is
related, which we, as avowed lovers of traditions, must not fail to record.
St. Alphege
was Archbishop of Canterbury at the commencement of the eleventh century, and Greenwich having been occupied by the Danes in
one of their predatory incursions in the year
1011, a detachment was sent from thence to
Canterbury, who brought back the archbishop
with them to Greenwich, where he was detained a captive for seven months.
While
mourning in his cell, the monkish legends say
he was visited by the devil, who appeared to
him in the likeness of an angel, and tempted
him to follow into a dark valley.
St. Alphege,
deceived by the false glitter of the celestial glory
which the arch enemy had assumed, followed
him wearily over rugged stones that cut his
naked feet, through stinging underwoods, and
sharp brambles that tore his flesh, until they
arrived at a deep mire, into which the devil
soused him, and vanished in his real shape
with an insulting laugh of triumph.
A real
angel immediately afterwards appeared, who
assisted him out, and told him to go back to
prison, and suffer martyrdom for the glory of
the Lord, which had been decreed his high
privilege in this world.
The saint did as he
was bidden; and shortly afterwards his captors,
being enraged because his friends could not
pay the exorbitant ransom which they demand
ed, set upon him and cruelly murdered him.
His body after death worked miracles: a rotten stake that was driven through it, flourished
and bore leaves and blossoms, by which many
of his murderers were converted.
The citizens
of London hearing of the event, purchased
the body, and removed it from Greenwich to
St. Paul's Church, where they buried it with
great magnificence.
It was eleven years after
wards removed to Canterbury by order of King
Canute.
The present parish church of Greenwich is supposed to have been erected on the
very spot where the murder was committed.
Twice in every year Greenwich becomes the
grand resort of the populace of London - first at
Easter, and afterwards at Whitsuntide.
What
man, woman, or child residing within a circuit
of twenty miles of Greenwich, and belonging
to those classes of society who do not think
it derogatory to enjoy themselves at a fair,
that has not at one time or other been present at the celebrated Saturnalia?
Greenwich
is then in all its glory, and becomes, as Chaucer
characterized it four hundred years ago,
Grenwiche that many a shewe is in,
and affords plenty of amusement for the boisterous man to share, and the quiet man to look
at.
It is then that the manners of a large
class of the people of England, and chiefly
those of the metropolis, which is of itself a
nation, may be studied to advantage.
On
Easter Monday, as soon as the day dawns, the
approaches to Greenwich, if the weather be
favourable, teem with the population of the
capital; some bent on fun, some on mischief,
some on drink and riot, some on honest profit,
some upon thimble rigging, and very many upon obtaining foul possession of other people's
pocket handkerchiefs and loose valuables.
But
by far the greater number go for enjoyment;
servant girls, apprentices, and journeymen from
London; artisans, farm labourers, soldiers and
sailors from the surrounding districts - a motley, disorderly, drunken, jolly multitude.
They
rise innumerable, like Pharaoh's host, or the
swarm of evil spirits described by Milton, pouring down every lane, filling every avenue,
streaming upon every vacant foot of ground,
and covering the land like the locusts of the
East.
Greenwich that day receives an accession of at least a hundred thousand living souls;
some trudging on foot, some riding in carts
and vans and waggons, some whirled by the
rapid steam-car, and others by the steam-boat,
packed closely together with their wives and
children, and all bent upon spending their
earnings, or cheating other people of theirs.
It is an animated but strange sight that the
philosophic observer may behold, if he will
station himself at any snug window on the
line of road from London to the fair.
Horses
and donkeys are overladen by living loads,
sweating and toiling along the dusty way in
long procession, their drivers urging them to
a speed that is impossible with such burdens,
and cursing foul curses at the inevitable delay.
Gigs, coaches, vans, coal-waggons, and even
dust- carts, all come into use that day; and
turnpike keepers reap a harvest sufficient to
keep starvation from their doors for a twelve
month to come.
Pedestrians numberless trudge
on either side, while houses of entertainment
yawn wide at every step; or booths, erected in
the course of the night by the way-side, invite
them to linger and expend a portion of their
superfluity ere they arrive at the goal.
It is
no exaggeration to say, that the very road
is alive with them.
As the day advances towards the noon, they come in thicker shoals,
denser and denser still, singing and laughing,
and shouting and swearing, hundreds drunk,
and thousands more determined to become so;
while
Draggle-tailed sluts and shirtless men,
And young girls lewd and crazy,
launch forth their vulgar wit at every convenient opportunity upon their fellow way
farers.
Nor is the river a scene of less bustle.
Steam -boats bearing each one its cargo of five
or six hundred souls, arrive every five minutes
at the pier, and discharge them into the narrow
lanes and low public-houses of old Greenwich.
Wherries and barges are as heavily laden in proportion to their bulk; while the railway trains,
smoking and steaming like the post-chariot
of Satan, bring their human cargo by thousands at a time, to swell the mass.
Then almost every house in Greenwich becomes a
shop; while at every door is stationed a "barker," to invite the crowd to partake of tea or
coffee or dinner.
Those who bring their own
tea may purchase hot water and the use of
cups and a kettle; and those unprovided, may
supply all their wants either at a reasonable
or an extravagant rate, according to the style
of accommodation they are accustomed to.
The once quiet glades of the Park stream with the unmannerly multitude; the deer, disturbed
by the din, fly to their securest retreats; while
abandoned women and blackguard men roll
down the One Tree Hill, amid the laughter of
idle boys, and the obscene jests of striplings
always more obscene than full-grown men.
Quieter parties are formed upon the grass,
and cloths are laid and corks fly under the
trees, while cold beef and bottled ale pass
rapidly round, eaten without plate or fork,
and drunk without the intervention of a glass.
But it is not by day that the uproar is at its
highest; it is at night that "the mirth and fun
grow fast and furious", and that the fair appears the very paradise of the vulgar.
Let any man who does not care for a
squeezing, or a tread upon his corn, put on his
oldest hat and coat, leave his watch behind
him, and all his money but half-a-crown, and
then venture into the throng, and he will see a
sight unparalleled in the world, and learn a little
of the rough jollity of the English populace.
He will at first be almost stunned by the conglomeration of noises that smite upon his ear;
the braying of unmelodious trumpets, the beat
ing of loud kettle-drums, and still louder
gongs; the squeaking of wheezy fiddles, the
sonorous invitation of showmen, the "buy,
buy," of gingerbread venders; the shrieks, and
filthy talk of abandoned women; the oaths of
abandoned men, and the roar of the ever
moving multitude.
After the lapse of a little
time, when his ear has been accustomed to the
uproar, he will be able to separate the noises
into their several elements, and learn, that each
is the representation of some peculiar vice or
folly, all met to keep holiday together.
If he
have no appetite for shows; no delight in looking at giants, dwarfs, learned pigs, pig-faced
ladies, painted cannibals, and children with six
toes upon each foot, let him turn into the
booth set apart for dancing or theatrical representations.
In the first he will just be able to
discover, amid dense clouds of tobacco-smoke,
hundreds of men and women, dancing like the
warlocks and witches at Alloway Kirk,
No cotillons bran-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Wi' life and mettle in their heels,
They reel, they set, they cross, they tumble; -
the men smoking all the while; and the women, leaving off at short intervals
the hot exercise to regale themselves with deep draughts of rum and gin, and some of them, when tired
of dancing, lending their sweet voices to swell
the harmony of the fiddlers, that set so many
heavy feet amoving.
When he has had enough
of the smoke and the odour of rum in these
pavilions of an old and frowsy Terpsichore,
let him enter the theatrical booth, and he will
sup full of horrors, in the first piece, and be
treated, in the second, with farce as broad as
the previous tragedy was deep.
Murders, rape,
incest, despair, suicide, and the gallows, will
be the staple of the first; practical jokes, jests
of venerable antiquity, and coarse as the audience, will form the staple of the second.
There sallow-faced mechanics, bluff peasants
and soldiers, and blear-eyed journeymen, stamped with the brand of dissipation, sit, for the
pleasant exciternent of either, now and then
varying the entertainments by hurling ginger
beer bottles at the heads of the performers, or
extinguishing the lights by well-aimed cabbages and potatoes.
And this is Greenwich-fair, the most famous
festival of the Londoners; the wonder of foreigners; an eye-sore to the magistracy and all
orderly people; but an evil which our short
sighted legislation, in matters of popular recreation, augments, instead of diminishing.
Sing
ing and dancing are forbidden all the year in
places where the populace resort; the Solons
of the quarter-sessions will not allow them to
hear music, or to dance, lest they should get
drunk, forgetting that they can become sottish
without the exhilaration of either.
They enclose common lands, and curb their amusements by every means, as if they were slaves,
born to toil, and precluded by some law of
nature from any refined enjoyments, and then
they complain that once a year, upon occasion
of a fair, their pent-up jollity explodes, and
that they run riot, and commit all manner of
excesses.
Several attempts have been made to suppress
Greenwich-fair, but in vain.
It still remains
the noisiest and most disgraceful holiday of the
London mob, and probably ever will remain so
till our magistracy have a little more consideration for the amusements of the poor; and
put a few more opportunities for recreation in
their way; until the legislature takes up the
question upon high and philosophical grounds,
and provides such facilities for harmless and
exhilarating sports for the many, as will with
draw them from the silent and sottish corners
in low public-houses, where they sit almost
every night, ready, whenever the period of
their saturnalia arrives, to make up for the
past privations of the year, by indulgences which harm themselves, and afford excuses to
their local tyrants to draw still tighter, upon
other occasions, the bonds that bind them.
Before leaving Greenwich, we should not
omit to mention the Dreadnought, one of the
most prominent objects that meets the rambler's eye on proceeding thither by water.
This
fine old man-of-war, now used as an hospital
ship for seamen of all nations, and supported
by the voluntary subscriptions of the charitable, was, in the days of his youth, a formidable
enemy of the French and Spaniards; a worthy
successor of the Dreadnought of old, which
fought against the Spaniards in the time of
Queen Elizabeth.
In the glorious victory of
Trafalgar he bore his part bravely; and under
the command of Captain John Conn, he captured (we speak of him in the masculine, as a
man-of-war) the large Spanish three-decker, the San Juan, which had been previously engaged
by the Bellerophon and the Defiance.
The San
Juan surrendered, after a stout affray, in which
her hull was greatly shattered, her masts cut
away, her captain slain, and nearly three hundred of her men killed and wounded.
The loss
on board the Dreadnought was seven killed and
twenty-two wounded.
From being stationed
for so many years past in the river, within so
short a distance of the metropolis, the Dreadnought was well known to the multitudes of
London, and afforded, even in her mastless
condition, an accurate notion, to those who
had never seen any other ship of war, of the
floating bulwarks by which Great Britain is
defended.
In the summer of 1840 a leak was
discovered in her hold (we may now promote
her to the feminine gender, considering her as
a nurse to the sick ), which rendered her removal necessary, for a short period only, till
her repairs were completed, and she was towed
down to Sheerness for that purpose by three
steam-boats, appointed for that special service,
amid the cheers of a great multitude, who
assembled to witness her departure.
In a few
days afterwards she was restored to her former
moorings, where she now remains.
Turning from Greenwich to
the opposite bank of the river,
we pass that considerable bend
which forms the Isle of Dogs,
and, on its eastern extremity,
see the hamlet of Blackwall, famous for its
shipping in the records of commerce, and for
its luscious white bait in the modern annals
of gastronomy.
Hither, during the season, resort numerous aristocratic parties to regale
upon the peculiar delicacies of the place; hither resort - Privy Councillors, Ministers of
State, and Under - secretaries, with whom of late
years it has become quite fashionable to dine
at Blackwall.
So great a delicacy are these
tiny fish esteemed, that many persons consider
a white bait dinner to be the most elegant entertainment that an amphitryon can bestow.
They were long thought to be peculiar to the
Thames; but they have lately been discovered
in the Frith[sic] of Forth.
The chief taverns of
Blackwall are famous for, and mainly supported by them, where they are served up to the
guests at extravagant prices, a few minutes
after they are caught.
When the Bastard of Falconbride, as he was
called, made his attack upon London, during
the disastrous wars between the partisans of the
Red and White Roses, he was repulsed from
Southwark by the citizens, and driven to
Blackwall.
His object was to release Henry
VI, at that time captive in the Tower; and
having sent about one half of his forces from
Southwark to the meadows beyond Greenwich,
they transported themselves across the river in
boats and rafts to Blackwall.
From thence
they marched to London once more, and
stormed it at Aldgate, while Falconbridge
himself made a second attack upon London
Bridge.
Both assaults were unsuccessful.
The
Blackwall party, to the number of six-hundred,
forced an entrance into the city, and were cut
to pieces by the citizens, who immediately
closed the gate, and suffered not one to escape
alive.
The remainder, who had not forced an
entrance, were all taken prisoners.
At London Bridge, the Bastard was repulsed with
great loss, and retreated to Rotherhithe, with
only two or three hundred men of all his host.
Shortly afterwards he was captured by the
Londoners, and beheaded, with nine of his companions, whose heads long remained upon the
bridge, a terrible example to all beholders.
The stranger who visits Blackwall and its
numerous canals and docks may exclaim with
Dyer in his "Fleece",
Here lofty Trade
Gives audience to the world - the strand around
Close swarms with busy crowds of many a realm:
What bales! what wealth! what industry! what fleets!
It is the grand depôt of the East India trade.
The docks were completed at the expense of
the East India Company, and first opened for
shipping in the year 1803.
The import dock
covers an area of about nineteen acres, and the
export about twelve.
Until lately every ounce
of tea consumed in the United Kingdom, proceeded in the first place from this immense repository;
but since the breaking up of the monopoly of the East India Company, London
is no longer the only port for vessels engaged
in this gigantic traffic.
Here also is the most
extensive private ship-yard in Europe, belong
ing to Messrs. Wigram and Green.
When
these docks were dug in the year 1790, a discovery was made, which had geology been so
well understood as it is now, would have attracted the attention of most of the learned
men of the age.
A subterranean forest, or,
more properly speaking, the remains of one,
were found in a state of great preservation;
not scattered in confusion, but lying in regular
order, and all the tops of the trees turned to
wards the south, in which direction they must
have been swept by some great convulsion of
nature - some sudden whirlwind, or some rush
ing of mighty waters from the north.
Close to Black wall the river Lea discharges
itself into the Thames, "the Gulfy Lea, with
sedgy tresses" of Pope; and "the wanton Lea
that oft doth lose his way" of Spenser; the
most famous fishing stream in the neighbourhood of London, and suggesting at every step
upon its green banks some agreeable reminiscence of the gentle craft professed by Isaac
Walton.
A day's walk towards its source from Bow to Hertford, is one of the pleasantest excursions a contemplative man can
take - whether he be an angler or a mere peripatetic in search of health among the green
meadows and "breezy hills."
It takes its rise
near Luton, in Bedfordshire, whence it flows
obliquely to Hertford and Ware, and then
passes close by Amwell, where the New River
that supplies London with water begins to run
almost parallel with it, and close by Hoddesdon, Broxbourne, Cheshunt, Waltham Abbey,
Enfield, Edmonton, Tottenham, Walthamstow,
and Bow.
At Enfield the New River parts
company with it a little way, and taking a
bend to Southgate, flows on to Hornsey and
Canonbury, to the New River Head at Islington, where it is afterwards swallowed by the
million mouths of animated London.
Let the
reader only imagine that we have reached Hertford, per saltum, and we will trace this pretty
stream downwards with him to its junction
with the Thames, and gossip as we go,after our
usual fashion, about the by-gone worthies who
dwelt beside it and fished in it; and of the
memorable events that may have signalized
each spot upon its banks.
Hertford was a place of some note in the
days when the Romans held possession of Britain, and afterwards became one of the principal
towns of the East Saxons.
Alfred built a
castle to protect it from the Danes, who had
more than once set fire to it, and plundered the
people.
After the Conquest, the place became
a royal domain; and the castle for many hundred years was the occasional residence of the
sovereigns of this country.
A few, but very
few traces of the structure are still said to
exist; but in this respect we speak from hear-say only.
There are several humble seminaries
for education in and near the town, the most
important of which is Haileybury College, on
the road towards Hoddesdon, for the education
of young persons intended for the civil service
of the East India Company in India.
In the
town there is a branch school for the junior
children of Christ's Hospital in London, and a
free grammar school, having scholarships at the University of Cambridge.
Ware is also a town of considerable antiquity.
It was founded in the reign of Edward the
Confessor, and is mentioned in Domesday Book,
under the name of Waras.
In the times when
England suffered from the invasion of the
piratical Danes, they used often to sail up the
Lea from Blackwall, as far as this place, where
they erected a fort, from whence they made frequent sallies to ravage Hertford and the neighbouring country.
In the year 1408, the Lea
overflowed its banks, and swept away all the
frail wooden and thatched tenements of which
they were composed.
After this calamity, when
the town was rebuilt, dams and weirs were constructed in the river to guard against future
inundations, from which weirs Camden supposes it took its name of Ware; but "the
nourrice of antiquitie," so seldom wrong, was
wrong in this instance, as a reference to Domesday Book will show.
It is now a busy, comfortable, substantial- looking place, well attended by "brothers of the angle,"
who love the stream by which it stands, and think with reverence upon the name of old Walton,
whenever they "stretch their legs over Tottenham Hill towards Ware upon a fine, fresh,
May morning."
From Ware to Hoddesdon, the New River
runs within a very short distance of the Lea.
Hoddesdon is a small place, chiefly famous for
a curious fountain that has long stood in
the market-place, and alluded to by Prior in
his ballad of Down Hall.
Down Hall itself,
whither the poet retired, after he was discharged from prison, at the close of the year
1717, is in this neighbourhood, standing upon
one of the tributary rivulets that feed the Lea
near Harlow, where Locke is buried.
He was
wearied of the ups and downs of politics, and,
if we may believe him, found in his retirement
more peace and happiness than he had ever
known before; as he himself sings
The remnant of his days he safely past,
Nor found they lagged too slow, nor flew too fast.
He made his wish with his estate comply,
Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die!
This was the true philosophic frame of mind,
but he did not live long to encourage himself
in it.
His health failed him in his darling
seclusion, and he died in 1721.
Of Hoddesdon
and its inn, the Bull, still existing to receive
the traveller, Prior makes the following mention in his ballad of Down Hall, wherein he ludicrously details his adventures on going to take
possession of the snug villa which the kindness
of his patron Harley provided for his declining
years.
Into an old inn did their equipage roll,
At a town they call Hoddesdon, the sign of the Bull,
Near a nymph with an urn that divides the highway,
And into a puddle throws mother of tea.
Down, down, Derry down.
"Come here,my sweet landlady, pray, how d'ye do?
Where is Cicely so cleanly, and Prudence and Sue?
And where is the widow that dwelt here below?
And the ostler that sung about eight years ago?
Down, down, Derry down.
And where is your sister, so mild and so dear,
Whose voice to the maids like a trumpet was clear?"
"By my troth," she replies, "you grow younger, I think;
And pray, Sir, what wine does the gentleman drink?
Down, down, Derry down.
"Why, now let me die, Sir, or live upon trust,
If I know to which question to answer you first.
Why things since I saw you most strangely have varied,
The ostler is hang'd, and the widow is married.
Down, down, Derry down.
And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse,
And Cicely went off with a gentleman's purse;
And as to my sister, so mild and so dear,
She has lain in the churchyard full many a year."
Down, down, Derry down.
"Well, peace to her ashes, what signifies grief?
She roasted red veal, and she powdered lean beef;
Full well she knew how to cook up a fine dish,
For tough were her pullets, and tender her fish."
Down, down, Derry down.
"For that matter, Sir, be ye squire, knight, or lord,
I'll give you whate'er a good inn can afford.
I should look on myself as unhappily sped,
Did I yield to a sister or living or dead!"
Down, down, Derry down.
As ample, - it would be unkind to say, similar, - accommodation is still to be found at this ancient inn; which the traveller may perhaps feel an additional motive for patronizing, when he remembers that it ever boasted so illustrious a guest as the author of the "Nut Brown Maid," and if he finds better fare than Prior did, so much the greater will be his satisfaction.
The Thatched Inn, another old hostelrie, alluded to by Walton, has disappeared, no one
knows how long ago.
In the original edition
of the "Complete Angler," Piscator replies to
Venator, "that he knew the Thatched House
very well, for he often made it his resting-place
to taste a cup of ale there, for which liquor
that place was very remarkable."
It has been
supposed, that a thatched cottage, once known
by the sign of the Buffalo's Head, at the further end of Hoddesdon, towards Ware, was
the house alluded to; but doctors differ upon
the subject, and there is no certain light to
guide the steps of the reverential angler.
The Rye-House, so called from its contiguity
to the house of the same name, famous in the
annals of Charles II, is the favourite resort of
the anglers of the present day.
The Rye-House, not the little inn of which
we have given the opposite view, but the old
edifice, tenanted in Charles II.'s time by Rumbold, the maltster, has a melancholy celebrity in English history, and its name conjures up
affecting remembrances of the good lives, and
untimely deaths, of Russell and Sidney, the
martyrs of liberty.
Rumbold the maltster, and
other weak or bad men, who were bound up in
one common discontent, with the wise and
good, against the misgovernment of Charles II.
and the intrigues of his brother James, were
no doubt concerned in a plot against the
King's life; but Sidney and Russell were
never proved to have taken part in it.
The
house stood on the high road to Newmarket,
and Rumbold, the tenant, thought how easily
the King might be shot there on his way to
the races, whither he went once a year.
" He
laid a plan of his farm before some of the
conspirators," says Hume, "and showed them
how easy it would be, by overturning a cart,
to stop at that place the King's coach; while
they might fire upon him from the hedges, and
be enabled afterwards, through by-lanes and
across the fields, to make their escape.
But,
though the plausibility of this scheme gave
great pleasure to the conspirators, no concerted
design was as yet laid, nor any men, horses,
or arms provided; the whole was little more
than loose discourse, the overflowings of zeal
and rancour."
Who needs to be informed how the trials
of Russell and Sidney were conducted, and
how a "sweet saint," in the person of a wife,
sat by the side of the former, under the judgment-seat? Denied all aid in his defence,
Lord Russell asked,
"May I have somebody
to write to assist my memory?"
"Yes," replied the Attorney-General, "a servant."
"Yes," added the Judge, "any of your servants shall assist you in writing anything you please for you."
"My wife," replied Russell, with the pride of love; "my wife is here, my
Lord, to do it."
"In vain," says Lord Grey,
in his History of the Rye-House Plot, "did
Lady Russell, the daughter of the loyal and
virtuous Southampton, throw herself at the
royal feet, and crave mercy for her husband;
in vain did the Earl of Bedford offer a hundred thousand pounds through the mediation of the all-prevailing Duchess of Portsmouth,
for the life of his son.
The King was
inexorable.
And, to put a stop to all further
importunity, he said, in reply to the Earl of
Dartmouth,
"I must have his life, or he will have mine.'
"My death," said Russell, with a
consolatory prescience, when he found his fate
was inevitable, will be of more service to my
country than my life could have been!"
These,
and other circumstances of the life and death
of this statesman, and his fellow-martyr, Sidney, may be well known; but we should pity
the man who could tread within the precincts
of the Rye-House, and, having known them,
have forgotten them.
What London angler knows not the next
place, Broxbourne, and its green meadows
by the New River and the Lea? Who knows
not "Want's Inn," and its quiet snug parlour,
hung round with those scaly reminiscences of
the river deeps, which the angler delighteth to
get a nibble from, if he cannot catch?
Ever
since, and perhaps long before the days of Isaac
Walton, Broxbourne has been a favourite resort of metropolitan anglers.
It is a pleasant
romantic spot, and deserves the preference that
has been shown it, not only for its sport, but
for its quiet sequestered scenery.
Still rambling down the banks of theriver,
we arrive at Cheshunt, on the great Roman
highway called Ermin Street.
This village
and manor were once possessed by John of
Gaunt, no king himself, but father of a long
line of English monarchs.
A bit of scandal is related of the nuns that
resided here shortly before the dissolution of
the religious houses.
One Sir Henry Cole, of
Nether Hall, as we learn from Fuller's History
of Waltham Abbey, having received notice that
some of the monks of Waltham were harboured
in Cheshunt nunnery, pitched a buck-stall in
the meadow, and inclosed them as they were
returning in the dark from the convent.
He
brought them next morning to Henry VIII,
at Waltham, who observed, "that he had often
seen sweeter, but never fatter venison."
Some
minute critic has objected to this story, that
there was no Sir Henry Cole of Nether Hall at
this time.
However that may be, the joke sits
ill in the mouth of Henry, himself as amorous as uncleanly, and as fat as any of the
offending monks could have been.
Cardinal Wolsey resided at Cheshunt for a
short time, and a less illustrious, but, in the
true sense of the term, a greater man than he,
afterwards took up his abode in the same place,
forsaking the world and its strife-begotten dignities, to live to a green old age, and die at last
in peace.
Richard Cromwell, the son of the
Protector,
"less than his sire, yet greater - not
so happy, yet happier";
peaceable, unambitious,
and inoffensive, as historians have universally
designated him, and unwilling to purchase dominion by the shedding of blood, he resigned his
power without a murmur or a regret, and retired to the privacy of a country life.
He travelled for some years on the Continent - smiled
in his incognito, when the Prince of Conti designated him in his own hearing a pitiful fellow,
and thought, no doubt, in his own mind, that
he, the nameless individual, was the wiser man
of the two; and finally retired to Cheshunt,
where, under the name of Clark, he lived on a
decent competence, to the age of eighty.
He died in 1712, universally regretted by his
neighbours.
At Cheshunt is a College for the education of students intended for preachers of
Methodist doctrines.
The next place deserving of notice is Theobalds, occupying the site of the ancient palace
of that name, and now the seat of Sir Henry Meux.
The old palace has long since disappeared.
It was erected about the year 1559,
by the celebrated Burleigh, to whom Queen
Elizabeth paid no less than twelve visits at
this place, putting him each time to an expense of between two and three thousand
pounds.
On the death of Burleigh, his son
Robert, afterwards Earl of Salisbury, took possession of Theobalds, and gave a grand entertainment to King James on his journey from
Scotland to assume the English crown.
In the year 1606 the Earl gave a second
entertainment to the King, who was accompanied by Christian IV. of Denmark.
James
took a liking to the place, and prevailed upon
the Earl to give it him in exchange for the
manor and palace of Hatfield.
He afterwards
passed much of his time here; and it became
his favourite residence.
Hither he retired
when, in a fit of virtuous indignation, he took
the solemn oath, kneeling in the presence of
the assembled judges, never to spare any one
concerned in the abominable murder of Sir
Thomas Overbury; the oath which he soon
broke, when he found his favourite Somerset
was so deeply implicated.
His perjury would
seem, indeed, in the words of his own imprecation, to have brought down "God's curse
upon him and his posterity for ever."
James
died in this palace, according to some accounts, of an ague,
but not without suspicion of poison administered by order of his
favourite Buckingham; a suspicion which the
entertaining author of the Curiosities of Literature has striven, very successfully, to show was
without foundation.
The room in which the
King expired used to be shown to the curious
until the year 1765, when the remains of the
old building were pulled down.
Charles I. occasionally resided at Theobalds;
and there received the famous petition from
Parliament, in the year 1642.
Upon the temporary abolition of royalty, the palace, along
with many others, was ordered to be sold.
Great
part of it was taken down; and the sum produced by the sale of the materials applied to the
uses of the army.
The small remnant of it, with
the lands adjoining, was granted as a reward to
General Monk, but, on the failure of his male
lineage, it again reverted to the crown.
It
was granted by William III. to his countryman, Bentinck Earl of Portland, from whom,
after various changes, it came into the possession of Mr. Prescott, who pulled down the
remains of it in 1765, as already stated, and
erected the present edifice upon its site.
On the left hand, journeying downwards
between the two rivers, the natural and the
artificial, we arrive at the ancient town of
Waltham Abbey in Essex, the seat and burial
place of the last monarch of England of the
Saxon line.
From Waltham Abbey, Harold
proceeded to take arms against the Norman
invader of his realm, and lost his empire and
his life at the field of Hastings.
Here his
corpse was buried, and the tomb inscribed with
the simple and touching words,
"Harold infelir."
The name of this time-honoured place is
derived from two Saxon words, signifying 'the
town in the forest, and the addition of Holy
Cross, by which it is sometimes distinguished,
had its origin in a cross bestowed upon it by
Tovius, a Dane, standard-bearer to King Canute, which was supposed to cure all the diseases of the faithful, and work many miracles.
The monks of Waltham Abbey were long a
rich and powerful body, and received constant
favours and benefactions from most of the
early monarchs of England.
Henry III, who
was generally in distress for money, sometimes
found it convenient to bestow upon these hospitable monks the honour of his company for a
month or so at a time.
To enable them and
the inhabitants of the town the better to bear
the burden, he granted the latter the privilege
of a weekly market and an annual fair of seven
days.
The abbots had the privilege of wearing
the mitre, and of taking their place among the
Barons in Parliament.
The revenues of the
abbey amounted, in the time of Henry VIII.
to nearly a thousand pounds per annum.
Of the last-mentioned King and the monks,
a pleasant story is told, perhaps apocryphal,
but as a tradition worth preserving.
Henry
often visited Waltham, as historians inform us,
for "his private pleasures, and to see some
fair wench in the neighbourhood, whose name
has been forgotten."
But the tradition does
not relate to his amours, but to his love of
frolic.
As the song says -
Old King Harry was fond of canary,
Fond of good victuals and sack was he;
But more than canary did old King Harry
Love a sly joke, with his hey derry dee!
Hey, down! ho, down! derry down dee!
Having heard much of the sumptuous style
of living of the abbot, even upon ordinary
occasions, when no distinguished guest was
expected, Henry disguised himself in the dress
of a yeoman of the guard, and sought admittance at the hour of dinner.
He was allowed
to enter, and take his place at the lower end
of the table, where he ate so very heartily
of beef and cabbage, and drank so plentifully
of sack, as to attract the notice of the abbot at the other end.
"Gramercy!" quoth the abbot, - but thou hast a famous appetite.
I would give a hundred pounds if I
could eat such a dinner of beef as thou canst.
My poor queasy stomach can hardly digest the
breast of a chicken."
A few days afterwards
the pursy old abbot received a message from
the King, requesting his immediate presence in
London.
The abbot obeyed; and was forthwith committed to close custody in the Tower,
where bread and water, and not much of either,
constituted his only fare for several days.
When he had fasted sufficiently, a sirloin of
beef, with a flagon of sack, were placed before
him; on both of which he made inroads which
would not have disgraced a farm-labourer in
the vigour of youth and health, and was just
finishing his meal, when the Majesty of England, in his own character, burst into the apartment, and demanded the hundred pounds for
the good appetite, and the dinner to stay it,
which he had given him.
The story adds, that
the abbot was glad enough at so pleasant a
termination to his unpleasant imprisonment,
and that he paid the hundred pounds without
a murmur.
The remaining portion of this old abbey,
now used as the parish church, has a venerable
and interesting appearance, and abounds with
quaint and curious architectural antiquities.
The abbey lands, on the dissolution of the religious houses, were granted by Henry VIII. to
Sir Anthony Denny, on a lease for thirty-one
years, renewable at the King's will.
This
family long possessed them; and there is a
remarkable monument still existing, to the
memory of one of them, erected by his wife,
Jeanne Champernon, "out of mean fortunes,
but no mean affection." It is a mural monument, near the east end of the south aisle, and
represents Sir Edward Denny, son of the Sir
Anthony above alluded to, in his plate armour,
lying on his side, with his lady beside him in
her ruff and bodice, and their ten children,
four boys and six girls, kneeling in front.
Inscribed are the following lines:
Learn, curious reader, ere thou pass,
What once Sir Edward Denny was:
A courtier of the chamber,
A soldier of the fielde;
Whose tongue could never flatter!
Whose heart could never yielde!
The river Lea, which here forms the boundary between Hertfordshire and Essex, separates itself into several streams, and forms a
number of small islands.
It is believed, that
the river originally flowed in one stream only.
It is well known that King Alfred diverted it
from its accustomed channel, and by that
means left the piratical fleet of the Danes
ashore on the green meadows between Ware
and Waltham; and the tradition is, that it was
never afterwards diverted again into its proper
bed, but allowed to wander in divided currents,
as we now behold it.
The neighbourhood of Waltham Abbey, especially on the Essex side, is extremely beautiful.
There lies the hoary forest of Epping,
or the remains of that once secluded, and extensive wildwood.
It once took its name from
Waltham, but as the distance between that
town and its outskirts was gradually increased
by the forest-felling hatchet, it borrowed a
name from a town more immediately in its
thick recesses, and called itself Epping.
Henry
III. granted a privilege, in 1226, to the citizens, to hunt once a year at Easter, within a
circuit of twenty miles of their city.
This
privilege in the course of time was, by degrees,
abandoned, until their hunting restricted itself
to Epping and Hainault Forests, whither, until
very recently, the citizens proceeded at Easter
to hunt a stag, turned out for their diversion.
Many are the shafts that ridicule has aimed at
them, in consequence, from Tom Durfey, in
his "Pills to purge Melancholy," to Tom Hood,
who, though he does not give such a medicinal
name to his books, sells pills more effective
in purging melancholy than Tom Durfey or
any of his predecessors.
On the Hertfordshire side of the Lea is the
village of Waltham Cross, celebrated for, and
named after the cross, which the affectionate
Edward I. raised to the memory of his dearly
beloved Queen Eleanor.
She died in Lincoln
shire; and at every place where the funeral
procession stopped, on its way to London, the
King erected a cross.
Only three of them are
now remaining, namely, those at Geddington,
Northampton, and Waltham.
That at Waltham was originally a very beautiful structure,
but time, the great enemy, has made sad havoc
on its fair proportions, defaced its effigies, and
eaten into the very heart of its sculptured
heraldry.
Charing Cross, another of these
loving memorials of conjugal truth, disappeared
in the tumults of the Revolution; and the
bronze image of the chief victim of that revolution now stands upon its site.
Continuing our course down the stream, and
keeping as closely as possible to the Lea, we
leave Enfield and its celebrated Chace on our
right hand, and after a pleasant walk,
arrive at Edmonton, once noted for its fair, and famous for ever in the adventures of John Gilpin. The Bell Inn still courts the company of the traveller, where
Gilpin 's loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband; wondering much
To see how he did ride!
and where, after he had been carried so sorelv against his will to Ware, and back again, his wife still stood, and pulled out half-a-crown, as a reward to the postboy if he overtook him.
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain!
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at the rein.
But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frightened steed he frightened more,
And made him faster run!
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels!
And such a ride as was seen that day was
never seen since Turpin rode to York, or since Mazeppa was carried into the deserts on his
wild horse.
Edmonton is now a busy, populous place, but contains little to arrest the
progress of the rambler.
If he be a lover of
literature, however, he will remember that
Charles Lamb died in the village, on the 27th
of December 1834, and will stay to visit the
churchyard, and read his epitaph, written by
the Rev. H. F. Carey, the translator of Dante:
Farewell, dear friend! That smile, that harmless mirth,
No more shall gladden our domestic hearth;
That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow,
Better than words, no more assuage our woe;
That hand outstretched from small, but well-earned store,
Yield succour to the destitute no more!
Yet art thou not all lost: through many an age,
With sterling sense and humour, shall thy page
Win many an English bosom, pleased to see
That old and happier vein revived in thee;
This for our earth; and if with friends we share
Our joys in heaven, we hope to meet thee there.
The next remarkable place on the banks
of the Lea is Tottenham, renowned in facetious poetry for its famous tournament in the
bygone days, when these sights were as fashionable as Lord Eglintoun, the Marquis of
Londonderry, and the Queen of Beauty have
desired to make them since.
Who can enter
this village without a pleasing emotion, as he
remembers the quaint old ballad that celebrates it, and its rustic beauty, and its flail
armed heroes.
It is related of the French
soldiers who invaded Spain, committing all
manner of excesses, that they became sobered
down as they entered the city of Tobosa, and
forbore to indulge in any outrage upon the
spot so familiar to them as the birth-place
of the fair Dulcinea, for whose charms the
immortal Don Quixote waged fierce warfare
against all the world.
Why should not we,
who lay claim to more refinement than a French
trooper, indulge in similar feelings at Tottenham, when we remember the lovely Tyb?
It
is not precisely known when the old ballad
was written, but it was first published in 1631,
and its editor, the Rev. Mr. Bedwell, rector
of Tottenham, supposed it to have been the
composition of one Gilbert Pilkington, his predecessor in office, so early as the reign of
Edward III.
It is a pity that its uncouth spelling and obsolete words are so very uncouth and obsolete as to render it "caviare to the million," who are ignorant in consequence,
Of Hawkin and Herry,
Of Tomkyn and Terry,
And them that were doughty and stalwart in deed,
upon that memorable high day in Tottenham, when, for the love of that bright rustic damsel, the daughter of Randal the Reeve, Hawkyn, Dawkyn, Perkyn, Tomkyn, Terry, Dudman, Bud, and the rest,
Sowed them in sheepskins for they should not brast,
Each one took a black hat instead of a crest,
A basket or a panier before on their breast,
And a flail in their hand, for to fight prest,
Forth 'gan they fare.
There was shown mickle force
Who should best fend his course;
He that had no good horse,
He gat him a mare!
Such another gathering have I not seen oft,
When all the great company came riding to the croft;
Tybbie, on a grey mare, was set up aloft,
On a sack full of feathers, that she might sit soft.
Then, as Bishop Percy says, did this parcel
of clowns imitate all the solemnities of the
tourney.
There were the regular challenge,
the appointed day, the lady for the prize, the formal preparations,
the display of armour, the escutcheons and devices, the oaths taken on entering the lists, and last of all, the grand
encounter; at which
They tugged and rugged till it was near night;
And all the wives of Tottenham came to see the sight;
With wisps, and candles, and rushes, there alight,
To fetch home their husbands that were in woful plight.
And some brought great harrows
Their husbands home to fetch;
Some on doors, and some on hech,
Some on hurdles, and some on crech,
And some on wheel-barrows.
At last the great Perkyn vanquished his opponents, and Tybbie, glorious prize, became incontestably his own.
He took her with great mirth, and homeward did they ride,
And were all night together till the morning tide.
As the date of this composition is uncertain, we cannot know what effect the ridicule thrown by the author upon the fashionable tournaments had upon the public opinion with regard to them.
Bedwell, its editor, and one of
the translators of King James's Bible, and author also of a history of this parish, lies buried
in the churchyard of Tottenham.
A simple
stone, with a simple inscription, marks the
spot.
This village takes the name of Tottenham
High Cross from a cross which has stood there
from time immemorial, and which many persons suppose was erected by King Edward,
like that at Waltham, to mark the spot where
the corpse of his beloved queen rested on its
way to London.
The opinion, however, is disputed.
What reader of Izaac Walton, be he
angler, or be he not, that does not remember
the philosophic conversation that took place
here, between the fisherman and the hunter?
"Well, scholar," says Piscator, "I have almost
tired myself, and, I fear, more than almost
tired you: but I now see Tottenham High
Cross, and our short walk thither shall put a
period to my too long discourse; in which my
meaning was, and is, to plant that in your
mind, with which I labour to possess my own
soul, that is, a meek and thankful heart.
And
to that end, I have showed you that riches,
without it, do not make any man happy.
But let me tell you, that riches with them,
remove many cares and fears, and therefore my
advice is, that you endeavour to be honestly
rich, or contentedly poor; but be sure that
your riches be justly got, or you spoil all.
For it is well said by Caussin: 'He that loses
his conscience has nothing left that is worth
keeping.
Therefore be sure you look to that.
And, in the next place, look to your health;
and if you have it, praise God, and value it
next to a good conscience; for health is the
second blessing that we mortals are capable of;
a blessing that money cannot buy, and therefore value it, and be thankful for it.
As for
money, which may be said to be the third
blessing, neglect it not: but note, that there is
no necessity for being rich; for I told you,
there be as many miseries beyond riches as on
this side them; and, if you have a competence, enjoy it with a meek, cheerful, thankful
heart.
I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a
grave divine say, that God has two dwellings,
one in heaven, and the other in a meek and
thankful heart; which Almighty God grant
to me and to my honest scholar.
And so you
are welcome to Tottenham High Cross."
"Honest Izaac!"is a phrase that has fallen
into disrepute, but we will say,
Honest Izaac Walton!
and leave Tottenham, with his quaint
and pleasant lesson of life still lingering in our
mind, and continue our stroll down the banks
of his favourite river.
A little lower, on its other bank, are Walthamstow in Essex, swarming with tasteful
and comfortable villas, and Leyton, the "town
upon the Lea", which some antiquaries affirm
to have been a Roman station.
Many Roman
urns have been found amid the clay of the
churchyard, and on the side of a lane leading
to Stratford-le-Bow.
The upper part of the
town is called Leytonstone, from a Roman
milliarium that formerly stood there.
In the
churchyard are buried Strype, the well-known
antiquary, the vicar of the parish, who held
that office for sixty-eight years, and died here
at the patriarchal age of ninety-four; and
another antiquary, as well known, Bowyer, the
learned printer, and partner of John Nicholls,
the author of that very interesting work, "The
Progresses of Queen Elizabeth."
Passing by Clapton, Homerton, and Hackney, once suburbs, but now component parts of
the mighty metropolis,
the Lea arrives at the
ancient village of Bow, or Stratford-le-Bow,
with its quiet, sedate, venerable-looking church,
originally built in the reign of Henry II.
The
old bridge over the Lea, lately replaced by a
more elegant modern structure, was long a delightful object to the eyes of the antiquary.
It was built by Margaret, the benevolent queen
of Henry I, to whom London and its vicinity
were indebted for many other good works.
She also built the bridge at Channel Lea, and
bestowed a considerable sum for making and
repairing the road between the two.
Bow
Bridge long enjoyed the distinction of being
the oldest stone bridge in England, and from
its curved form, acquired the name, which
was afterwards extended to the village beside
it.
London Bridge was not built of stone till
about one hundred years afterwards.
Bromley-le-Bow, named from the same
bridge, is the last of the pleasant villages that
ornament the Lea, which is then lost amid the
ship-yards, manufactories, and long straggling
outskirts of the shipping districts of the metropolis.
Divided into several branches, aided by
canals, polluted by gasworks, and other useful but unfragrant factories, it loses its character of
a retired and rural stream.
Its very name is
taken from it at the end of its useful career,
and it unites itself with the Thames, neglected
and unhonoured, under the name of Bow Creek.
Once more upon the Thames,
we see the woody eminence of
Shooter's Hill, castle-crowned,
rising boldly to the right, and remaining visible for many miles,
the most beautiful and most
prominent object in the view.
It was once in
contemplation to build a town upon its summit, and a finer site could not have been selected either for pleasure or traffic.
The lovely
views it would have commanded up and down
the Thames, northward over Essex, and Southward over the green vales of Kent, recommended it for the first, and its situation on the
great Dover Road, would have made it very
advantageous for the second.
The project however fell to the ground for want of encouragement.
Early in the sixteenth century a beacon was
erected on the hill, to aid the navigation of the
river, and a watch was appointed to guard
the hill itself, which had from a very early age
been notorious as the resort of highwaymen.
Travellers were constantly robbed and murdered
in its thickets; and in the reign of Richard II.
orders were issued that the trees and under
wood on each side of the road should be cut
down, in order that they might not afford
shelter to the freebooters.
But still the place
preserved its bad name, and in an old play
of the time of Elizabeth, it is called the Hill
of Murder.
This name,however, was probably
bestowed upon it, not so much for its assassinations committed by freebooters, as for a
murder which had a love story for its foundation, and which excited much interest in the
year 1573.
One George Browne, enamoured
of Mrs. Sanders, the wife of a wealthy merchant of London, determined to kill the husband that he might enjoy the wife; and being
encouraged by the latter, and by another woman named Drury, he lay in wait for him
on Shooter's Hill, where it was expected he
would pass, on his return to London from
St. Mary 's Cray.
The merchant, accompanied
by his servant, passed the fatal hill at the expected time, and Browne, aided by a fellow
named Roger Clements, or "trusty Roger," as
the confederates called him, set upon them
with daggers, and left them both apparently
lifeless in the thicket.
The poor merchant
never breathed again; but his servant, though
pierced with eleven wounds, revived a little
in the freshness of the morning, and crawled
to the nearest house on the road to Woolwich,
where he gave information of his master's murder.
All the accomplices were shortly afterwards arrested.
The two women and "trusty
Roger" were hanged at Smithfield, and Browne
on a high gallows erected on the spot where
his crime had been committed.
The bad character of Shooter's Hill clung to it, and deservedly, long after the time of Elizabeth.
In the
reign of James I. it was said of the numerous
thieves by whom Kent was infested, that they
robbed at Shooter's Hill as if by prescription.
No great improvement took place until the
year 1739, when an act of Parliament was
passed to widen the road over the hill.
It is
still a lonely spot, where thieves might find
convenient shelter.
But the history of Shooter's Hill is not
wholly composed of incidents of robbery and
murder.
Many of its associations are of a
pleasanter character.
Hither came the princes
of the House of Tudor and all their court "a
maying"; and here for a time resided the rural
poet Bloomfield, Hollinshed, and after him
Strutt, have described the May festival of
Henry VIII, in the days of his hot youth, upon
the hill.
The plan of the games was devised
by the officers of his guards, who, to the number of two hundred, clothed all in Lincoln
green, like Robin Hood and his men of old,
waited for him at the bottom of the ascent.
The captain of the guard played the part of
Robin Hood, and had his Little John, his
Friar Tuck, and his Maid Marian, all in their
appropriate costume.
The King, riding from
Greenwich with his Queen Catharine of Arragon, and a brilliant assemblage of the handsomest youths and maidens of his court, was
accosted by Robin Hood, who begged permission to show him the skill of his followers
in archery.
Permission having been granted,
the sports commenced, and the foresters drew
the cloth-yard shaft, and shot their arrows
thick and strong, until the King had seen
enough.
Robin Hood then invited him to
come into the merry green wood, and see
how the hunters fared; when the King and
Queen were led into an arbour in the middle
of the thicket, all made of green boughs, and
containing a hall, an ante-chamber, and a large
saloon, hung round with festoons of flowers
and various emblems of the sweet month of
May.
Excuses having been made that hunters
generally breakfasted upon venison, the only
meat they could get, the King and Queen,
with their attendants, to the number of about
a hundred, sat down to a bountiful supply of
that viand, and brown bread, accompanied by
large flagons of sack and canary.
After the
entertainment, another show was provided for
their gratification on their return to Greenwich.
Upon the heath the cavalcade met two splendid chariots, each drawn by five richly caparisoned horses.
One chariot contained the "Lady
of the May," and the other the goddess Flora,
who both made some highly complimentary
speeches to the King, and dropped roses and
lilies upon his path.
Each horse had its name
inscribed upon its forehead, and a fair young
girl riding upon its back.
The name of the
first horse was Laud, or Praise, and of its rider,
Humidity[sic
this must be a typo for "humility"? but what a superb Freudian slip!];
of the second, Memnon, and of its rider, the Lady Vert;
on the third, called Phaeton, sat the Lady Vegitive[sic];
on the fourth, called Rimphon, sat the Lady Plaisaunce;
and on the fifth, called Lampace, rode the "Lady of
the sweet spring odours".
These all turned back
with the King, playing upon the lute, and sing
ing pastoral songs until they arrived at Greenwich.
The castle of Severndroog, upon the summit of Shooter's Hill, was erected in the year 1784;
A far seen monumental tower,
To tell th' achievements of the brave,
as Bloomfield expresses it.
A broad tablet of
stone over the entrance, narrates its history
in the following inscription: - "This building
was erected in the year 1784, by the representative of the late Sir William James, Bart.
to commemorate that gallant officer's achievements in the East Indies, during his command
of the Company's maritime forces in those seas;
and in a particular manner to record the conquest of the castle of Severndroog on the coast
of Malabar, which fell to his superior valour
and able conduct, on the 2nd day of April,
1755".
The castle of Severndroog belonged to a
noted horde of robbers and pirates on the coast
of Malabar, under the command of a powerful
chief named Angria, who, with his predecessors, had long troubled the English commerce
in those seas, and forced the East India Company to keep up a force to check them and
protect the traffic at an annual expense of fifty thousand pounds.
Sir William, then Commodore James,
was placed at the head of the maritime expedition in the year above-mentioned,
and reduced the stronghold of the pirates
which had long been considered impregnable.
The poet Bloomfield when he resided on
Shooter's Hill for the benefit of his health, was
much pleased with this castle and its neighbouring heaths and woods, and has left in his
poems a record of his thoughts and feelings.
"Thus," said that simple and unfortunate bard,
To hide me from the public eye,
To keep the throne of Reason clear,
Amidst fresh air to breathe or die,
I took my staff and wander'd here.
Suppressing every sigh that heaves,
And coveting no wealth but thee,
I nestle in the honey'd leaves,
And hug my stolen liberty.
O'er eastern uplands gay or rude,
Along to Erith's ivy'd spire,
I start, with strength and hope renew'd,
And cherish life's rekindling fire;
Now measure vales with streaming eyes,
Now trace the churchyard's humble names,
Or climb brown heaths abrupt that rise,
And overlook the winding Thames.
Nearer to the bank of the river than Shooter's
Hill, and about a mile before we arrive opposite
that eminence, stands the pretty rural village
of Charlton, with its simple church upon a
hill; its antique stocks, where criminal seldom
or never sits; its little old-fashioned inns, with
their sign boards creaking in the wind; and
its comfortable baronial mansion and park,
where the rooks keep up a dignified cawing
the live long summer's day.
The manor house,
now the residence of Sir Thomas Maryon Wilson, was built by Sir Adam Newton, preceptor to Prince Henry, in the reign of James
I.
It was long called King John's palace, by
the country people, who confounded it with the
old palace at Eltham in the vicinity, which
now goes by that name, but which was not
itself in existence in King John's day.
The
Charlton people, however, cling to King John,
and insist that their celebrated Horn Fair, held
annually on the 18th of October, was establish
ed by that monarch.
Lysons in his "Environs
of London," mentions it as a vague and idle
tradition - and such, perhaps it is; but, as we
are of opinion that the traditions of the people
are always worth preserving, we will repeat
the legend, and let the reader value it at its
proper worth.
King John, says the old story,
being wearied with hunting on Shooter's Hill
and Blackheath, entered the house of a miller
at Charlton to repose himself.
He found no
one at home but the mistress, who was young
and beautiful; and being himself a strapping
fellow, handsome withal, and with a glosing
tongue, he, in a very short time, or as we
would say in the present age, in no time, made
an impression upon her too susceptible heart.
He had just ventured to give the first kiss
upon her ripe lips, when the miller opportunely
came home and caught them.
Being a violent
man, and feeling himself wounded in the sorest
part, he drew his dagger, and rushing at the
King, swore he would kill them both.
The
poet of all time hath said, "that a divinity
doth hedge a king," but the miller of Charlton
thought such proceedings anything but divine,
and would no doubt have sent him unannealed
into the other world, if John had not disclosed
his rank.
His divinity then became apparent,
and the miller putting up his weapon, begged
that at least he would make him some amends
for the wrong he had done him.
The King
consented, upon condition also that he would
forgive his wife, and bestowed upon him all
the land visible from Charlton to that bend of
the river beyond Rotherhithe where the pair of
horns are now fixed upon the pole.
He also
gave him, as lord of the manor, the privilege
of an annual fair on the 18th of October, the
day when this occurrence took place.
His
envious compeers, unwilling that the fame of
this event should die, gave the awkward name
of Cuckold's Point to the river boundary of his
property, and called the fair, Horn Fair, which
it has borne ever since.
But olden records, more trustworthy than traditions, inform us that the fair was established
by Henry III. in the year 1268.
How long
it has borne the name of Horn Fair is not
known.
Phillipot, who wrote in the year
1659, says, it was called Horn Fair in his day,
on account of the great plenty of winding
horns, cups, spoons, and various utensils made
of that material, that were sold in it.
A burlesque procession used formerly to be made at
Deptford, which passed through Greenwich to
Charlton, each person wearing a pair of branch
ing antlers upon his head, and thinking himself privileged for that day to play all sorts
of indecent tricks upon the women.
This was
at length found such an intolerable nuisance,
that it was suppressed in the year 1768.
The church of Charlton was repaired and
beautified at a considerable expense, by the
executors of Sir Adam Newton, out of funds
left by him for this purpose.
Among the monuments is one to the memory of Mr. Craggs
the elder, so famous in his day for his participation in the South Sea scheme, and to whose
son, Secretary of State in 1720, and also implicated in South Sea transactions, Pope wrote
one of his poetical epistles.
Hanging Wood,
between the churchyard and the Thames, is a
sequestered spot of woodland, affording many fine views of the river, and the opposite shores
of Essex.
Woolwich, the next place that solicits attention on the banks of the river, raises its giant
cranes and its huge dock-houses, to proclaim
its character, and make it evident to the stranger
at the first glance.
This busy and populous
town first rose into importance in the reign of
Henry VII. when its dockyard, afterwards
called, by Camden, the mother dock of England, was first established, but in what year
is uncertain.
In the third year of Henry VIII.
a great ship, the greatest until that time seen
in England, was launched from Woolwich
Dock, and called the "Harry Grace de Dieu."
In the reign of Elizabeth, another large vessel,
which also bore the royal name, was launched
from the same place, the Queen honouring the
ceremony with her presence.
Before this time
Woolwich was but a little fishing-village, liable
from its low situation, to frequent inundations
of the river.
The lower part of the town is
still dirty and miserable; but on the common
and the heights towards Shooter's Hill, is clean,
well built, and agreeable.
It is a common
saying of the people at Woolwich, that more wealth passes through their parish than through
any other in the kingdom, which is explained
by the fact, that the parish comprises a considerable portion of land on the other side of
the river, and that consequently the Thames,
and all the multitude of vessels bound to the
port of London, pass through it.
Woolwich is chiefly famous for its dock, its
arsenal, and its barracks.
In time of war, like
its rival at Deptford, the dock is a scene
of great activity and bustle; but little is done
in time of peace.
There are generally, however, two or three ships of war upon the stocks,
affording employment to several hundred workmen.
The arsenal, the grand depot of military stores for England, and the foundry of its
cannon, is an establishment more remarkable.
The circumstances that led to its foundation
are also extremely interesting.
Until 1716, the chief foundry of the ordnance, was at Moorfields, London.
In that
year it was determined to recast several heavy
pieces of artillery, which had been taken from
the French by the Duke of Marlborough.
A
public exhibition of the process was announced; scaffolding, for the accommodation of great
numbers of people, was erected, and, on the
appointed morning, crowds of ladies and gentlemen had assembled.
Among other persons
attracted to see the sight, was a young Swiss,
named Andrew Schalch, a native of Schaffhausen, who was travelling in England, in
conformity to a law of his canton, which
obliges all artificers to visit foreign countries
for instruction and improvement before they
establish themselves in their own.
He was on
the ground from an early hour in the morning, and soon discovered that the moulds in
which the cannon were to be cast, were not
sufficiently dry.
He saw the danger, and immediately sought Colonel Armstrong, the Surveyor-general of the Ordnance,
whom he warned of the terrible explosion that might ensue
if the fault were not remedied.
His warning
was disregarded; so telling all his friends to
leave the place, he took his departure.
His
prediction was but too fatally verified.
The
heated metal poured into the damp moulds, generated a quantity of steam: the moulds burst,
and the burning iron flew about in all directions, tearing down the roof and galleries, and
killing many people, and maiming many more.
Upon the news of this calamity reaching
the government, George I. resolved that the
foundry should be removed to a distance from
London.
Colonel Armstrong, when it was too
late, remembered the warning of the stranger,
and determined at the same time to secure the
future services of a man who had so intimate
a knowledge of his profession.
Not knowing
his name, or where to find him, he caused an
advertisement to be inserted in the public journals, mentioning the circumstances of their interview at Moorfields, and desiring the stranger
to call at the Ordnance Office, in the Tower of
London.
Schalch saw the advertisement, and
called accordingly.
So favourable an impression of his ability was made upon the Colonel's
mind by this interview, that he was commissioned by the Board of Ordnance, to make
choice of a spot in the neighbourhood of London, where a national foundry might be most conveniently established, and promised, at the
same time, the honourable office of superintendent.
Schalch made his survey, and finally fixed
on a plot of ground to the east of Woolwich,
then known as the Rabbit Warren.
The
site was approved, - proper buildings were immediately constructed, and increased from time
to time, as circumstances required, and the present noble arsenal is the result.
Schalch held
the office of superintendent for sixty years,
and died in 1776, at the advanced age of ninety.
This establishment continued to be called by its
old name of the Warren for many years, until
it was visited by George III, who gave it the
more befitting appellation of the Royal Arsenal.
Many people in Woolwich, however,
so inveterate is habit, persist in calling it by
its old name.
The King of Brobdignag, when Gulliver explained to him the nature and the uses of gun
powder, exclaimed in the extremity of his
wonder, what a destructive and ferocious little
animal man was.
Who would not confess the
truth and justice of the satire, after a visit
to this arsenal, where cannon balls piled up in
pyramids are to be counted, not by thousands
or tens of thousands, but actually by millions!
In the centre of an extensive area are arranged
guns, howitzers, and mortars, in long and imposing rows.
Though at peace with all the world,
we are ready for war at a minute's notice, and
at Woolwich alone are laid up, fit for use, no
less than twenty-four thousand pieces of ordnance, twenty-one thousand of them made of
cast iron, and about three thousand of gunmetal, the largest weighing ninety hundred
weight, and the smallest about two and a half
hundred weight, forming altogether two hundred and two separate assortments, into which
they are divided by the length of the piece,
or the width of the bore.
The cannon balls,
weighing from two pounds to thirty-six, are
piled in tremendous pyramids to the number
of three millions, each one only awaiting the
impulse to fly through the air, laden with death and destruction.
The labour of piling them,
which is very great, is performed by convicts,
with weights upon their legs, and who are
stationed in the hulks,moored off Woolwich for
the purpose.
When the allied Sovereigns visited England after the peace in 1814, they
agreed that of all the wondrous sights they had
seen in England, these implements of warfare
were the most wondrous; and the Emperor
Alexander had his doubts at first whether
these piles of iron balls were not wood, painted
iron - grey, to deceive him into a false idea of
our immense resources.
The process of casting the cannon at the
Arsenal is curious.
The mould, which is a
mixture of clay, loam, sand, and other materials, having been prepared of the requisite size,
and secured by strong iron hoops, is heated to
a red heat, in order to avoid all danger of any
latent humidity, which might cause an explosion like that predicted by Schalch.
It is then
placed in the earth before the furnace, and the
liquid iron is poured into it.
The gun is thus
cast in one solid piece.
The next processes
are those of turning the exterior and making
the bore, which are both performed at the same
time by one machine.
A large bit, of the requisite diameter, is firmly fixed, against which
the solid gun is made to revolve, cutting away the metal in flakes until the bore is excavated,
while the implement for turning revolves at
the same time, and completes the outer surface.
The touch-hole is then drilled, and the
gun is finished.
It then remains to be seen
whether it is trustworthy and fit for service, for
which purpose it is carefully examined with
magnifying glasses, in every part, its interior
reflected upon mirrors, and its relative proportions tested with mathematical accuracy.
If
any imperfection is discovered, the piece is at
once condemned to the foundry again; but, if
all seems perfect, the last grand test is resorted
to; the gun is loaded and fired.
If there is
a flaw in it, it bursts to pieces.
If not, it
comes from the ordeal triumphant, and becomes from that day forth one of the recognised
thunderers that guard the British Empire.
The arsenal is divided into five departments:
the royal carriage department, the inspector
of artillery, the laboratory, the engineers, and
the storekeeper's.
To the first appertains the
construction of all military carriages, ammunition waggons, forge waggons,
carts for small ordnance, and the building and repairing of every kind of carriage connected with military
or naval artillery.
The second department receives all artillery cannon, muskets, rifles, pistols, to prove and examine them, and keep
them always in such condition as to be fit for
immediate service.
In the third department,
are made all cartridges, and rockets for war,
and all descriptions of fireworks for days of
national rejoicing, or in honour of royal visits.
The manufacture of Congreve rockets, which
for greater security is carried on in separate
buildings near the bank of the river, is also
under the superintendence of the officers of
this department.
The fourth, or engineer's department, constructs and repairs all the works
and buildings of the Board of Ordnance.
And the fifth, has the charge of all the miscellaneous stores, used in military or naval war
fare.
Over each department is an officer, supreme in his own sphere, and responsible only
to the Board of Ordnance, by whom he is
appointed.
In the storehouses of the last department there are generally kept complete
outfittings for ten thousand horse, as well as
swords and muskets, and every kind of accoutrement for their riders.
Here also are kept
various implements of war, such as pikes for
seamen when boarding a vessel, grappling irons,
anvils, hatchets, spades for mining, &c. the
whole arranged in the most exquisite order,
the horses' bits with the curb-chains hanging
from them, looking, as the Woolwich Guide
informs us, "like the stalactites of some beautiful grotto!"
Long may they hang in such
beautiful order is our prayer; long may the cannon grace the arsenal, and its millions of
balls stand in trim pyramids, to surprise the
beholder.
The day that should call them from
their repose would be a disastrous one for
Europe, and for humanity.
Opposite to Woolwich, in the
marshes of the Essex coast, but
in the county of Kent, stands
a solitary house, called by the
vulgar the Devil's House.
It
formerly belonged to the family
of Devall, whose patronymic has been thus
perverted by the populace.
This plot of land,
consisting of about five hundred acres, has belonged to the parish of Woolwich and county
of Kent from time immemorial; and tradition
accounts for its severance from Essex in the
following manner: - The body of a man having
been cast ashore there by the tide, was found
by a fisherman of Woolwich, who immediately
gave notice to the authorities of Essex.
The
latter refused to bury it; upon which, that
duty was performed by Woolwich, whose magistrates sued those of Essex, to recover the
charges.
The Essex magistrates were condemned to pay, but refusing to do so, the
patch of land in question was seized by a royal
order, and from that time incorporated with
Woolwich.
Tradition, in this instance vaguer
even than it is wont to be, has not informed us
of the name of the monarch, or given us any
clue by which the date might be discovered.
A considerable rivulet, called the Roding,
discharges itself into the Thames near this
place, under the name of Barking Creek.
It
rises somewhere in the neighbourhood of Dunmow, a village familiar by name to most people
on account of its gammon of bacon, given as
a prize to the married couple who passed a
whole twelvemonth without quarrelling, a custom of which so pleasant an account is given
in "The Spectator".
Passing southwards, it gives name to a
whole district of Essex, and to several villages,
called after it, High Roding, Aythorp Roding,
Leaden Roding, White Roding, Margaret's
Roding, Abbots Roding, Beauchamp Roding,
and Berner's Roding.
One of these, Abbot's
Roding, was the birthplace of the celebrated
John Thurloe, Secretary of State to Oliver
Cromwell, and so well known for his State
Papers.
His father, the Rev. Thomas Thurloe,
was rector of the parish.
From the Rodings the stream flows to Chipping Ongar, an ancient market town, whose
name is derived from coopen or cepan, the Saxon
word to sell, and where there was formerly an
ancient fortress, erected by Richard de Lacy,
protector of England during the absence of
King Henry II. in his Norman wars.
It was
pulled down in the reign of Elizabeth.
The river then passes by Kilvedon Hatch,
Navestock, the ancient seat and burial-place of
the Waldegraves, between the two villages of
Stapleford Tarry and Stapleford Abbots; and
through that fine country, lying between Epping and Hainault Forests, until it reaches
Ilford.
It thence flows to the town of Barking, where it receives a small stream of the
same name.
Barking Church is just visible to the passenger on the Thames, lifting up its modest
turret from the low rich pasture lands in which
it is situated.
It was originally one of the
most ancient in England, having been founded,
with a nunnery adjoining, shortly after the
introduction of Christianity into England.
Among the abbesses have been, Matilda, or
Maud, wife of Henry I. and so well known for
her benefactions in the neighbourhood of London; Matilda, the wife of King Stephen; and
Mary à Becket, sister of the famous Archbishop of Canterbury of that name.
Upon the
dissolution of the abbey by Henry VIII, the
abbess and nuns received a small pension, and
the edifice fell to decay.
Scarcely any vestiges
of it now remain.
The church is a spacious
edifice, with an embattled tower, and contains
many ancient monuments.
Among others,
one to the memory of Maurice Bishop of London, in the reign of William the Conqueror,
and successor to that good bishop, William,
whose memory is so dear to the Londoners.
In the low lands, lying in the district within
view of the Thames, are two remarkable buildings, Green Street House and Eastbury House.
The former was inhabited by Anne Boleyn
before her marriage with Henry VIII.
From
the tower a fine view of the Thames is obtained from Greenwich to Gravesend.
This part
of the edifice was built by Henry to please that
luckless lady; and was renovated by Mr. Morley, the proprietor, at the end of the last, or
beginning of the present century. [ie c.1800]
In a communication sent by Mr. Morley to the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. xciv. part I. he states,
that Anne Boleyn, while riding here, received
the first offer of the monarch's hand.
She had
been formerly betrothed to a young nobleman,
who had died ten months before, and she was
in mourning for him when the offer was made.
As was the custom, she requested to complete
the twelvemonth of mourning for her lover,
before she gave her consent to another union;
and Henry during the interval caused the tower
to be built, to afford her gratification.
It is
erroneously said, that Anne, after the fatal fall
of her handkerchief at the tournament of
Greenwich, went over the water to Green Street,
and was thence taken to the Tower of London.
As we have already stated, in our account of
the old palace of Placentia, the Queen was
confined to her own room in that building
until the order came to have her conveyed to
London.
Eastbury House, just visible from the river,
was the residence of Lord Mounteagle, by whose
means the Gunpowder Plot was discovered.
Several stories are circulated relative to this
building.
A generally received tradition states,
that Guy Fawkes and the other conspirators
held their meetings here, and that from the
roof they were to have enjoyed the pleasure of
seeing the British Parliament blown into the
air.
Another tradition states, that it was here
that Lord Mounteagle received the famous
letter which led to the arrest of Guy Fawkes.
Both of these traditions are erroneous.
In the
first place, Lord Mounteagle was not one of
the conspirators, and never lent his house for
the purpose; and, in the second, he was not at
Eastbury House, but in London, when he received the letter.
It is stated in the continuation of Stowe's Chronicle, that "about ten
days before the Parliament should begin, the
Lord Mounteagle, son and heir to the Lord
Morley, being then in his own lodging in the Strand, ready to go to supper at seven of the
clock, one of his footmen, whom he had sent
of an errand over the street, was met by an
unknown man of indifferent appearance, who
suddenly delivered him a letter, charging him
to put it presently into his Lord's hands".
This
was the letter that prevented all the mischief.
On the other side of the river, beyond Woolwich, is the rural village of Plumstead, passing
which, we traverse two reaches of the stream,
called Gallions, and Barking Reach.
Beyond
the latter, on the Essex coast, commences
Dagenham Breach, at a place where several
small streams, traversing a low marshy country,
fall into the Thames.
Two of these streams,
the Ingerbourn and the Bourne Brook, rise in
the beautiful neighbourhood of Havering atte
Bower, from whence they run in tortuous
courses for about twelve miles.
That picturesque spot was the favourite retirement of
King Edward the Confessor, who so delighted
in its solitary woods, that he shut himself up
in them for weeks at a time.
Old legends say,
that he met with but one annoyance in that
pleasant seclusion - the continual warbling of
the nightingales pouring such floods of music
upon his ear during his midnight meditations,
as to disturb his devotions and draw his thoughts
from God.
He therefore prayed, that never
more within the bounds of that forest might
nightingale's song be heard.
His prayer was
granted - and during his whole life, the sweet
birds disappeared from the spot, and left him
in peace to his unloving and austere devotions.
Another legend connected with this place, and
with the same king, is, that an old beggar
came and asked alms of him, to whom he gave
a small gold ring, as the only gift his poverty
allowed him to bestow.
This beggar was a departed saint; - no less a personage than St. John
the Evangelist, who had assumed this disguise
to put his charity to the test, and discover,
whether he, a monarch, was indeed a despiser
of the world's wealth, and so poor as to possess
no coin.
Some years afterwards, two pilgrims
presented themselves at his quiet bower in
Havering, and gave him back the same ring,
with an intimation that they were sent from
heaven, to warn him that, within six months,
he should be called from this world, to enjoy
eternal felicity in the bosom of his God.
Dagenham Breach receives its name from
the village of Dagenham, about two miles
from the river.
In the year 1707, upwards
of five thousand acres of marsh land were
laid under water by the inundations of the
Thames and of the smaller streams already
mentioned.
The origin of the calamity was
the breaking in of a small sluice made for the
drain of the land waters, which being neglected
during more than a year, gradually increased
till the whole district was inundated.
The
proprietors of the land spent large sums in
the endeavour to reclaim it; but the sacrifices
were so great, that they reluctantly abandoned
the design as impracticable.
At length the
legislature interposed; an act was passed to
continue the works, and a small tax was levied
upon every vessel entering the port of London, to meet the charges.
A gentleman named
Boswell contracted for the work for £16,500;
but after much labour and great expense in
vain, he was obliged, in self-defence, to relinquish the undertaking.
Captain Parry, who
had been employed by Peter the Great in similar works, and in building the city of Veronitz
upon the Don, undertook shortly afterwards
to repair the Breach for £25,000.
It took
five years to complete the work.
Difficulties,
under which ordinary minds would have sunk,
were one after the other met and surmounted,
but at an expense of more than £40,000.
Parliament afterwards voted the sum of £15,000
to Captain Parry, the difference between the
contract and the actual expense: but that gentleman was no gainer by his perseverance, except of honour; a satisfactory reward, it is
true, but still more satisfactory when it comes
upon a man with profit - smiling companion -
by its side.
Within the embankment, a pool of
about forty- five acres still remains, where, during the season, a club of anglers resort; they
also keep up by subscription a small thatched
cottage on its brink, called the Dagenham
Breach House, for the purpose of a club-house.
Immediately beyond is seen the little spire of
Rainham, about a mile from the river, standing in the midst of a celebrated grazing district, which breeds some of the finest cattle
sent to the London market.
This church was
one of the pluralities of Cardinal Wolsey.
Adjoining are Hornchurch Marshes, also famous for their fine cattle.
The village is so
named from a pair of horns affixed to the
church.
The tradition is, that its former name,
something like it in sound, but much uglier,
was bestowed upon it, in consequence of its
having been built by some noted courtezan of
an early age, who had repented of her vices,
and taken this mode of showing the sincerity
of her contrition.
A certain monarch, nameless as the courtezan, is said to have taken offence at the name, and given the church a
pair of horns, to be affixed against the wall,
as a fair pretext for the change of designation.
This may be but an idle story, and as such, it is slurred over with a contemptuous notice by
most topographers.
On the Kentish side of the river stands Belvidere, the elegant seat of Lord Say and Sele,
formerly inhabited by the able and eccentric
Sir Samson Gideon, Lord Eardley.
Adjoining is Erith, the old hythe or haven, with the
ivy -covered tower of its ancient church, rising
in venerable simplicity, and remarkable as the
place where commissioners met to draw up the condition of a treaty of peace between King
John and his Barons.
The reach of the river commencing at this
place, is called "the Rands", a name the etymology of which has puzzled many inquirers.
The
Essex shore assumes here a more romantic appearance than it shows anywhere along its line.
Generally low, flat, and marshy, it rises about
Purfleet in abrupt chalky cliffs, on the summit
of which, during the alarm of the Spanish invasion, the standard of England was placed by Queen Elizabeth,
along with a beacon corresponding with other signal fires around the
coast.
It is now a busy little village, forming
a hamlet to the parish of West Thurrock,
lower down the stream.
It is chiefly remark
able for its extensive powder magazine, removed hither from Greenwich in the year
1762.
The quantity of gunpowder at Greenwich in 1718, amounted to about eight thousand barrels, and the inhabitants in that year
were so alarmed lest an explosion should take
place, that they prepared a petition to the
legislature, showing the danger of permitting
such a quantity to continue any longer so near
the Metropolis, and within but a very few
yards of the magnificent hospital, and other
public establishments, and suggesting that the
depôt should be removed to some more solitary
and convenient spot.
King George I. directed
the Board of Ordnance to take measures for
its removal, but as Parliament had not voted
the necessary sums to purchase land or build
another, nothing could be done.
Further petitions continued to be presented until the year
1750, when George II. ordered that an estimate of the probable expenses should be laid
before the House.
It was four years before
this was done, and six years more before the
act was finally passed; with so little perseverance was it urged, and by such feeble interest
was the measure supported.
The magazine
at Purfleet was, however, commenced in 1760,
and completed in 1762.
The buildings consist
of five parallel sections, each about one hundred
and sixty feet long, and fifty-two wide.
The
walls are five feet thick, and arched beneath the
slated roof.
The arch is three feet in thick
ness, and the ridge of the roof is covered with
a coping of lead, twenty-two inches broad.
The powder is kept in small barrels, piled within wooden frames, and every possible precaution is taken to prevent a calamity.
Nothing
of iron is admitted; the doors have hinges of copper and brass; and every one entering,
leaves his shoes behind him, and puts on goloshes of India rubber or cloth.
The inmense
quantity of thirty thousand barrels, or three
million pounds of gunpowder have occasionally been deposited in this place, and, had an
explosion occurred at such a time, it is calculated that London, though fifteen miles distant, would have suffered severely.
The possibility of such an event by lightning was so
forcibly impressed upon the Board of Ordnance
in the year 1772, that they consulted the Royal
Society on the best method of preventing it.
A committee of members was accordingly ap pointed, who unanimously recommended the
adoption of Benjamin Franklin's conductors,
and each pile of building is now provided
with one.
To us it seemsvery strange, and unaccountable that men should be kept in a state of
continual alarm, and a whole district exposed
to the danger of devastation, by an establishment of this kind above ground.
The adoption of the following very simple and
unexpensive plan would effectually prevent all mischief.
In the first place, let tanks of sufficient
magnitude be made, the gunpowder placed into
large stone bottles, or stone barrels, hermetically
sealed, and then lowered into the water, to be
only raised as they are wanted for use.
The
only objection that could be urged to this plan,
would be the risk of the powder being spoiled
by the water.
If the stone vessels were properly closed, and everybody knows that is no
difficult matter to accomplish, this sole objection would be removed.
Opposite to Purfleet, the united rivers the
Darent and the Cray discharge themselves into
the Thames, under the name of Dartford
Creek.
The Darent rises at Squerries, near
Westerham in Kent, and being joined by an
other stream, from Titsey in Surrey, flows on
to Brasted, Sundridge, and Otford, in the
neighbourhood of the latter receiving five
smaller rivulets.
From Otford its course is
to Shoreham, Lullingstone, Eynsford, Horton
Kirby, Sutton at Hone, Darent and Dartford.
It is commonly called the Dart.
According to
Leland, its name is derived from a word in the
old British language, signifying clear.
Upon
its banks, near Dartford, King Alfred routed
the Danish host, a circumstance alluded to by
Pope in his enumeration of the tributaries of
the Thames, in his poem on Windsor Forest:
The silent Darent stained with Danish blood.
Spenser, in the "Fairy Queen" also enumerating the rivers attendant upon the Thames, when hastening to his nuptials with the Medway, celebrates the Darent as
The silver Darent in whose waters clean,
Ten thousand fishes play and deck his pleasant stream.
The Darent flows for a considerable part of
its course through the valley of Holmsdale, the
inhabitants of which are proud to this day of
a fabulous achievement of their ancestors at
Swanscombe, which will be more fully related
in its proper place.
At Montreal, near Seven Oaks, once the seat of Lord Amherst, and so
named by him in commemoration of his successes in Canada, the following lines are inscribed upon the wall of the root-house, in
reference to this boast of the inhabitants of
the valley.
"This winding vale of Holmsdale,
Was never won, and never shall".
The prophecy ne'er yet has failed
No human power has e'er prevailed,
To rob this valley of its rights,
Supported by its valorous wights!
When foreign conquest claimed our land,
Then rose the sturdy Holmsdale band,
With each a brother oak in hand:
An armed grove the conqueror meet,
And for their ancient charters treat,
Resolved to die ere they resign'd
Their liberty and gavelkind.
Hence Freedom's sons inhabit here,
And hence the world their deeds revere;
In war and every virtuous way,
A man of Kent still bears the day;
Thus may our Queen of vallies reign,
While Darent glides into the main,
Darent whose infant reed is seen
Uprearing on yon bosom'd green;
Along his widening banks may peace
And joyful plenty never cease,
Where'er his waters roll their tide,
May heaven-born liberty reside.
Both the Darent and the Cray are famous for
trout; but those of the latter are generally
allowed to be the finest.
Both rivers flow
through a beautiful country, abounding at
every step with pleasant reminiscences to the
man of extensive reading.
And first of the
Darent as the more important of the two.
Westerham, near which it rises from nine small
springs, behind the noble mansion of Squerries,
was the birth-place of Wolfe, the gallant conqueror of Quebec.
In the church is a handsome
monument to his memory, although the hero is
buried at Greenwich.
Otford is a more noted
spot, named from Offa's Ford, from a ford over
the Darent, where Offa, King of Mercia, defeated Lothaire, King of Kent, in the days of the
Saxon Heptarchy.
There was formerly a considerable palace belonging to the Archbishops of
Canterbury, in this village, and it is an old
tradition, that Thomas à Becket frequently, resided here.
A story is related of him similar
to that told of Edward the Confessor and the
nightingale of Havering atte Bower.
The
legend is;
"As he walked in the old park, busy
at his prayers, he was hindered in his devotions by the sweet note and melody of a night
ingale, that sang in a bush beside him, and
therefore, in the might of his holiness, he
enjoined that no bird should be so bold as to
sing thereabouts; and a smith, then dwelling
in the town, having made great noise in shoeing of his horses, he enacted by the same
authority that from thenceforth no smith
should thrive in that village."
It would be
curious to ascertain the origin of all these
stories.
One very like the foregoing is told
of Thomas Aquinas and Albertus Magnus,
who also, by the aid, not of prayer but
of the devil, stopped the sweet bird's song,
that interrupted them in their study of the
secret sciences, and also placed an enchanted
horse-shoe under ground in the street of Cologne where they resided.
By this means, no
horses could ever be prevailed upon to pass the
spot, and disturb with their clattering hoofs,
or the rumbling of wheels behind them, the
pursuits of these famous alchymists and necromancers.
There is a clear well in this parish, called St. Thomas's Well, strongly impregnated with
iron, and medical in many diseases, which before the Reformation was universally believed
to have been miraculously called into existence
by Thomas à Becket, whose name it bears.
Having suffered from the want of water, says
the legend, he struck his staff into the dry
ground, and immediately the water welled up
clear as crystal, and capable, with faith, of curing all diseases.
The Archbishops of Canterbury, though proprietors of Otford, did not
often honour it with their residence, but preferred the neighbouring palace of Knoll or
Knowle, now the magnificent seat of the Duke
of Dorset.
Archbishop Warham, in the time
of Henry VIII, preferred Otford, and expended considerable sums in beautifying and enlarging it.
His successor, Cranmer,
surrendered it to the Crown with all its possessions.
From the ruins of the palace, which are still
standing, and from the traces of the remainder,
which may be distinctly discovered, it appears
to have been a very extensive building.
Winding through a sweet pastoral district,
ornamented with some noble villas, the Darent reaches the little village of the same name,
but more commonly pronounced Darne.
The
antiquary will be delighted to spend a few
hours in its ancient church, where there is a
very curious font.
"It is," says Hasted, in
his History of Kent, "a single stone, rounded
and excavated, composed of eight compartments,
with columns alternately circular and angular,
and semicircular arches.
The figures and objects are in high relief, and rudely carved."
Hasted imagined that the figures were for
the most part the mere result of the fantasy of the artist; but Mr. Denne, who was
incumbent of Darent, gives a description of
the font in Thorpe's "Custumale Roffense," in
which he says that all the carvings bear an
allusion to the history of St. Dunstan, and his
frequent contests with the devil.
His elevation to the See of Canterbury, by King Edgar,
and his baptism of the infant King Ethelred,
who unluckily eased nature in the font, are
both depicted.
The monkish legends, in allusion to the latter, say that the infant was immediately dropped from the arms of the Saint,
who pronounced that he should be accursed
all his life for so vile a deed.
Various other
incidents in the fabulous history of Dunstan
are recorded on this curious font; but the memorable punishment he inflicted on the Evil
One, by pulling his nose with a pair of red
hot pincers, is not among them.
Dartford, or Darentford, was an ancient demesne of the Kings of England, and has been
held by many noble and illustrious personages.
It was granted by King John to Hugh, Count
of St. Paul, who mortgaged it with the King's
permission, for three years, to provide funds
for a crusading expedition to the Holy Land.
Edward II. granted the manor to his half brother, Edmund of Woodstock, whose sons, Earls of Kent, inherited it in succession, but died
without issue.
It then fell to their sister, Joan,
the wife of that gallant soldier Edward the
Black Prince, who resided upon it for a short
time.
After various changes, it came into the
possession of the famous Guy Earl of Warwick, and on his death on the bloody field,
devolved upon the duke of Clarence, [he of
the malmsey butt,] in right of his wife, the
daughter and sole heiress of the King-maker.
The Countess of Warwick, in the reign of
Henry VII, surrendered this and one hundred and fourteen other manors, to the crown.
James I. granted the manor to George and Thomas Whitmore, who conveyed it shortly
afterwards to the well-known Sir Thomas Walsingham.
It was sold in 1613 by the latter,
for so small a sum as five hundred pounds.
There is another manor at Dartford, formerly
in the possession of the Knights'[sic] Templars,
after whom it is still named, Temple Manor.
The town abounds in the remains of antiquity, of which the most interesting are the
ruins of a nunnery, supposed to have been originally the manor house, but converted into a
nunnery by Edward III, after the death of his
gallant son.
Several ladies of high rank were
superiors of this convent, which was for a
prioress and fourteen sisters of the order of St.
Augustine, and among others, Bridget, daughter of Edward IV, who died within its walls.
At the dissolution of the religious houses, the
possessions of this were valued at upwards of
four hundred pounds per annum.
Henry VIII.
at considerable expense, converted the building
into a palace for himself, but it was never inhabited as such by the Monarchs of England,
except by Elizabeth for two days, on her return to Greenwich after one of her progresses to
feast upon her friends in Kent and Sussex.
Small remains of it at present exist, but from
these it is evident the building must at one
time have been very extensive.
It is generally supposed that the famous insurrection of the commons of England under
Wat Tyler, began at Dartford, though Hume
states that it began in Essex.
It is curious to
see how the old historians differ upon almost
every point, however important, or however
trivial.
If we are to believe Stowe, the captain of the insurgents was Wat Tighler, of
Maidstone, and there was another man, a tiler,
in Dartford, commonly called John Tyler,
whose daughter received the indecent outrage
which caused the father to knock out the tax
collector's brains with a hammer.
John Tyler
of Dartford, soon found himself at the head
of a considerable company, and marched forthwith to Maidstone, to join Wat Tighler, who
was a blacksmith.
Stowe further informs us
that the more immediate cause of the outbreak
happened before the insult of John Tyler's
daughter at Dartford.
Sir Simon Burley challenged a tradesman
of Gravesend as his bondsman, and though the inhabitants greatly interested themselves in the
man's favour, Sir Simon fixed an exorbitant
sum as the price of his manumission, and
would not abate a farthing.
People then began to ask why there should be bondsmen at all; the discontent which had been germinating
in the popular mind, suddenly burst forth, and
the insurrection was at a considerable height,
when it received an increase of strength by the accession of John Tyler.
Grafton, Froissart,
and other historians, relate the matter differently, and at this distance of time it is impossible to say where the tumult began, and
whether Wat Tyler was a native of Maidstone
or of Dartford, or whether, as Stowe says,
there were two Tylers.
The commonly received
opinion is that the name of the insulted father
was Walter Hilliard, that he was by trade a
tiler, and that he lived at Dartford.
In
Southey's juvenile Drama upon the subject, he adheres to another tradition, which makes the
man a blacksmith.
Among the earliest sufferers for conscience
sake in England, was the vicar of this town,
Sir Richard Wich.
He was burnt for heresy
on Tower Hill, in June 1440, greatly pitied
by the people, who, after his death, came in
great numbers, secretly by night to the place of
execution, to collect his ashes and the ground
he had stood on, as holy relics.
The crowds
at last became so numerous, that the Mayor
of London sent an armed force, and arrested
a great number of them, and among the rest
the vicar of All hallows, Barking, who had encouraged the delusion for his own profit, the
people bringing him offerings whenever they
found a particle of the ashes of the departed
martyr.
It was said of this vicar of All hallows, that he had secretly mixed a quantity of
spice with the ashes of the dead man to deceive the people, and make them believe that
they smelt so fragrantly by miracle.
He confessed the imposition when he was in prison,
and was condemned to die for it; but his
sentence was remitted.
Near Dartford is a large open plain, called
Dartford Brent or Brim, where a tournament
was held by King Edward III, on his return
victorious from his Norman wars, and where
also the Duke of York assembled with a considerable army, in the reign of Henry VI.
This town, standing on the high road to Canterbury and Dover, is a place of some traffic.
It is populous and thriving, and has some handsome public buildings.
The Cray, which joins the Darent below
Dartford, and flows with it into the Thames,
is a much smaller stream.
It is beautifully
clear, and gives name to the four pretty villages of North Cray, St. Mary's Cray, Foot's
and Paul's Cray, and the small town of Crayford.
It takes its rise near Orpington, and
runs through Bexley, and the villages above
mentioned.
Several of these places are interesting to the rambler who loves to visit the
abodes of the great departed, or the scenes of
history.
Orpington, at its source, was honoured with a visit from Queen Elizabeth, who
made a progress into the then newly-erected
mansion of Sir Percival Hart.
On her arrival,
says the account in Phillipot, she received the
caresses of a nymph who personated the genius
of the house.
Then the scene shifted, and from
several chambers which were so contrived as
to represent a ship, there was an imitation of
a sea-battle, with which the Queen was highly
delighted.
Bexley, a beautiful village, is chiefly remarkable for its manor, which once belonged to that
dear name in the literature of England, the venerable Camden, "nourrice of antiquitie," who
bequeathed it to the University of Oxford for
the endowment of a professorship of history.
Crayford is so named from an ancient ford
over the river.
Considerable estates here once
belonged to the gallant Admiral Sir Cloudesly
Shovel, who has a monument in Westminster
Abbey, and also, a monument in the church of
this place.
In the churchyard is a gravestone
with the following epitaph - a wretched attempt
at wit.
Here lies the body of Peter Isnell, thirty
years clerk of this parish.
He lived respected
as a pious and mirthfulman, and died on his
way to church to assist at a wedding on the
31st of March 1811, aged seventy.
The inhabitants of Crayford have raised this stone to
his cheerful memory and as a token of his long
and faithful services.
The life of this clerk was just three score and ten,
Nearly half of which time he chaunted Amen.
In his youth he was married, like other young men,
But his wife one day died, so he chaunted Amen.
A second he married - she died, well? what then?
He married and buried a third with Amen;
Thus his joys and his sorrows were treble; but then
His voice was deep bass as he sung out Amen.
On the horn he could blow as well as most men,
So his horn was exalted in sounding Amen.
How miserable this is.
Some may laugh at
the folly of it, but we pity the levity which
could inscribe it on so solemn a place.
Tomb
stone literature is at a very low ebb in England,
with some rare exceptions.
The continental
nations, as we have already remarked, are infinitely before us; and such doggrel as the above,
would not be permitted in their cemeteries.
The tomb is too solemn a place to be inscribed
with any other words than such as are prompted
by regret and love.
After their junction, the two rivers of Cray
and Darent offer nothing to stay the step of
the traveller.
Even the angler avoids the
muddy waters known as Dartford Creek, and,
jogging on further inward amid the rural villages and green fields of Kent, visits them
separately, and finds in the proper season to
reward him for his pains, abundant store of,
"Swift trouts diversified with crimson stains".
Again arrived, after our ramble
inwards, at the junction of the
Darent with the Thames, we
follow the course of the great
river, and see beyond Dartford
Creek, the remains of the venerable Castle of
Stone, rising amid the foliage on the Kentish
shore.
It is generally believed that Stone
Castle was built by King Stephen, and for
many ages it belonged to the noble family of
Northwood, one of whom distinguished himself under Richard I, at the siege of Acre.
The square embattled tower is the only remains of its former grandeur.
The church
embounded among the trees is also an ancient
edifice.
There was formerly a chime of musical bells in its tower, and the tradition is, that
Queen Elizabeth, as she passed up and down
Long Reach, as this part of the river is called,
took great pleasure in hearing them.
Ben
Jonson in his Epithalamium for the marriage
of his friend, alludes to the musical bells of
the churches that overlook the Thames,
Hark! how the bells upon the waters play
Their sister tunes from Thames's either side.
This church and its tower were struck by lightning in 1638, and since that time the chimes have not been replaced.
Greenhithe, situated on the bank of the river,
has a ferry into Essex for horses and cattle,
which formerly belonged to the nunnery at
Dartford, but is now an appurtenance to the
manor of Swanscombe, immediately behind it.
The hamlet, at one time, was chiefly supported
by the profits of its immense chalk pits, several of which are considerably below the level
of the Thames.
Great quantities of the chalk
are consumed in the potteries of Staffordshire;
the flints also which abound in the pits, are a
profitable article of commerce, being collected
and shipped for China, where they are used in
the manufacture of pottery.
The place is but
a hamlet to Swanscombe.
The latter is written
Swinescamp in Domesday Book and was so
named from Sweyn the Danish King, the father of Canute, who erected a castle here to preserve a winter station for his ships, during his
piratical incursions into England.
The remains
of this castle were said by Phillipot, who wrote
in the beginning of the seventeenth century,
to be visible in his time.
Swanscombe was long a cherished spot by
all the people of Kent, on account of a fabulous
story related by a monkish historian, and too
readily believed by the Kentish men, whose
self-love was flattered by it.
When William
the Conqueror, says the tradition, was advancing from Hastings to London, he endeavoured
to force himself through Swanscombe, (a place
which was rather out of the direct line, it must
be confessed ), but was valiantly opposed by
the men of Kent, who advanced towards him,
each bearing leaves and branches of trees, so
that their army appeared like a moving wood.
Suddenly they threw down their leafy screens,
to the great alarm of the Conqueror, and appeared an imposing multitude of warriors, well
armed with arrows, spears, and swords, and
demanded the confirmation of all their ancient
laws and privileges, before they would acknowledge him as their sovereign.
William at once
consented, and in consequence, says TRADITION,
the men of Kent enjoy to this day the ancient
custom of gavelkind, almost peculiar to their
county, and inscribe on their arms the proud
motto "Invicta".
The first writer who mentions this story, is Thomas Sprot, a monk of
Canterbury, who lived more than two centuries after the Norman invasion.
It is not
until comparatively recent times that its truth
has been called in question.
Like many other
common stories, it will not bear examination,
and is already exploded by all who have bestowed a thought upon the matter.
The white spire of Swanscombe church, about
a mile distant, is visible from the Thames at
high-water on a clear day.
There was formerly an altar in the church famous for the
cure of madness, and to which vast numbers
of pilgrims were conveyed by their friends.
There are no monuments of particular notice.
In the nave are to be seen the relics of a rare
and affecting custom in this county, namely,
funereal garlands, which are borne before the
corpse of a virgin, placed upon the coffin during
the service in the church, and afterwards hung
up as memorials.
The manor originally belonged to William de
Valence and his descendants, Earls of March.
The representative of that noble house, ascended the throne of England in the person of
Edward IV, the Rose of York, when the
manor became vested in the Crown, and so
remained till the reign of Elizabeth, who
granted it to Anthony Weldon, clerk of the
green cloth, in whose family it remained for
many years.
Sir Anthony Weldon,sufficiently
known for his "Memoir on the Court of King
James I," was grandson of the above-named
gentleman, and like him resided at Swanscombe.
The manor was sold in 1731, and has since
been in the possession of the opulent family of
Child, the bankers of London.
In a wood, situated partly in this parish, and
partly in the parish of Southfleet, is a remarkable cavern, with cells, called Clapper-Napper's
Hole, from a notorious robber, who is reported
to have made it the place of his retreat, and
whose name has been used as a terror to the
infantile part of the community, from the days
of King Alfred to the present time.
The church of Swanscombe is very ancient,
with a square tower and octagon spire, which
was struck by lightning on Whit-Tuesday, in
the year 1802.
On the other side, passing Belmont Castle,
an elegant modern mansion in the Gothic style,
the seat of Richard Webb, Esq. we arrive at
the pretty little market-town of Gray's, or
Gray's Thurrock.
It takes its name from the
ancient family of Grey, the manor having been
granted by Richard I. to Henry De Grey, ancestor of the families of Grey de Wilton, Grey
de Ruthyn, Grey de Rothesfield, and others.
It is a small place, carrying on some trade in
bricks and corn.
The Essex coast about here is low and unattractive.
The Kentish shore is more inviting, and more thickly studded with towns,
villages, and country seats.
The river too
begins to widen as it approaches the ocean;
and here the water first begins to taste brackish.
Passing Ingress, or Ince-grice-hall, we arrive
at Northfleet, a populous village, mentioned
in Domesday Book, under the name of Norfluet.
It is divided into two districts, upper
and lower: the upper on the chalk cliffs, and
the lower on the shore.
The church contains
many monuments and fragments of monuments,
some as early as the fourteenth century.
Among
others are one to the memory of Richard Davy,
keeper of the jewels to King Henry VI, and one to Edward Brown, physician to King
Charles II. and an eminent naturalist in his
day.
Behind this village lies Southfleet, that formerly stood on a sheet of water, formed by
the creek of the river, but now dammed up.
It is on the line of the old Roman road, Watling Street, and is supposed by some antiquaries
to be the Vayniucæ of Antoninus's Itinerary.
It has belonged to the See of Rochester, from
a period considerably anterior to the Conquest,
and was a ville that had an extensive and peculiar jurisdiction of its own, embracing not only
offences committed within its own bounds, but
also all such committed in any part of the kingdom, if the criminal were apprehended within
its limits.
An instance of the exercise of this
jurisdiction is given in Blunt's "Ancient Tenures and Customs of Manors."
Two women, who had stolen some linen at Croindene, supposed to be Croydon, in the year 1200, were
arrested at Southfleet, whither they had been
pursued by the authorities of their own district.
Henry de Cobham, Lord of Southfleet,
refused to deliver them up, and immediately
proceeded to try them for the offence.
As
they loudly asserted their innocence, they were
allowed to prove it, by the then very common
ordeal of fire.
They accordingly delivered
their arms to the attendant priests, who always
superintended the foolish ceremony, when one
of them was exculpated, and the other found
guilty.
The latter was then taken forth to a
pool called Bikepool, communicating with the
Thames, and her arms and legs having been
previously tied together, she was thrown in
and drowned.
In later times, two men of
Deptford were accused of defamation in the
Consistorial Court of Rochester, for representing that three women of Southfleet were guilty
of witchcraft.
The only proof they gave of
the charge was, that they each "kept a monstruous tode."
Considering the age when the crime was imputed [1585], an age, when the chaplain of Queen Elizabeth openly prayed
that her Grace might be preserved from the
malice of witches, when James VI. of Scotland
presided at trials for the same offence, and condemned women without scruple to the flames,
and when all over the continent of Europe
thousands upon thousands of victims were annually sacrificed at the shrine of this prevalent
delusion, it is wonderful that these women
escaped.
Hundreds of women were executed
in England upon charges as frivolous as this.
Two of these were acquitted, and their defamers fined.
In the case of the third, as she was
somewhat suspected of witchcraft by her neighbours, and as she was moreover a notable scold,
she was ordered to attend at the next court
day, with six good women for her compurgators, and likewise admonished to resort to the
minister without fail every Sunday or holiday,
to testify her faith in the eyes of all who
doubted.
This sentence, so mild and so sensible, stands alone in the annals of witchcraft
at that period, and reflects lasting credit upon
the humanity of the judges.
Had Matthew
Hopkins, witch-finder-general, been alive and
thereabouts, the case would have been some
what different.
A short distance beyond Northfleet, and between that village and Gravesend, a new town,
entitled Rosherville, is in process of formation
on the estate, and from the designs, of Mr. Jeremiah Rosher.
There is also a zoological
garden and pleasure-ground, for the resort of
the numerous visitors from the metropolis, who
flock to Gravesend and its neighbourhood during the summer season.
The place, when completed, promises to become a great ornament to
the bank of the river.
The spires, and numerous buildings of Gravesend, the most considerable town we have passed since leaving London, and the first port
on the Thames, now rise before us, and give
palpable evidence of a thriving and populous place.
Its piers, projecting far into the stream,
are crowded with steam-boats, each crowded
with passengers to and from the great city,
with whose population Gravesend is the favourite and most convenient watering-place.
There is an absurd opinion afloat among the
immense multitudes, who never inquire for
themselves, or who have not the opportunity
of doing so, that Gravesend, or, the End of the
Grave, was so called in consequence of the
great plague of 1666, having stopped short of
that town.
The name of the place in Domesday
Book is Gravesham, or the town of the Grave,
Graff, Earl, or chief magistrate, which in the
course of time has been altered to Gravesend.
Little mention of this town occurs in history
until the reign of Richard II, when the French
sailed up the river, burned and plundered the
town, and carried off some of the principal
inhabitants.
To aid the town to repair its
serious losses on this occasion, the abbot and
brethren of St. Mary le Grace, on Tower Hill,
London, to whom the manor belonged, obtained of the King a privilege for the watermen of Gravesend and Milton, that they solely
should be permitted to convey passengers to
and from London.
The fare was fixed at four
shillings for each boat, containing twenty-four
persons, or twopence a-head.
In the same reign, as mentioned in our account of Dartford, one Sir Simon Burleigh
excited a commotion in Gravesend, by seizing
one of the principal inhabitants for his bondsman, and refusing to liberate him under the
then exorbitant manumission of three hundred
pounds.
The men of Gravesend, joined by
Wat Tyler from Maidstone, afterwards beseiged Rochester Castle, where the man was
confined, and set him at liberty, along with
several other prisoners.
The Sir Simon Burleigh, the cause of this disturbance, and one of
the men, whose overbearing pride and insolence helped to drive the people of England
to that famous rebellion, was beheaded about
seven years afterwards.
He was concerned in
the treasons of the Duke of Ireland, and Nicholas Brember, Lord Mayor of London, and
expectant Duke of New Troy, found guilty,
and sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.
He was at the time Constable of Dover
Castle and Chamberlain to the King, who,
upon consideration of his high offices, dispensed
with the ignominy of this punishment, and
had him put to death by the more honourable
mode, as it was considered, of decapitation,
without the drawing and quartering.
"He
was," says Stowe, "an intolerable proud man,
and a great oppressor of the poor."
From the time of Richard II, until the year
1819, passengers were conveyed between London and Gravesend in small sailing boats.
The
fare, originally twopence, was gradually raised
to sixpence, and in the year 1779, there being
covered, or tilt boats, the fare was raised to
ninepence, and shortly afterwards to a shilling.
It may not be out of place to mention here,
that at the same period the only water-conveyance to Margate was by the hoy, which left
London once a week, sometimes performing
the passage in eight or ten hours, but at others
being beaten about for three days.
The fare
was two shillings and sixpence.
The first steam -boat from London to Gravesend commenced running in 1819, at which
time there were but two boats engaged in the
transit.
There are now upwards of twenty;
some of the largest of them being built to accommodate seven hundred passengers.
There
is a ferry across the river to Tilbury in Essex,
for troops, horses, carriages, &c.
We have already mentioned in our account of the Thames
Tunnel, that it was in contemplation about the
year 1798, to construct a tunnel at this place,
to facilitate the communication.
The undertaking, however, being attended with too much
difficulty, was soon abandoned.
Gravesend is the limit of the jurisdiction of
the London Custom House; and all vessels
engaged in foreign trade, or coming from foreign ports, are boarded here by the officers of
that establishment, who accompany them to
the parent office in London.
The Thames at
this part is a mile in breadth, and the tide in
its ebb and flow, rises and falls about twenty
feet.
Great part of Gravesend was burned down
in the year 1727, and Parliament, in the year
1731, granted the sum of five thousand pounds
towards rebuilding the church.
Milton, which
joins Gravesend, was incorporated with that
parish in the reign of Elizabeth, and the two
were governed by a mayor, jurats, common
councilmen, and other officers, until the passing
of the Corporation Reform Act in 1835, when
some changes were introduced into that, as
well as other corporations.
The manor of Gravesend was granted by
William the Conqueror to his half-brother,
Odo, the bishop.
Upon his disgrace, the family
of Cremaville came into possession; and in
the reign of Edward II. the whole reverted to
the Crown.
Edward III. granted it to Robert
de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, an eminent warrior of
that day, and one of the first Knights made by
that sovereign on the institution of the order
of the Garter.
In the reign of Richard III.
the manor was again in the possession of the
Crown, by whom it was conveyed to the Abbey
of St. Mary on Tower Hill.
After the dissolution of the monasteries, it passed through
several hands during the reigns of Henry VIII,
Edward VI, and Mary, till it came into the
possession of Dudley Earl of Leicester.
He
received Elizabeth's permission to sell the manor; and it was purchased by Sir Thomas
Gawdye.
The latter only retained it a few
years, and sold it again to William Brooke
Lord Cobham; upon the attainder of whose
son, in the reign of James I, it once more r verted to the Crown.
By him it was granted
to his kinsman.
Ludovick Stuart, son of the
Duke of Lennox, and from him descended
into the family of the Blighs, Earls of Darnley,
in which it still remains.
Gravesend, as we learn from Mr. Jesse's entertaining "Memoirs of the Court of England
during the reign of the Stuarts", was the scene
of an adventure which befell King Charles I,
when Prince of Wales, on the commencement
of his chivalrous journey to Spain with the
Duke of Buckingham in search of a wife:
"On the 27th of February, 1623," says Mr.
Jesse, "the Prince retired privately from court,
and came to Buckingham's house, at Newall in
Essex.
From thence they set out on the following day (accompanied only by Sir Richard
Graham, master of the horse to the duke),
and arrived, though not without adventures,
by way of Gravesend, at Dover.
They had
previously disguised themselves with false
beards, and adopted fictitious names; the Prince
passing as Mr. John Smith, and the duke as
Mr. Thomas Smith.
"The first accident which happened to them
was encountering with the French ambassador
(who was, of course, well acquainted with their
persons) on the brow of the hill, beyond Rochester.
Their horses, however, though merely
hired at the last post, were fortunately able to
leap the hedge by the road-side, and thus enabled them to escape observation.
This circumstance was the more fortunate, as the ambassador (as was then usual) was travelling in
one of the King's coaches; and their recognition by some of the royal servants would
certainly have been the consequence of a personal encounter.
But a more important incident had nearly
arrested their progress.
In crossing the river
at Gravesend, for want of silver, they had
given the ferryman a gold piece.
The man was equally astonished and grateful for such
liberality; and supposing that his benefactors
were proceeding across the channel for the
purpose of fighting a duel, he thought it the
kindest step he could take to hint his suspicions to the authorities of the nearest town.
Accordingly, information was instantly despatched to the Mayor of Canterbury; and just
as the Prince and Buckingham were about to
mount fresh horses, they were summoned to
the presence of that important personage.
The
duke, finding concealment impracticable, divested himself of his beard, and privately informed the mayor who he really was: - he was
going, he said, in his capacity of Lord High
Admiral, to acquaint himself secretly with the
condition and discipline of the fleet.
His
identity was easily proved, and the adventurers were allowed to depart.
A boy, who
rode post with their baggage, had also recognised their persons, but the silence of this individual was not very difficult to be bought."
Metropolitan visitors to this much-frequented resort, need hardly be informed of the fine view afforded from the eminence of Windmill Hill; in which the Thames, now indeed a wide and exulting river, hastening to the embraces "of that salt and bitter sea, that swallows it up at last", is the most prominent and beautiful object, glowing blue as the skies above it, and dotted with an apparently innumerable multitude of snowy-sailed vessels, entering and departing from the great mart of the world.
In the neighbourhood of Gravesend is a
spot sacred to every reader of Shakspeare:
Gad's Hill-- the scene of the "mad prince's"
world-renowned exploit with Sir John Falstaff.
On sailing down the stream at high-water, the
eminence is plainly visible, and scarcely fails,
to the man who knows its name, to awaken
a long train of pleasant recollections.
Even
the man of figures and accounts forgets them
for awhile, and dwells with pleasure on the
reminiscence; but the dreamer, the poet, the
lover of romance, the man who loves to cherish these topographical pleasures which are
the great charm of travelling, whether we
travel twenty miles or two thousand; - what
delight does he not find! Such a man disembarks immediately.
He is not content with the
glimpse of the hill obtained from the deck of
a steam-boat, but trudges forward valiantly,
until his own feet tread the actual soil of which
he has so often heard, and which is associated
with so much romance and so much genuine
comedy.
"Here," he says, traversing the
ground leisurely up and down, "here lay fat
Jack, with his ear to the ground, and dolefully
asked the prince whether he had any levers to
lift him up again; and swore that for all the
coin in Henry IVth's exchequer, he would not
trust his own flesh so far afoot again.
Here,
perchance, is the spot, where he bullied the
travellers, finding they were afraid, and called
them gorbellied knaves, fat chuffs, and chew
bacons.
Here, too, may be the bush, where
the Prince said to Poins, that if they could
rob the thieves, and go merrily to London, it
would be argument for a week, laughter for a
month, and a good jest for ever (and lo, it has
turned out even as the Prince predicted ).
And
here, too, may be the very spot, where the
rogue, Falstaff, roared, and gave up his ill
gotten spoils so easily to that very Prince and
Poins, of whom he was saying but a minute before, that they were both arrant cowards, and that in Poins especially, there was
no more valour than in a wild duck.
Yes
here is the scene", continues he, with all the
enthusiasm of a pilgrim at the shrine of a
saint, forgetting that all was but a coinage of
the great poet's brain, that the inimitable Jack
never trod this earth at all, but that he still
lives in the world of fiction, where he will live
till the English language is forgotten.
But no
matter: these mirages, raised by the enchanting
wand of the poet and painter, are among the
most unalloyed delights of our existence.
They
gild with a halo of light many a dreary land
scape; and warm a bleak and barren hill with
the glow and animation of life.
We who have
visited this spot more than once or twice or
thrice, indulge in the same dream every time
we go, and would be sorry indeed to believe
that even the hundredth visit to the spot,
would find us insensible to its claims upon our
heart, or undelighted with the charms of the
Shakspeare who has enshrined it in his verse
for ever.
But we have wandered from the banks of the
Thames, where, opposite to Gravesend, stands
an historical spot, requiring proper and honourable mention from our pen, Tilbury Fort, the
scene of Elizabeth's bravery and animation,
when her shores were threatened with invasion.
The fort was built by Henry VIII. to protect
the towns on the river from the recurrence of
scenes such as that which took place at Gravesend in the reign of Richard II. It was enlarged and strengthened by Charles II. when
the Dutch fleet sailed up the Medway in
1667, and burned three men-of-war opposite
Chatham.
The spot where the English army was encamped in 1588, is a short distance further
down the stream, at West Tilbury, where the
traces of the encampment are still visible.
The
country was in a state of the greatest alarm.
The naval forces of England at that time were
not very considerable; and had not the very
elements conspired against Spain, had not her
most experienced naval commanders been cut
off by death at the very moment they were
about to join the expedition, leaving the command to the unskilled and inefficient Duke of
Medina Sidonia, there is no saying what the
result might have been, or whether England would have held the same rank among the
nations that she holds now.
* The naval reader may be pleased to see a correct account, from a contemporary historian, of the various vessels
that composed the English fleet at that period.
The list is
copied from Stowe's Annals, and will afford the sailor of the
present day some notion of the very small maritime strength
of England in the days of Queen Elizabeth, and that too in
a case of emergency, when every available ship was put into
requisition.
"The navy set forth and arrived to the seas,"
says Stowe, "consisted partly of her Majesty's ships, partly
of the ships of her subjects, which were furnished out of
the port towns whereunto they belonged.
Of this navy the
chiefest and greatest part was under the charge of the Lord
Charles Howard, Lord Admiral; the rest of the ships, in great number, were assigned unto the Lord Henry Seymour,
Admiral of that fleet to guard the narrow seas.
The States
also of the United Provinces in the Low Countries sent
about the same number of forty ships out of Holland and
Zealand, well appointed and furnished in warlike manner,
which joined with the English feet under the charge of the
said Lord Henry Seymour, playing upon the coast of Dunkirk and Flanders.
SHIPS UNDER THE LORD ADMIRAL'S CHARGE
Her Majesty 's Ships from Queenborough towards Plymouth
in the month of January last past, under Sir Francis
Drake:
The Revenge, The Swiftsure, Hope, Aide, Nonpareil
From Queenborough towards Plymouth the 16th May, under the Lord Admiral.
The Bear, Triumph, Elizabeth, Victory, Ark, Bonaventure, Lion, Mary Rose, Dreadnought, Foresight, Swallow, White Lion.
Pinaces:
The Charles, Moon
Other Ships of the best sort.
The Leicester, Royal Merchant, Roe Buck (Sir Walter Raleigh's), Edward Bonaventure, Golden Noble, Hopewell of London.
By the Londoners of their charge. Ships 16:
The Hercules, Toby, Centurion, Minion, Margaret and John, Ascension, Mayflower, Primrose, Red Lion, Tiger, Gift of God,
Burre, Royal Defence, Golden Lion, Brave, Thamas Bonaventure.
Pinnaces, four: The Diana, Passport, Moonshine, Relief.
Of Bristol:
The Minion, Unicorn, Handmaid, A Pinnace.
Of Barnstaple:
The Dudley, God save her, Tiger.
Of Plymouth: The Elkora, Spark, Hope, Drake, Barke Bond, Barke Bonnar, Barke Talbot, Fly Boat, White Lion (the Lord Admiral's),
A Pinnace (the Lord Sheffield's), Pinnace (Sir Wm.Winter's),
And sundry others of the west parts.
Of Exeter:
The Bartholomew, Rose, A Pinnace.
HER MAJESTY' S SHIPS UNDER THE LORD H. SEYMOUR'S CHARGE.
The Rainbow, The Sun, Vanguard, Merlin, Antelope, Signet, Bull, Spy, Tiger, Fancy, Scout, Gally Bona, Tremontaine, Brigandine,
Achates, George (a hoy).
Other English ships there were from the ports of the north part of the realm,
besides Flemish ships of Holland and Zealand, in number forty.
As also ten ships of war by the merchant adventurers of England, at their own proper costs and charges,
set out of the City of London under the charge of Captain Henry Bullengham, (over and above the other
sixteen ships and four pinnaces set out at the City 's charge) to wit:
The Pansy, The Dolphin, Rose-Lion, Jewell, Anthony, Antelope, Salamander, Toby, Providence, George Noble.
Bale fires blazed
upon every hill.
Every man held himself ready
for the fight; and in London it was deemed
so important that the darkness of its streets
by night should not afford cover for the designs of traitors within, or aid the surprises of
enemies without, that every householder was
ordered to hang out a light before his door,
and see that it burned till dawn, under pain
of death.
But needless severity of this kind
was not wanting to arouse the spirit of the
nation, and the Queen knew it.
With the
strength of mind of a man, and the tact of
a woman, she thought that the spectacle of a
queen leading her own armies to the struggle,
would act upon the chivalrous feelings of the
multitude; and she was right.
She appeared
among her soldiers at Tilbury, and having ridden through the lines with a cheerful and
animated countenance, delivered the following
speech - unlike the royal speeches of the present
day - with a good deal of meaning in it.
MY LOVING PEOPLE,
We have been persuaded of some, that
are careful of our safety, to take heed how
we commit ourselves to armed multitudes, for
fear of treachery; but, I assure you, I do not
live to distrust my faithful and loving people.
Let tyrants fear.
I have always so behaved
myself, that, under God, I have placed my
chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal
hearts and goodwill of my subjects.
And
therefore I am come amongst you, as you see
at this time, not for any recreation and disport,
but being resolved in the midst and heat of
thebattle, to live or die among you all; to lay
down for my God and for my kingdom and
for my people, my honour and my blood even
in the dust.
I know I have the body but of
a weak and feeble woman; but I have the
heart and stomach of a king - ay, and of a
King of England too; and think foul scorn
that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe,
should dare to invade the borders of my realm;
to which rather than dishonour shall grow by
me, I myself will take up arms; I myself will
be your general, judge, and recorder of every
one of your virtues in the field.
I know already for your forwardness you have deserved
crowns; and we do assure you, on the word of
a Prince, they shall be duly paid you.
In the
mean time, my lieutenant-general shall be in
my stead, than whom never Prince commanded
more noble or worthy subject; not doubting,
but by your obedience to my general, by your
concord in the camp, and by your valour in
the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over these enemies of my God, my king
dom, and my people."
This valiant and indeed eloquent speech, had
the anticipated effect.
An attachment to her
person, says Hume, became a kind of enthusiasm among the soldiery, and they swore
never to abandon the glorious cause of their
Queen and their country.
But their valour,
and that of their general, Dudley, Earl of
Leicester, was destined never to be put to the
test.
Before the Armada could get out of
Calais, where it had put in to await the reinforcements of the Duke of Parma, the storm
and the English admiral committed sad havoc
among its cumbrous vessels.
The guns of Tilbury Fort were not called into use; and the
Armada, sailing northward, to make the tour
of the British Isles ere its return to Spain, was
miserably wrecked on the barren shores of Orkney.
England was freed from the most imminent danger that had threatened her shores for
centuries; and the pride of Spain was more
effectually humbled, and at much less cost, than
if the arms of the English people had gained the victory.
Elizabeth remained two days among her soldiers at Tilbury, passing the night at the neighbouring village of Horndon-on-the-Hill, in the
house of one Master Edward Rich, a justice of
the peace for Essex.
The camp was very shortly
afterwards dissolved, all danger being over, and
public thanksgivings were offered up in all
the charches of the kingdom for the happy
deliverance of the nation.
The Earl of Leicester, so highly complimented for his abilities
and zeal by the Queen, just lived long enough
to witness the general joy, and died twenty-five
days after his gallant appearance by the side of
his sovereign at Tilbury.
His death, as he had
not contributed to the triumph, was scarcely
noticed.
Drake and Howard were the names
in the people's mouths, and the fleets of England were justly more in honour than her
armies.
The flags taken from the Spaniards,
were publicly exhibited by the clergy at Paul's
Cross, and the next day were hoisted from the
battlements on London Bridge, looking towards
Southwark, among the traitors' heads that always frowned from that gate of death; and
there being that day a great fair upon the
bridge, the concourse of people to behold the
flags was greater than had ever been known to
assemble on that ancient structure.
The wide reach of the river from Gravesend
and Tilbury seawards, is called the Hope; and
arrived at the end of that, we first obtain a
glimpse of the not far distant ocean, and see
the Nore, and the mouth of the river, about
six miles in breadth.
The Essex shore for
all the rest of our course, is low and uninterest
ing; and a few insignificant villages, alone
point their spires to the blue, to betoken the
dwelling-places of man.
The Kentish shore
offers more attractions, and in this place becomes a peninsula, formed by the Thames and
the Medway, known by the name of the Hoo.
In the time of Hollinshed, the Hoo was nearly
an island, and there was a proverb current, not
much to the credit of its inhabitants:
He that rideth in the hundred of Hoo,
Besides pilfering seamen shall find dirt enow.
The district was formerly supposed to be under the especial patronage of Saint Werburgh,
a Saxon lady, who, during her life-time, had
a mortal antipathy to geese; and who, in her
sanctity after death, freed every place she delighted to honour, from the presence of those
fowl, except the inhabitants chose to keep
them tame for their own convenience.
The first important place that solicits attention on this coast, is Higham, about a mile inward, and just beyond the marshes.
It is generally believed, that Plautius, the Roman general, under the Emperor Claudius, passed the
river from Essex to this place with all his
army, in pursuit of the flying Britons.
The
achievement, if ever performed, was a difficult
one, as the river is not only wide, but deep
and rapid.
"The probability," says Hasted, in his History of Kent, "of this having been a
ford in the time of the Romans, is strengthened
by the visible remains of a causeway leading
from the bank of the Thames through the
marshes by Higham, southward; and it seems
to have been continued across the London highroad on Gad's Hill, to Shorne, Ridgeway (implying the way to the ford or passage,
the word Rhyd in the ancient British language signifying a ford), about half a mile beyond which
it joined the Roman Watling Street, near the entrance into Cobham Park.
The charge of
maintaining that part of the causeway which
was in the parish of Higham, as also of a
bridge, was found by the judges on their circuit to belong to the priories of Higham nunnery, an institution founded by King Stephen,
who appointed his daughter Mary the first prioress.
Between Higham and Tilbury there was a
ferry for many ages, and accounts of it are to be
met with so late as the reign of Henry VIII,
before which Higham was a place much used
for the shipping and unshipping of corn and
goods in large quantities.
In the reign of
Elizabeth, there seems to have been a fort or
bulwark here for the defence of the river, the
yearly expense of which to the state, for the
pay of a captain and soldiers, was no more
than twenty-eight pounds two shillings and
sixpence.
Cliffe, the next place visible, is a village,
which was called Bishop's Cliffe in the time of
William the Conqueror.
Before that period, all
the bishops in the province of Canterbury, used
to hold an annual meeting in this church on
the first of August, to settle rules for the
governance of the clergy.
The incumbent of
Cliffe was once believed to have Episcopal
jurisdiction.
The church is large, and bears
evident marks of its former importance.
It
once was rich in the possession of monumental
brasses; but the soldiers of the Commonwealth,
who were quartered in it, made considerable
gains by selling them to the founders, and
very few of them are now remaining.
In the
chancel are six stalls, like those in cathedral
churches, and the tradition of the place is,
that they were formerly filled by a dean and
five prebendaries.
About two miles beyond Cliffe, are the ruins
of the ancient Castle of Cowling, built in the
year 1381 by Lord Cobham, the father of Sir
John Oldcastle, one of the earliest martyrs to
the Protestant faith.
It is a tradition reported
in the old histories of Kent, that the castle was
so large and strong, that its builder feared he
might give offence at court and attract suspicion.
To obviate this, he caused the following lines to be cut in a brazen scroll, with
an appendant seal of his arms, in imitation of
a deed or charter, and fixed it upon the eastern
most tower of the chief entrance, that it might
be visible to all comers.
Knoweth that beth and shall be,
That I am made in helpe of the contree,
In knowing of whiche
This is ye chartre and witnessing.
Sir John Oldcastle, then owner of this superb
fortress, was hanged in chains, and burned in
St. Giles's Fields, London, in the year 1418,
for the alleged crimes of heresy and treason,
committed about three years previously.
The
character of Sir John has been drawn in the
brightest colours by the martyrologists; but
there is little doubt, leaving his religious
opinions out of the question, that his political
crimes were sufficiently heinous to have drawn
upon him the punishment he suffered from any
sovereign in Europe.
He denied the power
of the judges to try him, as having been appointed by an usurper - a character which history cannot fix upon Henry V.
He appears
also, like many other martyrs, to have been a
dangerous fanatic; and he told Sir Thomas
Erpingham, a few minutes before his execution, that he would rise from the grave on the
third day, and procure peace and victory for
the persecuted sect of the Lollards.
An unsuccessful attempt to take this castle, was made
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, in the Kentish insurrection of 1553, against Queen Mary.
On the opposite shore we pass the Island of
Canvey, a low, swampy place, about five miles
in length, behind which, on the mainland of
Essex, are the ruins of Hadleigh Castle, and
the town of Leigh.
The former is in the village of the same name, and was built by the
powerful Hubert de Burgh, in the reign of
Henry III. who was also the original builder
of York Place, afterwards called Whitehall, in
Westminster.
At his death, Hadleigh came
into the possession of Thomas of Woodstock,
Duke of Gloucester, murdered at Calais by
order, it is supposed, of Richard II.
; upon
whose throne, and life, he had made an attempt, in conjunction with others.
His widowed duchess quitted Hadleigh soon afterwards,
and hid her sorrows from the world amid the
recluses of the nunnery at Barking.
The remains of the castle stand on the brow
of a steep hill, from whence there is a magnificent view over the wide mouth of the river
into Kent.
The ancient walls, overgrown with
moss, and choked up with weeds and brambles,
and every year yielding up a fragment to the
insatiable hands of decay and time, present the
traces of much former grandeur.
They inclose
an area of a somewhat oval form, and are
strengthened by buttresses on the north and
south.
The entrance is at the north-west angle,
between the remains of two towers; and close
to it may be discovered the course of a deep
ditch, that formerly extended along the north
side.
About the middle of the last century it
was in the possession of Sir Francis St. John,
Bart., in whose time part of it was demolished,
and the remainder suffered to fall into decay.
Leigh is a small fishing -town, celebrated
eight hundred years ago for its fine grapes,
rivalling those of Hamburg.
It has none to
boast of now.
Its church, upon a hill, commands an extensive view over the Thames.
About three miles further is the pretty watering place, Southend, pleasantly situated on a
hill, and embowered in verdure.
It is a town
of comparatively modern origin, and the newest
parts of it are built in a style of considerable
elegance.
It possesses the usual attractions of
watering places, - a news-room, a theatre, and
good bathing; but its views over the mouth
of the Thames and the junction of the Medway, and the salubrity of the air, render it
a favourite resort in the summer season.
On the Kentish side lies the low coast of the Hoo, and the Isle of Grain, with the insulet called Yantleet; none of them possessing any attractions to stay the progress of the traveller.
The Thames now mingles itself in the ocean.
Its waters have long since lost their freshness;
and the Nore light, stationed in the midst, gives
notice to all that the course of the great stream
is over.
From the Essex to the Kentish shores
the breadth of the embouchure is about six
miles.
From its source to the Nore the river
has flowed for a space of two hundred and
thirty miles, and been navigable for one hundred and eighty-eight.
A mere brook in comparison with some of the mighty floods of the
Old and New World; a rivulet compared with
the Volga, the Danube, the Don, and some
other streams of Europe; but richer and more
glorious than them all.
Over its placid bosom
passes more wealth; upon its banks resounds
the hammer of more industry; and in its ports
are stationed more wonders of art and civilization, and more engines of power and conquest,
than in all the streams of Europe put together.
And though its history abounds in no wild
legends or startling traditions, to please the
lover of romance, yet its association with the
names of the great, the good, and the learned,
who have dwelt upon its banks, and loved it,
recommends it to the friend of his country.
At every step of our course some recollection
has been excited, which was worthy of being
noted; and if we in the course of our rambles up and down, and on either side of it,
and its tributaries, have brought little or nothing to light which was new, at least we shall
be allowed the merit of having diligently culled
from a thousand different and scattered sources
all the memorabilia of the river, and put them
into shape and form.
We have striven to be
exact without being elaborately learned; we
have endeavoured to be a chatty companion, and
not a prosing Dr. Dryasdust; and have loved
to conduct the reader into green woods and
lanes, and lovely nooks, as well as into old
castles, and mouldy churches, possessing few
attractions but their age to recommend them.
If without parade of erudition we have informed the reader; if without the exercise of
fancy or invention we have amused him, we
have done well, and are satisfied.
In pursuance of our original plan, we proceed to trace,
with similar objects, the sister stream of the
Medway; and inviting our readers to accompany us, bid farewell to the THAMES.
Medway, as Spenser sings, was by nature intended to pay tribute to Thames, but prefers rather to roll on its own course, an independent flood, only mingling with the mightier river in the embraces of the ocean, where the career of both is at end, "like lovers, in their lives estranged, but in their death united."
Long had the Thames, as we in records read
Before that day, her wooeéd to his bedde;
But the proud nymph would for no worldly meed,
Nor no entreatie to his love be ledde,
Till now at last relenting, she to him was wedde.
What reader of that old bard does not remember his gorgeous description of the bridal, the Thames attended by all his tributary streams, and the Medway by hers; the Bridegroom,
That full fresh and jolly was,
All deckéd in a robe of watchet hue,
On which the waves glittering like crystal glass,
So cunningly enwoven were, that few
Could weenen whether they were false or trew.
And on his head, like to a coronet,
He wore, that seemed strange to common view,
In which were many towers and castles set,
That it encompast round as with a golden fret.
And then the Bride, without the coronet of a royal city on her bank
The lovely Medua came,
Clad in a vesture of unknowen geare
And uncouth fashion, yet her well became,
That seemed like silver sprinkled here and there,
With glittering spangs, that did like stars appeare,
And waved upon like water chamelot,
To hide the metal; which yet every where
Bewrayed itself, to let men plainely wot
It was no mortal work that seemed and yet was not.
Her goodly locks adown her back did flow
Unto her waist, with flowers bescattered;
The which ambrosial odours forth did throw
To all about, and all her shoulders spread
As a new Spring; and likewise on her head
A chaplet rare of sundry flowers she wore;
From under which the dewy humour shed,
Did trickle down her hair, like to the hoar
Congealéd little drops that do the morn adore.
But the place of their bridal, as the poet
calls their confluence into the sea, has sterner
recollections than such as these; for here took
place, in 1797, that famous mutiny of the
fleet, which spread so much alarm throughout
the nation, occurring as it did, at a time when
Europe was convulsed by the struggle of contending principles, and England was watched
by jealous and powerful enemies, eager to take advantage of her weakness.
The mutiny of
the Nore will always render the confluence of
the Thames and Medway a memorable spot
in the annals of England.
Sheerness whose dock-yard walls and low roofs are now visible,
and beside which the fleet was moored at the
time, is also associated with that event; a
short history of which will not be ill-timed, as
we await the departure of the Chatham steam-boat, which is to take us up the Medway.
For many months before the outbreak of
the mutiny the seamen of the British navy had
complained of the smallness of their pay, alleging, with great reason, that it remained
exactly the same as in the days of Charles II;
whereas, provisions, and living in general, had
almost doubled in price since that period.
They had also high notions of the rights of
man: - the ideas which had convulsed France
were germinating all over Europe, and our
sailors, in common with others, could not, at
such a time, and with such notions of equality,
brook the insolence of stripling and inexperienced officers, who showed their imagined
superiority by harsh words, and tyranny, to
better men than themselves.
But this grievance, though felt, was never made the ostensible cause of complaint; the inefficiency of
pay was alone insisted on, and that in the
most respectful manner.
The Government of
Mr. Pitt took no notice of their demands,
founded upon reason as they were, and were
quite taken aback by surprise, when the first
mutiny broke out in the channel fleet, under
Lord Bridport on the 13th of April 1797.
On the return of the fleet into Portsmouth
some days previously, a secret correspondence was settled between all the ships that composed it,
which ended in an unanimous agreement that no ship should lift an anchor until
the grievances of the seamen were redressed.
On the 15th Lord Bridport, in total ignorance
of the spirit of the men, ordered the signal to
prepare for sea.
Immediately the crew of the
Queen Charlotte, a first-rate man-of-war, and
his lordship's own vessel, raised three deafening
cheers, as a signal to the rest of the fleet that
they refused to weigh the anchor.
The crews
of the other vessels followed the example; and notwithstanding all the exertions of their officers,
refused to put to sea.
Every ship's company then proceeded to the election of two
delegates, and Lord Howe's cabin was fixed
upon as the place where they were to hold
their consultations.
On the 17th an oath was
administered to every man in the fleet, to
support the cause in which they had engaged;
ropes were reared to the yard-arm in each
ship, as a signal of the death-punishment that would be inflicted on every man who proved
traitor to the cause; and several officers who
had rendered themselves obnoxious, were put
ashore.
The crews treated the admiral with
the greatest respect, and drew up two petitions,
one to the Admiralty, and the other to the
House of Commons, stating their grievances,
in firm but respectful language, representing,
that while their bravery and loyalty were
equal to those of the army, the pensioners of
Chelsea had received an increased allowance,
while those of Greenwich remained at the old
rate.
They declared their readiness to continue true Englishmen, and brave defenders of
their country, but insisted on an increase of
pay and provisions, or the liberty of going
ashore while in harbour, and on the continuance of their pay to all wounded seamen, until
they were either cured or discharged.
After
some negotiations, their demands were acceded
to; but not without a show of offended dignity
on the part of the Government; and the men
returned to their duty on the 23rd of April.
All alarm had subsided in the public mind,
when, fourteen days afterwards, a fresh mutiny broke out.
The seamen mistrusted the promises and the intentions of Government, and
insisted upon some more positive pledges, that the stipulations would be kept; and that a
general pardon would be granted for all offences.
In this emergency, Lord Howe, beloved by the navy for his kindness of heart,
and admired for his successes and his bravery,
was despatched to communicate with the mutineers.
By his exhortations, and his assurances
of the fulfilment of all that the Government
had promised, order was restored, and the seamen of Portsmouth and Plymouth finally returned to their duty.
These occurrences it has been necessary to
repeat in order to explain those that afterwards took place in the Medway.
They were
the subject of warm debates in Parliament, in
which the opposition, while it agreed to the increase in the navy estimates which they occasioned,
severely handled the conduct of the ministry for not paying earlier attention to the
reasonable demands of the seamen, before they
were made by men who showed by their conduct that they would brook no refusal.
On the 22nd of May, in less than two weeks
afterwards, when the nation was beginning to
forget its alarm, and was congratulating itself
on the happy issue of an event that might have
been productive of such serious mischief, the
third mutiny broke out at the Nore, more menacing and more alarming than its predecessors.
The crews took possession of their respective ships, elected Delegates, who afterwards elected a President, a Secretary, and
other officers, and drew up a statement of demands less reasonable, and in terms more insulting than those made by the mutineers of the
Channel Fleet.
As the mutineers kept up no
communication with any men or body of men
but the Board of Admiralty, it was impossible
for many days to ascertain what were their real
intentions.
The most alarming rumours were
spread and believed, each day's being more
painful than those of the day preceding; and,
when on the 6th of June, intelligence was
received in London, that four large vessels
had deserted from Admiral Duncan, who was
stationed off the coast of Holland, to join the
mutineers in the Medway, the consternation
knew no bounds: the shores of England appeared open to the first invader who chose to
approach, and men of all parties strove to heal
the unhappy breach, and prayed to the God
of nations for the restoration of order.
The vessels that deserted were the Agamemnon, the Leopard, and Isis, men-of-war,
with the Ranger sloop.
The brave Duncan,
when he found himself deserted by part of his
fleet, called his own ship's crew together, and
made the following simple, manly, affecting,
and eloquent address to them.
"My Lads, I once more call you together
with a sorrowful heart from what I have lately
seen, the disaffection of the fleet: I call it disaffection, for the crews have no grievances.
To
be deserted by his fleet, in the face of an enemy, is a disgrace which, I believe, never before
happened to a British admiral: nor could I
have supposed it possible.
My greatest comfort under God is, that I have been supported
by the officers, seamen, and marines, of this
ship, for which, with a heart overflowing with
gratitude, I request you to accept my sincere
thanks.
I flatter myself much good may result
from your example, by bringing those deluded
people to a sense of their duty, which they owe
not only to their King and country, but to
themselves.
The British navy has ever been the support
of that liberty which has been handed down to
us by our ancestors, and which I trust we shall
maintain to our latest posterity; and that can
only be done by unanimity and obedience.
The ship's company and others who have distinguished themselves by their loyalty and
good order, deserve to be, and doubtless will
be, the favourites of a grateful country.
They
will also have, from their own inward feelings,
a comfort which will be lasting; and not like
the fleeting and false confidence of those who
have swerved from their duty.
It has often been my pride, with you, to
look into the Texel, and see a foe which dreaded coming out to meet us: my pride is now
humbled indeed: my feelings are not easily to
be expressed: our cup has overflowed and made
us wanton.
The all-wise Providence has given
us this check as a warning, and I hope we shall
improve by it.
On Him, then, let us trust,
where our only security can be found.
I know
there are many good men among us; for my
own part I have had full confidence of all in
this ship: and once more beg to express my
approbation of your conduct.
.
May God, who has thus far conducted you,
continue to do so; and may the British navy,
the glory and support of our country, be restored to its wonted splendour, and be not only
the bulwark of Britain but the terror of the
world.
But this can only be effected by a
strict adherence to our duty and obedience,
and let us pray that Almighty God may keep
us in the right way of thinking.
God bless you all!"
The whole crew melted into tears as the
admiral spoke, there was not a dry eye among
them; and collectively and individually they
swore to abide by him in life or in death.
The
remaining vessels of the fleet caught the enthusiasm, though they did not hear the eloquence
that excited it, and they all remained faithful
to their duty.
The admiral, though his force
was thus weakened, took up his usual station
off the Texel, to watch the motions of the
Dutch fleet, and accept battle if it were offered.
At the Nore the accession of these ships increased the confidence and the demands of the
mutineers.
They insisted upon still further
increase of pay and provisions, and other indulgences which had not been even hinted by
those of the Channel fleet.
They complained
especially of the unequal distribution of prize
money, by which the officers received so much
and the seamen so little, and blamed their pre-mutineers of Portsmouth and Plymouth for
not stipulating for some new regulations in
this respect.
Richard Parker, their president
or admiral, as he was called, was a young man
of much natural ability, good education, and
indomitable resolution, and presided at all the
interviews with the agents sent down by the
Admiralty or the Government to confer with
them.
Admiral Backner, the commanding officer at the Nore, was directed by the Lords of
the Admiralty to inform the seamen that their
demands were totally inconsistent with the
good order and regulations necessary to be
observed in the navy, and for that reason could
not be complied with; but that if they would
immediately return to their duty, each and all
would receive the royal pardon, and oblivion
cover their past offences.
Parker replied to
this by a firm declaration that the seamen had
unanimously determined to keep possession of
the fleet until the Lords of the Admiralty
themselves had repaired to the Nore, and redressed the grievances of the navy.
This was a bold demand, but the Government deemed it right that some members of
the Board of Admiralty should proceed to the
Medway.
The Earl Spencer, Lord Arden, and
Admiral Young, proceeded thither accordingly,
and had an interview with Parker and the
delegates.
The conference was but short.
Parker was firm and would not abate one iota
of his former demands; the Lords were equally
firm, and the conference broke up abruptly,
leaving matters in a worse state than before.
A proclamation was immediately issued, offering pardon to all who returned to their duty;
a message was sent to Parliament by his Majesty; and a bill was introduced to the effect, that
persons who should endeavour to seduce either
soldiers or sailors from their duty, or instigate
them to mutinous practices, or form any mutinous assembly, should on conviction be deemed guilty of felony and suffer death.
The bill
was passed through all its stages with unexampled rapidity, and received the royal assent on
the third of June.
Another motion was then
made by Mr. Pitt to prevent all communication with the ships that should be in a state of
mutiny, and to enact, that if after the King's
proclamation any person should voluntarily continue in any such ship, that person should be
declared guilty of mutiny and rebellion, and
should be liable to all the punishments of those
crimes accordingly.
There was some opposition from the old Whig party to the severity of
the latter, but it passed the houses by a great
majority.
As the mutineers had threatened to
stop all vessels entering the Thames, circular
letters were despatched to all the outports on
the third of June, forbidding all vessels clearing
out for the Thames or Medway to quit their
stations until further orders.
An embargo was
also laid upon all vessels in the port of London,
forbidding them to proceed lest they should be
seized by the mutineers.
As it was rumoured
that the mutineers intended to put out to sea,
all the buoys and beacons were removed from
the mouth of the river, in order should any
attempt be made to get away that the ships
might be run aground.
Additional troops were
thrown into Sheerness, the mutineers having
manifested a disposition to bombard that town;
and furnaces and hot balls were kept ready to
burn the fleet had such an attempt been made.
In order that their hostile intentions might
become apparent, the mutineers seized two
vessels laden with stores that attempted to pass
the Nore, and sent notice ashore that they intended to block up the Thames, and cut off
all communication between London and the
sea, until the government acceded to their
demands.
They acted upon this determination
by moving four of their largest men-of-war
across the river, and stopped several ships that
were proceeding to the metropolis.
But this
was going too far.
The men knew it, - some
began to waver, and even the most reckless to
lose confidence in one another.
To prevent too
much power from being lodged in the hands
of any one man, the office of president was entrusted to no one longer than a day, and ships
whose crews were suspected of any wavering
or lukewarmness, were stationed in the midst
of the other vessels, that they might be fired
upon from every side, if they manifested the
slightest disposition to escape.
Notwithstand
ing these precautions, two vessels contrived
to elude their vigilance, put out to sea, and
sailed to Portsmouth, where they returned to
their duty.
The seamen at this port, and at
Plymouth, the authors of the former mutinies,
each addressed an admonition to those of the
Nore, warning them that they had gone too
far, - that their present proceedings were a disgrace to the British Navy, - that they should
be content with the advantages already secured
to them, and return at once to their allegiance.
But the delegates, now so deeply implicated,
were in such a condition that they were afraid
to submit.
They thought no clemency would
be extended to them, and that their only hope
was to render themselves still more formidable,
and force the government into compliance, or
an amnesty.
Impressed with these notions,
they resolved to persevere.
The committee of
delegates meeting on board the Sandwich, sent
for Lord Northesk, the captain of the Montague, whom they had kept prisoner on board
of his own vessel, and asked him to be the
bearer of a message to the King.
The message was couched in terms of great respect towards his Majesty,
but of much severity towards his ministers,requiring entire compliance
with the original demands, and threatening,
in case of refusal, to put out to sea immediately.
They told Lord Northesk that they
considered him the seamen's friend, and asked
him to be the bearer of the message, and to
pledge his word of honour to return to them
within fifty-four hours.
Lord Northesk readily
undertook the mission, but stated candidly that
their demands were so unreasonable that he had
not the slightest hope they would be complied
with.
In the mean time the acts of mutiny continued.
Some officers, more than usually unpopular, were ducked in the sea, and then
sent ashore, but in general the strictest discipline was maintained by the delegates in the
fleet.
Nine rules for the guidance of the men
were agreed upon, and promulgated: first, that
every ship should diligently keep a quarter watch, and that every man found below, in
his watch, should be severely punished; second,
that every ship should give three cheers morn
ing and evening; third, that no woman should
go on shore from any ship, but that as many
might come in as pleased; fourth, that any
person attempting to bring liquor into a ship,
or any person found drunk, should be severely
punished; fifth, that the greatest attention
should be paid to the officers' orders; sixth,
that every seaman and marine should take
an oath of fidelity, not only to themselves,
but to the fleet in general; seventh, that no
ship should lift anchor to proceed from port
until the desires of the fleet were satisfied;
eighth, that no liberty should be given to
pass from ship to ship till everything was
settled; and ninth, that no private letters
should be sent ashore.
Notwithstanding these regulations, a want
of unanimity began to prevail.
The King, of
course, took no notice of the message sent
by Lord Northesk, and this increased the
distrust, and diminished the confidence of the
men.
On the 7th of June an extraordinary
Gazette was published, warning all persons
whatever to avoid communication with the
following ships, whose crews were declared
to be in a state of mutiny and rebellion;
namely, the Sandwich, the Montague, the Director, the Inflexible, the Monmouth, the
Belliquieux, the Standard, the Lion, the Nassau, the Repulse, the Grampus, the Proserpine, the Brilliant, the Iris, the Champion,
the Comet, the Tysiphone, the Pylades, the Swan, the Inspector, the Agamemnon, and
the Vestal.
The proclamation at the same
time authorized the commissioners of the Board
of Admiralty to accept the submission of such
ships, or any one of them, or any of the men
belonging to them, who would immediately
on returning to their duty be forgiven for
all past offences.
In the mean time diligent preparation was
made at Sheerness to reduce them to submission by force.
A large vessel called the
Warrior was fitted out at Chatham, manned
wholly by volunteers to act against them, and
everything showed the determination of the
Government to make no further concessions.
Every day the disunion of the mutineers increased, and on the 13th the Agamemnon,
the Standard, and the Nassau, each of sixty
four guns, the Iris frigate of thirty-two, and
the Vestal of twenty-eight, slipped their cables
and got under the protection of the guns of
Sheerness.
Two more line of battle ships got
away in the course of the night, and on the
following day Government offered a reward of
£500 for the apprehension of Parker.
Four
of the delegates attempted to escape in an open
boat, but finding both shores lined with troops,
they went out to sea and turned the North
Foreland.
Being pursued by a cutter, they
ran into the Isle of Thanet, where they were
taken by the volunteers.
On the 14th, the
Sandwich, Parker's ship, drifted to Sheerness,
with the red flag of mutiny taken down, and
the white flag hoisted in its stead.
As the
garrison were not certain of her intention they
made ready their guns to defend the town,
and sent out some officers in a boat to parley
with the crew.
All the sails of the Sandwich
were furled, and it became quite manifest that
her intentions were peaceable.
The persons
who seemed to command said they came to
surrender, and to give up Parker and the
rest of the delegates.
Arrived within gun shot
of the great battery, some boats' crews went
on board, and brought out Parker, Davis,
Higgins,Gregory, Denison, and about twenty
other delegates, who were immediately conveyed to the black hole of Sheerness, and
confined,heavily ironed, till the following morning, when they were sent under a strong escort
to Maidstone gaol.
One of the delegates of
the Agamemnon shot himself through the head
when the crew laid hold of him.
Parker had
been arrested by one Lieutenant Mott, with
the concurrence of the crew; he made little
or no resistance, and was merely confined to
his cabin till the vessel was drifted ashore.
Government immediately proceeded to the trial
of the mutineers: a court-martial was held on
board the Neptune at Greenhithe under the
presidence of Admiral Sir Thomas Pasley.
The trial lasted four days.
Parker conducted
himself with the most admirable composure,
cross-examined the witnesses with great skill
and tact, and made a calm, clear, and eloquent defence, denying nothing that had been
proved, or even alleged against him, but
urging in extenuation that he had saved the
fleet.
It was he who had established order
among the mutineers; he had presided but
to control the evil passions of the men, who,
but for his advice, and the authority that he
acquired over them, would have broken out
into acts of civil warfare, bombarded the towns
of their native country, or sailed with the fleet
to a foreign port.
He was found guilty unanimously, and sentenced to death.
The 30th of
June, a week after the conclusion of the trial,
was fixed upon for the day of execution.
On
that morning, at eight o'clock, the ships having
been ranged in order opposite Sheerness, the
Sandwich at the head, in such a position that
it could be distinctly seen by all the fleet,
Parker was brought from his place of confinement.
He had passed the night with great
composure, and on being awakened in the morning, paid the most scrupulous attention to his
personal cleanliness and appearance, and dressed
himself in a new suit of mourning.
To the
chaplain who attended him he denied most
solemnly that the mutineers ever held or intended to hold any correspondence with republicans, anarchists, or disaffected persons on
shore.
He asked Lieutenant Mott, who arrested him, and who commanded the marines
by whom he was accompanied to the fatal
scaffold, whether he might be allowed a glass
of white wine.
His request being granted,
he drank it off, saying that he drank it first
to the salvation of his soul, and secondly as a
pledge of forgiveness to his enemies.
He then
made a very short address to the ship 's company, in which he acknowledged the justice of
his sentence, and hoped that his death would be
deemed a sufficient atonement, and that the
lives of others might be spared.
He then inquired whether the gun that was to deprive
him of life was ready primed and loaded, and
being answered in the affirmative, he mounted
the scaffold with a stately and steady step;
the fatal bow-gun was fired, and the reeve-rope
catching him, ran him up, though not with
great velocity, to the yardarm, where he remained suspended for about an hour, in sight
of the fleet, and of a great crowd of spectators
who had assembled on the Isle of Grain.
Thus
perished a man who possessed talent and conduct which, under happier circumstances, might
have earned him an honourable name.
His
courage in facing almost alone the wrath of
a great nation, his general unsullied character,
and the power once acquired, which he undoubtedly exercised to restrain and curb the
violence of less sensible and more ferocious
men, single him out, notwithstanding his one
great crime, as a noble-minded and certainly
very remarkable man.
His dying prayer was
not heard.
His death was not atonement
enough; several of the mutineers were sentenced to very severe punishment, and no less
than seven of them were hanged together opposite Sheerness, a few days afterwards, besides
several who were executed at Portsmouth.
Sheerness, where these events occurred, is
still one of the principal stations of the British fleet.
Several ships of war are always
moored in the Medway, under the command
of a distinguished admiral.
The town lies in
a low, unhealthy swamp; and has always a
considerable military force to aid the fleet in
protecting the joint entrances of the Thames
and Medway.
On the restoration of Charles II. Sheerness contained but one small fort with twelve
guns, to defend the passage - a force miserably
insufficient.
After the Dutch, in the year
1667, had proved its insufficiency in a very
painful manner to the English people, by
forcing a fleet up the stream, and burning
some vessels at Chatham, the place was immediately increased to a regular fortification.
It has been several times augmented and improved since that period, and is now an important town.
No enemy's ship can pass it with
out the hazard of being sunk or blown out
of the water.
Several smaller forts have also
been constructed on the other side of the river.
For many years the town was much more
unwholesome than it is now; and it is far from
being salubrious, owing to the scarcity of
fresh water.
Shortly after the famous mutiny,
that evil was remedied: a well was sunk to the
depth of three hundred and twenty - eight feet,
which has ever since produced an unfailing supply.
The fine man-of-war, the Howe, bearing
the flag of a vice-admiral, is an object of
great curiosity to the people of London,
who come down thousands at a time by
the steam-boat, in the fine weather, to inspect
this wooden wall of England.
Every arrange
ment is made on board the vessel for the accommodation of the public, and a man appointed for the purpose goes round with each party,
and explains the wonders of the ship; from
the clean decks; - so clean, that, to use a common saying, we might eat a dinner off them
and not want a tablecloth; - to the tanks in the
hold, sufficiently capacious to contain water
enough for eight hundred or a thousand men
for a six months' voyage.
The guns, each in
the nicest order, the large kitchen - the storeroom full of biscuit and flour - the armoury,
with its pikes, pistols, dirks, and other implements of war, arranged fantastically, but methodically, in stars and circles, are successively
visited, and successively elicit the approbation of the crowd.
The officers of the ship,
too, are always full of politeness to the stranger,
and of courtesy and hospitality combined, to all who are fortunate enough to have a personal introduction to any one among them.
Those who have dined at their mess, and
passed a night on board, as we have, will not
easily forget their gentlemanly bearing, their
unaffected kindness, or their liberal hospitality.
The Howe was built after the war, and
has, consequently, seen no service, or even
quitted the shores of old England; but she
is ready to defend them, and behave as an
English ship ought, should ever the unfortunate necessity arise.
The brave Marshal
Soult, on his departure from this country,
after his mission as ambassador extraordinary
at the coronation of our present most gracious sovereign, delayed his homeward voyage
for a few hours to visit the Howe, where he
was received by his gallant friend Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Otway, and entertained with a
sumptuous dejeuner a la fourchette.
The speeches
made upon the occasion by the English
sailor who gave, and the French soldier who
partook of, the feast, did honour to the hearts
of both.
It is to be wished, for the sake of
Europe and the world, that the warriors of
both countries will ever cultivate the same
spirit, and only meet for the purposes of amity
and good fellowship.
We, who pen these
pages, were invited to that feast, but by some
unlucky fate we only arrived within sight of
the Howe, when all was over, and could just
distinguish, through the thick falling rain, the
French steamer, with the Marshal on board,
at the verge of the horizon, ploughing the
waters towards France.
Great was our sorrow
thereat, as the reader may imagine, - not for
the loss of our dejeuner, for on that score we
were not allowed to have reason to complain,
but for the loss of the interesting spectacle
of the ancient foe of England sitting in peace
and friendship at the table of entertainers who
had forgotten all enmity, and had no other
feeling towards him than those of generous
appreciation of his courage, respect for his
character, and friendship, devoid of all old
prejudices, for the people whom he represented.
At Minster, the spire of which is visible as
we sail up the river, there was formerly a
nunnery, or minster, which gave name to the
town, founded so early as the year 673 by
Sexburga, mother of King Egbert.
But the
village is chiefly remarkable as the burial-place
of old Sir Robert de Shurland, renowned in
Kentish legends.
He was created a knight
banneret by Edward I. for his gallant conduct
at the siege of Carlaverock in Scotland, and
possessed considerable lands in this neighbourhood.
On his tomb in Minster church he was
represented lying cross legged beneath a Gothic
arch, with a shield on his left arm, an armed
page at his feet, and at his right side the head
of a horse emerging from the sea.
This horse's
head became a sore puzzle to the country people, and various tales were invented to account
for its being placed there.
The legend that
obtained most credit is given in Harris's History of Kent, to the effect that Sir Robert de
Shurland having quarrelled with a priest, buried him alive.
Fearful of the consequences,
he swam on his horse two miles through the
sea to the King, who was then on shipboard
near the island, and obtained his pardon.
He then swam back to the shore, where,
being told by someone that his horse was a
magician or he never could have performed
such a feat, he dismounted immediately, and
cut the animal's head off as unworthy to live.
The legend adds, that the knight was out hunting about a year afterwards (another legend
says exactly a year and a day afterwards), when
the horse on which he rode stumbled, and threw
him violently on the ground.
His head came
in contact with some hard substance, and he
received so severe a fracture of the skull that
he died in a few hours.
The hard substance
being examined, was found to be the skull of the former steed, which he had destroyed for
being a magician!
Antiquaries and men of sense are not to be
put off with this foolish legend, and Phillipot,
in his account of Kent, explains that the figure
of the horse's head upon the knight's tomb may
possibly be typical of a grant of the wrecks
of the sea bestowed upon him by King Edward I. in the tenth year of his reign.
The
privilege was always considered, he says, to comprise only such articles from a wreck as a man
upon a horse could ride into the sea at its
lowest ebb and touch with the point of his
lance.
Samuel Ireland conjectures that the
horse's head may have been merely sculptured
on his monument as a mark of his affection
for some favourite animal.
Hogarth once made
a tour to Minster to see this tomb, accompanied
by a Mr. Forrest of York Buildings, and some
other gentlemen, and Mr. Forrest, we are informed by Samuel Ireland, wrote some verses
embodying the legend, which we have not,
however, been able to discover.
At a short distance up the stream, on the
East Swale, a branch of the Medway, stands
the ancient town of Queenborough, formerly
called Cyningborough, or King Borough, from
its having been the residence of some of the Kings of Kent during the Saxon Heptarchy.
It bears no traces of antiquity, but consists chiefly of one wide street, principally made up of modern buildings, and inhabited
by fishermen and oyster dredgers.
It was formerly a free borough, and in the reign of
Elizabeth, although it consisted of but twenty
three inhabited houses, sent two members to
Parliament.
To Cromwell's Parliament it sent
one member.
At the time the Reform Bill
was introduced, it was a place of much more
importance; but its privileges being rather too
great for its deserts, the borough was placed
in the annihilating schedule, and it now returns
no member to Parliament.
Proceeding up the stream, and passing be
tween a great number of low swampy islands,
mere marshes, unfit for the habitation of man,
we arrive at the little village of Gillingham,
and the fortress of Upnor Castle, pleasantly
situated on a gentle eminence on the right
of the narrowing river.
This place, with
Chatham, at which we shall presently arrive,
was celebrated before the Reformation, for
its wonder-working virgin, who was called
Our Lady, and sometimes the Rood of Gillingham.
An old legend, repeated in Kent when
Lambarde wrote his Perambulation of that
county, thus accounts for the cessation of the
miracles at her shrine.
The dead body of a
man floating in the Medway, was cast ashore
in the parish of Chatham, where it was buried,
after due inquiry, by the Churchwardens.
The
parish clerk who officiated at the funeral, retired home to rest; but a sense of oppression
was upon him, and his sleep was disturbed
and broken.
About midnight, however, he
fell into a more refreshing slumber, from which
he was awakened by a loud knocking at his
window.
Still more inclined to sleep than to
get up, he turned on his side, after asking in
his roughest voice, "who was there?"
The
answer sent a cold shudder through his frame.
Being a holy man, he knew the solemn voice
of Our Lady of Chatham, who commanded him
to arise and follow her.
He arose immediately,
and came down into the street, where she awaited his coming, sitting on the steps of the door.
A halo of glory was around her head, and he
bent before her in reverential awe.
"Follow
me, O clerk," said she, "for this day ye have
buried beside my grave the corpse of a sinful
man.
He so offends my eyes by his ghastly
grinning, that unless he be removed, I can do
no more miraculous workings in your town.
That so great a calamity should not befall the
poor people, take thou mattocks and pike, and
come with me, take up the body and cast it
again into the river."
Though the night was cold and wet, and
he was not accustomed to such labour, he procured mattocks and followed her in silence.
That he might not doubt her divine power,
he noticed that wherever she placed her foot,
the grass immediately grew, and the flowers
began to blossom, and at one place where she
rested for awhile, a whole garden of verdure
and beauty started up around her.
At last
they arrived at the churchyard, which was a
good distance from the Clerk's house, where
Our Lady pointed out the spot of her own
sepulture, and then that of the drowned man,
telling the clerk to set to work immediately
and relieve her sainted ashes from the ghastly
presence of that sinful neighbour.
The big
drops of perspiration stood on the brow of
the clerk.
He could not speak to the being
of another world, but he did her bidding
in solemn silence.
He dug for many hours
until he arrived at the coffin, our Lady looking on with a melancholy and dignified smile.
She motioned him to open it, and take the
body on his back, and cast it into the Medway.
He did so.
The corpse grinned horribly upon him, but he had no power to let
it fall, and he walked away to the river's brink.
He had the curiosity to look back, when he saw
the figure of our Lady melting gradually away
into the thin air, and seeming no more than the
light silver mist that floats upon the mountain.
With a violent effort he threw the corpse into
the river: the water bubbled furiously: a ray
of light danced cheerily above the grave of our
Lady, and the clerk feeling his mind relieved
from a load of sorrow, walked back to his own
home, and slept comfortably till the morning.
Anxious to know whether this occurrence were
not a dream, he arose early and walked forth
to the churchyard.
He was convinced that it
was no night vision, that he had indeed seen
the virgin of Chatham, long before he arrived
at that place; for, from his own door, all the
way they had passed, he noticed the track of
verdure where the unearthly feet had trodden,
and the little parterre of flowers that still grew
on the place where they had rested.
From
that day forth he was a calmer and a better
man, and the towns-people long pointed with
reverence to the little tufts of grass, the earthly
witnesses of the miracle.
But, alas! for Gillingham, it suffered by the good fortune of Chat
ham.
The body of the drowned man was
wafted down by the stream, and found by a
fisherman of that village.
He took it ashore,
and it was decently buried in the churchyard.
The Lady of Gillingham was wroth at the
pollution, but caring less for the good people
in whose parish she wrought miracles, or not
having the good sense of the Lady of Chatham
to apply for mortal aid in the removal of the
nuisance, she withdrew her favour from the
place for ever, her shrine lost its healing virtues, and the prayers of the faithful were of
no avail.
It was observed at the same time
that the earth where the drowned man was
buried began immediately to sink, and so continued for many years, until the body was deposited in the great pit of perdition, when the
earth was heaved up again, by no mortal means,
and restored to its former smoothness.
Lambarde says, this legend, though only known to
some very old people in his time, was not long
previously "both commonly reported and faithfully credited of the vulgar sort," having been
received by tradition from the elders of a former age.
When part of the church of Chatham was pulled down in 1788, several fragments of ancient
sculpture were discovered, and among others the
headless figure of a Virgin and Child, having a
mantle fastened across the breast by a fibula
set with glass in imitation of precious stones.
This was generally supposed to be the figure of
Our Lady of Chatham.
We now, having rounded a considerable bend in the river, arrive within sight of the three
adjoining towns of Chatham,
Rochester, and Stroud, or as
the soldiers billeted upon the
inhabitants call them, Cheat'em, Rob'em, and
Starve'em.
Chatham extends along the east
bank of the Medway, and is a long, straggling
ill-built town, which contains a large population, and has an air of considerable bustle and
business.
In the Domesday Book it is called
Coeltham, and Ceteham, and is described as
having a church, and six fisheries value twelve
pence.
It remained but an insignificant place
until the time of Elizabeth, when the Dock
was erected, and then was laid the foundation
of its present importance.
Camden describes
it as "stored for the finest fleet the sun ever
beheld, and ready at a minute's warning, built
lately by our gracious sovereign Elizabeth, at
great expense, for the security of her subjects
and the terror of her enemies, with a fort on
the shore for its defence."
James I.
and Charles I. increased the dock
and raised many additional buildings.
In the
reign of Charles II. a first-rate ship of one
hundred guns called the Royal Sovereign was
built here, and the King visited the docks to
inspect the ship before she was launched.
Many large vessels have since been constructed
here, including the ill-fated Royal George, in
which the brave Kempenfeldt and his twice
five hundred men were buried in the deep.
In the eighteenth century, during nearly the
whole of which England was at war either
with one nation or another, great additions
were made to the town and docks of Chatham.
In the year 1758 when the country was threat
ened with invasion, an Act of Parliament was
passed for the purchase of additional lands,
and the erection of such works as might be
necessary to secure this important arsenal from
the attempts of an enemy.
The famous fortification called the Lines of Chatham were
forthwith commenced, and were continued
from the banks of the Medway above the
Ordnance Wharf round an oblong plot of
ground, measuring about half a mile in width
and a mile in length to the extremity of the
dock-yard, where they again join the Medway.
Within this area, besides the naval establishment, are included the upper and lower barracks, which have been built for the garrison,
the church of Chatham and the hamlet of
Brompton, the latter of modern origin.
Various additions have been made to the security
of the place since 1758, and another act was
passed in 1782 for the purchase of lands and
the erection of buildings.
It was here that the British army was to
have taken up its position if Buonaparte had
effected a landing upon our shores, and the
fate of himself and of England to have been
decided.
During the late war twenty large forges were continually at work, and some of
the anchors made weighed as much as fourteen tons.
The Rope House is nearly twelve
hundred feet in length, where cables are made
one hundred and twenty fathoms long, and
twenty-two inches in circumference.
There
are altogether four docks for repairing, and
six slips for building ships.
Over the entrance
the Lords of the Admiralty in the year 1806,
ordered the shattered mainmast of Lord Nelson's ship the "Victory "to be placed as a
memorial of the decisive battle of Trafalgar,
and as a memento of great deeds, to be continually in the sight of our seamen.
The "Chest of Chatham," for the relief of
aged and destitute sailors, was established in
the reign of Elizabeth, each of the men in
her fleet contributing a portion of his pay for
the relief of the sufferers after the defeat of
the Spanish Armada.
It was much forwarded
by the exertions of the Earl of Nottingham,
then Admiral of the fleet, aided by the great
Sir Francis Drake, and Sir John Hawkins.
Shortly after the Mutiny at the Nore, the
Chest of Chatham was removed to Greenwich
Hospital, in consequence of sundry abuses which
had crept into the distribution of the charity.
The principal abuses on which the commissioners recommended the removal of the Chest
and the placing it under the direction of the
Lords of the Admiralty, and the Governor
and other officers of Greenwich Hospital, arose
from the system of agency, by which the pensioners were but too often deprived of a considerable portion of their allowance.
The estates of the Chest were also let considerably
under their value, and in some instances proved
a loss to, instead of an augmentation of, the
funds.
The commissioners therefore recommended that they should be sold and the produce invested in the funds.
The stock belong
ing to the Chest amounts to about £300,000 of
which £10,000 was contributed early in the present century by some charitable individual who
concealed his name, and also bequeathed the
same munificent sum to Greenwich Hospital.
Chatham gives the title of Earl to the house
of Pitt, so illustrious among the most illustrious, for the two great men it produced in
the last century.
The place formerly gave
the title of Baron to the Duke of Argyle,
but the title became extinct on the death of
John, second Duke, in the year 1743, whose
Scottish dignities alone passed to his brother
Archibald, the third Duke.
Rochester bridge and the ruins of the old
castle now rise majestically over the Medway,
and impress even the most careless passenger
with the conviction that he has arrived at an
ancient and time-honoured place.
This is the
famous bridge that divides the men of Kent
from the Kentish men, a distinction apparently
without a difference, but much insisted upon
by the former.
The natives born east of the
bridge are the men of Kent; those west, the
Kentish men; the former being considered the
best and boldest, a character they have given
themselves, although not universally acknowledged by others, since their pretended set-to
with William the Conqueror, at Swanscombe,
when they obtained the confirmation of their
privileges from that grim successful warrior.
Rochester was the Durobrivæ of the Romans, and one of their stipendiary cities.
Many Roman remains have been discovered
in various parts of it, strengthening the conjecture that the present city occupies the actual site of the Roman one.
Within the
walls of the great tower or keep of the castle,
and in the gardens, great quantities of coins
have been at various times dug up, including some of the Emperors, Vespasian, Trajan, Adrian, Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius,
Constantius, and Constantine the Great.
The cathedral is partly built with remains of Roman
bricks.
In the neighbouring fields, and at a
place called Bally Hill, other remains of antiquity have been explored; remnants of mosaic pavements, urns, jugs and pateræ of fine
red earth.
Rochester was an important place during
the Saxon dynasties in England; and from its
wealth, and its position on the Medway, was
continually exposed to the ravages of the
Danes.
It was more than once pillaged and
destroyed by these greedy foes.
In the year
676 Ethelred, King of Mercia, razed it to
the ground.
In 839, the Danes burned and
pillaged it, and committed unheard-of cruelties.
In 885, they made a second attempt
upon it, but were repulsed by the inhabitants,
under the command of Alfred the Great.
In
the tenth century it was twice burned down
by the Danes, and the Medway became a
common highway for that piratical people.
At the conquest, Rochester, along with many
other possessions in various parts of England,
was bestowed by the conqueror, on his half
brother, Odo, Bishop of Baieux, upon whose
disgrace, in 1083, it reverted to the Crown.
Rochester was made a bishop's see so early
as the year 597, by Ethelbert, first christian King of Kent, and a church dedicated to St.
Andrew, was built for Justus, the Bishop, in
604.
The present cathedral was commenced
by Gundulphus promoted to this diocese in
1077, and carried on by his successors until
the year 1130, when it was solemnly dedicated
by Corboyle, Archbishop of Canterbury, in
the presence of Henry I. and his Queen Matilda.
It contains many ancient tombs and
statues, which the antiquary will be pleased
to visit.
Most visitors, however, will rather
remember with melancholy interest, that within its walls, Ridley the martyr often preached
to his flock; and that Sprat, Atterbury, Zachary Pearce, and other eminent prelates, were
bishops of this diocese.
Next to the cathedral, the most remarkable
objects at Rochester are the bridge and the
picturesque ruins of the castle.
There seems
to have been a wooden bridge at the conquest.
It became at last so dangerous, and
cost so much to keep it in repair, that the
inhabitants petitioned Parliament, at the end
of the fourteenth century, to aid them in building a bridge of stone.
Sir Robert Knolles, a
great warrior of that day, took the matter in
hand, and by his exertions among his friends,
a sufficient sum was subscribed to build a stone
bridge, the finest then in England, with the
single exception of that at London.
Of this
Knight, Stowe preserves these laudatory verses:
O Robert Knolles, most worthy of fame,
By thy prowess France was made tame,
Thy manhood made the Frenchmen yield,
By dint of sword in town and field.
Sir Robert also erected a chapel and a chantry, in the former of which a tablet hung
for two hundred years or more, inscribed with
the names of all the subscribers.
Among many
others of less note, were those of Knolles and
Constance his wife, Sir John Cobham and Margaret his wife, Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishops
Morton and Chicheley, and Richard Whittington Lord Mayor of London, more famous,
perhaps, than all the rest, from the well-known
tale of his cat, the delight of all the nurseries
of England.
The bridge is five hundred and
sixty feet long, and fifteen broad, and is formed with eleven arches of which the largest is about forty feet.
The Medway is here very deep and rapid, and it was long supposed that the piles of the bridge were built upon the
rock.
Such, however, is not the case.
Rochester Bridge was long the handsomest though not the largest bridge in England.
It
was never blocked up by houses and made a
common market of, like that of London, but
always open as it is now.
In this respect it was
undoubtedly the first to set an example, which
has since been universally followed.
The chantry called All Soul's Chapel, now a private
house, was intended by Knolles and Cobham,
its founders, for the performance of mass three times a day, that all travellers passing over the
bridge might have an opportunity of attending
these offices and praying for the souls of the
departed who had raised so fine a structure
for their accommodation.
This custom seems
to have prevailed at one time over all Christendom.
The popular superstition, so well known
from its pleasant application by Burns, in his
"Tam o'Shanter," that neither devil, witch,
nor evil spirit dared to cross a bridge or a running stream, seems to have had its origin in
this custom of consecrating bridges.
In Ireland, even now, it is said to be the custom in
some parts, for people who pass a bridge, to
pull off their hats, and mutter a prayer for the soul of the founder.
Rochester Castle, in the opinion of Lambarde,
the learned perambulator of Kent, was erected
by William the Conqueror.
The frequent discovery of Roman coins in that part more than
in any other, would justify the supposition
that, even in the time of the Romans, some
fortress existed here, and that William, as in
the case of the Tower of London, erected another upon the ruins of the old castle.
It stands
on an eminence near the river, and looks grand
and imposing when viewed from the bridge, or
from a boat on the stream.
Like Melrose Abbey, of which the poet so sweetly sings,
Rochester Castle looks well "by the pale moon
light."
"The sun but flouts its ruins grey";
but when a fair full moon rises behind it, and
the observer is on the opposite shore of the Medway, it seems a ruin most grand, and venerable,
and melancholy.
The architect was Gundulphus, Bishop of the diocese, who surrounded it,
on the three sides removed from the Medway,
by a very deep moat.
The walls are twenty feet
high, and about seven thick, and form a quadrangle of about three hundred feet.
But the
great square tower is the most prominent.
Its
sides are parallel with the walls of the castle,
about seventy feet square at the base, and
twelve feet thick, and so lofty as to be visible
from a distance of twenty miles.
During the
sanguinary disputes between Henry III, and his
insurgent nobles, it underwent several sieges,
and the city suffered considerably from its
adherence to the Royal cause.
In the High-street of Rochester, near the
Custom-house, is a house appointed for the reception of poor travellers, bearing an inscription that the charity was founded by Richard
Watts, Esq. by his will, dated 22nd of August,
1579, for six poor travellers, who, not being
rogues or proctors, may receive gratis, for one
night, lodging, food, and fourpence each.
The
inscription has often caused a smile among the members of the respectable body, excluded
from the benefits of the charity; and a tradition of the town, states that the antipathy of
the worthy testator to proctors, arose from the
fact, that being once on the point of death,
he employed one to draw up his will; but recovering shortly afterwards, he found that
contrary to his intentions, the proctor had conveyed a considerable portion of the estates to
himself.
He immediately cancelled the will,
and hated proctors ever after.
This tradition
has arisen apparently from a misunderstanding
of the word.
Proctors, in those days, were not
the same body as now, but the term was applied to a set of fellows, sham attorneys, who
travelled about the country, compounding felonies, and very often acting as receivers of stolen
goods, and who were not improperly classed
with rogues and vagabonds in the mind and
will of good Mr. Watts.
Strype, in his "Annals of the Reformation ", has the following
passage which may serve to elucidate the point.
"If some like course [ committal to a house of
correction ] were taken with the wandering people, they would easily be brought to their
places of abode.
Being abroad, they all in
general are receivers of all stolen things that
are portable; as, namely, the tinker in his
budget, the pedlar in his hamper, the glass
man in his basket, and the lewd proctors which
carry the broad seal and the green seal in their
bags, and cover infinite number of felonies, in such
sort that the tenth felony cometh not to light; for
he hath his receiver at hand in every ale-house
and in every bush.
And these last rabble are the
very nurseries of rogues."
For the support of
this charity, Mr. Watts left an estate, valued
at that time at thirty-six pounds per annum,
but now producing between five and six hundred pounds.
Passing the bridge we arrive in Stroud, formerly a suburb of Rochester, but since the
passing of the Reform Bill an independent
Borough.
About half-a-mile from the town,
on the banks of the river, are the remains of a
building formerly called the Temple, and which
belonged to the Knights Templars, and where
they lived in grim state at the time that order
flourished in England.
There are considerable
fisheries at Stroud, especially for oysters, by the
trade in which a great portion of the population
is chiefly supported, and with which the London markets are in great measure supplied.
Ascending the Medway from Rochester to
Aylesford, we pass through a succession of
beautiful rural scenery, and the pleasant villages of Cuxton, the ancient Coclestone, or, as some say, Cuckoldstone, Woldham, and Snodland,
none of which, however, claim the attention of the passenger, after they have once
excited his admiration for their simple loveliness.
The village of Luddesdon, at a short distance from the river and on the road to Cobham Park, is connected with an old legend of
the Medway, and the ruins of the Temple
already mentioned.
When the Knights Templars flourished in all their glory, one of their
members, Sir Reginald Braybrooke, had been
to visit the Lord Cobham, and was returning
to the Temple by a lonely path on the river's
brink, when he was pierced to the heart by an
arrow from a hand unseen.
Next morning he
was found weltering in his blood, quite dead,
with the fatal arrow still sticking in his side.
The Templars used every means to discover
the assassin, but in vain: and in commemoration of the deed, and to solicit the prayers of
all faithful passengers for the soul of their
brother, they erected a triangular monument
on the spot where the corpse was found, with
a cross on each side, fronting the three roads
that united at this place.
The spot ever after
wards obtained the name of the Three Crosses.
The murderer was not discovered during his
own lifetime, but the secret was brought to
light in a singular manner.
In one bitterly
cold winter night, some years afterwards, one
of the brethren, who had been to administer
the last consolations of religion to an expiring
sinner, arrived at Luddesdon in a woeful plight
from cold and exhaustion.
He saw but one
light, from the window of a poor hovel in the
village, and, knocking at the door, he entered
to solicit shelter and a seat by the fire.
He
found the place inhabited but by one poor old
woman, who was sick in bed.
She was almost
in the last extremities, and the instant the
ecclesiastic entered, he remarked that the coverlet of her bed was no other than the cloak
of the murdered Sir Reginald Braybrooke,
whose confessor he had been.
He immediately
conjured her, ere she hastened into the presence of her God, to tell whether she knew
anything of the murder.
She then confessed
that her husband, an old soldier, who fancied
that he had been wronged and insulted by Sir
Reginald, had shot the fatal arrow to his heart:
that after the commission of the deed he never
enjoyed one moment's repose or happiness, and
that one morning, a few months afterwards,
he was found at the bottom of a chalk - pit
dashed to pieces.
She did not know whether
this catastrophe was accidental, or whether in a
fit of remorse he had put an end to his miserable life.
Having made this confession she
expired, and the priest, taking away the cloak,
conveyed it to the Temple, where it was long
preserved by the knights as a sad relic of their
brother.
The precise spot where the monument
stood is not now known, all traces of it having
long since disappeared.
A small public house in
the neighbourhood afterwards borrowed a name
from it, with a most whimsical perversion.
From
Three Crosses, the original name of the monument, it was corrupted in the course of time
to the Three Crouches; and a modern landlord,
seeing no meaning in these words, improved it
and made it more intelligible to his customers,
by giving his house the sign of the "Three
Crutches!
Close to this house, on a rising
ground overshadowed by one of the largest
walnut-trees in England, is the spring that formerly supplied the pilgrims to this spot with
water.
Returning, after this little digression, to the
stream from which we have wandered, we arrive at Aylesford, with its old -fashioned bridge,
built in the reign of Charles II.
The domain
was granted by Henry III. to Richard Lord
Grey, of Codnor.
One Frisburn, the squire of
this valiant noble, and who had accompanied
him to the Holy Land, founded in 1240, under
his patronage in Aylesford Wood, the first
priory of Carmelites ever established in England.
Various others were established in other
parts of the country during the next five years,
and in 1246, a general chapter of the order was
held at Aylesford, and one John Stock, a fanatic, who had lived for thirty years in a hollow tree, and lived upon herbs and water, was
chosen superior of the fraternity.
The manor
passed through various families into that of
Wyatt.
After the execution of the head of
that house for his rebellion against Queen
Mary, it was granted to Sir Robert Southwell,
and from him it passed to the family of Sedley.
Here, at Aylesford Priory, in the year 1639,
was born the witty and profligate Sir Charles
Sedley, the poet and dramatist.
He was the
posthumous son of Sir John Sedley, of Aylesford, sheriff of Kent in the reign of James
I.
His wit was brilliant, but his morals impure, and Charles II, of a mind so congenial
to his own, said of him, that "Nature had
given him a patent to be Apollo's viceroy."
Sir Charles was a noted Mohock in his time;
a disturber of the public peace at night, and
a frequenter of rude and dissolute company.
His poems have nearly all an immoral tendency.
He contributed his part to the corruption of the manners of that age, for which he
was afterwards punished in the sorest part, by
the seduction of his only child, the beautiful
Catharine Sedley, created Countess of Dorchester by her seducer James II.
It is possible
that Sir Charles, in the bitterness of his grief at
the disgrace that fell upon him, may have
reflected within himself that a man who had,
perhaps, corrupted by his own lascivious and
impure wit the morals of many, once perchance
as innocent as his own daughter, was rightly
punished, and that Heaven had made his pleasant vices a whip to scourge him.
He never
forgave the injury James inflicted upon him;
and though he had asked and received various
favours from him, took a very active part in
forwarding the revolution that drove him from
the throne.
Being accused of ingratitude by
some friend of James', he replied: "his Majesty has made my daughter a countess, and I
am only doing all I can to make his daughter
a queen."
He died at the commencement of the
seventeenth century.
His works were collected and published in two volumes in 1719.
.
Aylesford Priory was sold during his minority to Sir Peter Rycaut, whose son, Sir Paul
Rycaut, the eastern traveller, and author of a
work on the "State of the Ottoman Empire,"
died and was buried here.
Before the death
of Sedley, its original proprietor, the estate
again changed hands, and came into the possession of Heneage Finch, afterwards Baron
of Guernsey and Earl of Aylesford, in which
family it still remains.
Aylesford was the scene of the great battle
fought in the year 445, between the Britons
under Vortigern, and the Saxons under Hengist and Horsa, in which the Britons obtained
the victory after considerable loss, and the
death of Catigern, the brother of their king.
Horsa, the Saxon leader, was also among the
slain; and both the savage chiefs were buried
on this fiercely contested field.
Their cromlechs
remain to this day, and are among the most
interesting antiquities of the county of Kent.
Lambarde, Phillipot, Pegge, Lysons, Hasted,
and other writers, have devoted a considerable
space to the description of these remains, and
from these, but principally from the latter, the
following particulars with regard to them are
collected.
They are well worthy of a visit
not merely from the professed antiquary, but
from the rambler in search of the picturesque.
The principal cromlech, called Kit's Cotty
House, stands on the downs, about a mile
north-east from Aylesford church.
It is composed of four immense stones, unwrought, three
of them standing on end, but inclining inwards,
and supporting the fourth, which lies transversely over them, so as to leave an open space
beneath.
The dimensions and weight of these
stones are nearly as follow.
The height of that
on the south side, is eight feet, its breadth seven and a half, its thickness two, and it is supposed to weigh about eight tons.
The northern stone is seven feet high, seven and a half broad, two thick, and weighs about seven tons.
The middle stone is very irregular: its medium length, as well as breadth, may be about five
feet, its thickness fourteen inches, and it weighs
about two tons.
The upper stone or impost,
which is the largest of all, is also very irregular:
its greatest length being twelve feet, its breadth
nine and a quarter, its thickness two, and its
weight near eleven tons.
The width of the
recess at bottom is nine feet, at top seven and a half, and the height from the ground to the
upper side of the covering stone is nine feet.
This is supposed to be the burial place of
Catigern, the brother of the British chief.
About seventy yards towards the north-west,
there was formerly another stone of a similar
kind and dimensions; but it was broken to
pieces and removed by some Vandal of the
eighteenth century.
At the distance of about five hundred yards
south by east from Kit's Cotty House, are
the remains of another cromlech, consisting of
eight or ten immense stones, now lying in a
confused heap, it having been thrown down
at the beginning of the eighteenth century,
by the then proprietor of the estate, who in
tended to have the stones broken to pieces, to
pave the court-yard of the barracks at Sheerness.
The stone was however found of such
extreme hardness, that the design was abandoned as too expensive.
Still nearer to Aylesford, is another single stone, called by Dr.Stukeley, the coffin.
It is upwards of fourteen feet
long, six broad, and two thick,
That these cromlechs are the burial places of
the savage chieftains of ancient Britain, has
never been disputed.
Antiquaries (the Doctors
Dry-as-dust of the profession, we were going
to say, and must say for want of a better word,)
have differed however, as was to be expected,
about the bones buried beneath, and have carried on a violent paper war as to whether Kit's
Cotty House was the burial place of a British
or a Saxon chief - whether Catigern or Horsa
were mouldering beneath.
The current opinion
that has prevailed for many ages is, that Kit's
Cotty House is the cromlech of the British
warrior, and that Horsa was buried at Horsted,
about two miles further towards Rochester.
The etymology of both names would seem to
support this opinion.
The spot of Horsa's
burial is now in a wood, with nothing to point
it out to the notice of the curious.
Phillipot
says, that in the memory of the grandfathers
of his day, there were the remains of several
huge stones, resembling those at Kit's Cotty
House, but they had been all broken up and
removed at the time he wrote.
Several pieces
of old brass, remains of swords and spurs, have
been dug up from time to time at the place.
On proceeding up the course of a little rivulet, that discharges itself into the Medway on
its western bank, the antiquary will find the
remains of another cromlech, which, in connection with those already mentioned, may
afford ground for further speculation.
These
remains are in the neighbourhood of Addington, and are thought to mark the burial place
of some other chieftain who fell in the same
great battle.
On the east bank of the Medway, after passing Aylesford, stands Boxley Hill, commanding an extensive view over a beautiful country,
watered by this clear, but now narrow, river.
The village of the same name, or more properly speaking, the Cistercian Abbey, whose
ruins still remain, is famous for a monkish
fraud which was practised here just before the
dissolution of the religious houses, and known
by the name of the Rood of Grace.
It was
a small image of Saint Rumwald[sic], which, by
the ingenious mechanism of the priests, was
made to roll its eyes, move its lips, and raise
its hands, when the faithful brought their offerings to the shrine.
The Rood or Image of
the Virgin, in connection with this of Saint
Rumwald, was supposed to work miracles,
and cure all diseases; and great crowds of devotees daily thronged to Boxley Abbey, bringing their rich gifts to the cunning monks.
Lambarde, who wrote from personal knowledge, describes in his Perambulation, the
mode in which the imposition was carried on.
Those who wished to benefit by the Rood of
Grace, first confessed themselves to one of the
monks, and having done so, they were ordered
to lift in their arms the image of Saint Rumwald, who, by its motions, would discover whether they were of pure life, and worthy to be
favoured by the Rood of Grace or Holy Virgin.
This image was so light, that a child of
seven years of age might have lifted it with
ease; and any person who gave a sufficient
offering, was allowed to lift it.
If, however,
the offering were too small, the priests, by a
cunning contrivance of a screw, fastened it to
the wall in such a manner, that no strength,
however great, could stir it.
Great laughter
was often caused by the sturdy efforts of Herculean fellows to move it; and many a maiden
of pure life, and matron of hitherto good fame,
went away with ruined reputation, merely because they had not made the screwdriver of
Saint Rumwald their friend, by a liberal offer
ing.
Those, however, who had contributed
sufficient, were allowed to proceed to the higher
mysteries of the Rood, where there was a further demand upon their purse, ere the eyes
of the figure rolled benignantly upon them,
and ere it lifted its hands to bless them, and
cure their infirmities.
"Chaste virgins and
honest married matrons", says Lambarde, "went
oftentimes away with blushing faces, leaving
without cause, in the minds of the lookers-on,
suspicion of unclean life and wanton behaviour;
for fear of which note and villany, women of
all others stretched their purse strings, and
sought by liberal offering to make Saint Rumwald 's mane their good friend and master.
But
mark here, I beseech you, their pretty policy,
in picking plain folks purses.
The matter
was so handled, that without treble oblation,
that is to say, first to the confessor, then to
Saint Rumwald, and lastly to the gracious
Rood, the poor pilgrims could not assure themselves of any good gained by all their labour, no
more than such as go to Paris Garden, the Belle
Sauvage, or some such other common place, to
behold bear-baiting, interlude, or fence play,
can see the pleasant spectacle, unless they first
pay one penny at the gate, another at the entry
to the scaffold, and a third for a quiet stand
ing."
The deception was discovered in 1538,
by an agent of Cromwell, Earl of Essex, and
the images were brought to London, and publicly showed to the assembled populace in front
of Paul's Cross.
All the springs of the mechanism were successively exhibited, amid the
laughter of the crowd; and the images being
broken to pieces, were thrown into a fire, enkindled in the open street for the purpose, and
burned by Dr. Hilsey, the Bishop of Rochester,
in whose diocese the fraud had been practised.
Penenden Heath is partly in this parish and
partly in that of Maidstone.
It has been a
place for public meetings for many centuries.
It was here that Archbishop Lanfranc exhibited his complaint against Odo Bishop of
Baieux, half brother of William the Conqueror,
for extortion; and which led to the downfal[sic]
of that prelate.
Here also are held county
meetings, and elections for members of parliament.
The last great meeting held here was
shortly before the passing of the act for Catholic emancipation, in 1829.
We next, about two miles further
up the Medway, arrive at the
ruins of Allington Castle, sacred to the memory of one of the fathers of English poetry,
and claiming from us a notice of love and
homage.
A castle is supposed to have existed
here in the Saxon times.
It was granted to
Sir Henry Wyatt by King Henry VII, as a
reward for his services in the cause of the
House of Lancaster, and a slight repayment of
his losses in the long disastrous wars of the
rival houses.
Sir Henry was made a Knight of
the Bath by Henry VIII, and at the battle of
Spurs was made a Knight Banneret.
He was
treasurer of the King's chamber in 1525, and
filled many other important offices.
He chiefly
resided at Allington Castle, where, in the year
1503, his accomplished son Thomas was born.
Thomas early manifested a love for poetry,
and formed an intimate friendship with the
Earl of Surrey - imbued with the same tastes,
and like himself, burning with the love of the
divine art.
Since the then distant age of
Chaucer, no poet worthy of the name had appeared, to raise the dignity of English verse.
The groves of the Muses were silent and deserted, until these two song-birds appeared to
reawaken the voice of music in the land, and
incite others by their example, to lend their
aid to swell the harmony, that was so soon
afterwards to burst in full and joyous chorus,
in the song of Spenser and his immediate successors.
Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Incomparabilis, as
Leland calls him, and "the delight of the
Muses and of mankind," as he is called by
Wood, was likely to attract the notice of King
Henry VIII, from the position occupied by his
father at court; and we find, that after his
father's death he was employed by that monarch on several occasions of great importance.
He and Surrey were the greatest ornaments
of the court; both distinguished as soldiers;
both handsome and noble in person; and both
renowned as the sweetest, and almost the only
poets of the day.
We are told of Sir Thomas that he was a
man of great wit and readiness, and that his
sparkling conversation was the delight of the
court: that, in fact, he combined the wit of
Sir Thomas More with the wisdom of Cromwell, Earl of Essex.
It is said of him that he
helped to bring about the Reformation by a
bon mot, and precipitated the fall of Wolsey by
a jest; but this is, perhaps, saying too much.
His jest about Wolsey does not merit repetition, and that which is said to have aided the
Reformation, if it were the one that has been
handed down to us, is not so much a jest as a
very pertinent remark.
When Henry was perplexed respecting his divorce from Catherine of
Arragon, and had qualms of conscience as to
the sinfulness of setting the Pope at defiance,
Sir Thomas is reported to have exclaimed,
"Lord, is it not strange that a man cannot
even repent of his sins without the Pope's
leave!"
Henry was inclined to this opinion
himself, and was of course well pleased to have
it strengthened by the pithy exclamation of his
courtier.
Sir Thomas had at this time a more
numerous acquaintance among men of merit
and ambition than any gentleman in the kingdom.
He had great discernment in finding
out the peculiar talent of those who sought his
friendship, and the most generous appreciation
of merit in others, and the utmost readiness to
advance it where he found it.
So great, too,
was his influence at court, that it became a proverb, when any man received preferment, "that
he had been in Sir Thomas Wyatt's closet".
The accomplishments and gallant bearing of
Sir Thomas are supposed to have made some
impression upon the heart of Queen Ann Boleyn; but it is too much to say, that because
she may have admired the poet and the gentleman, or been fond of his conversation, that she
encouraged a guilty passion for him, or he for her.
This, however, has been said, but upon
no sufficient authority; and Sir Thomas Wyatt was at the same time a married man, living
most affectionately with his family.
The chief
ground for this calumny upon two amiable
persons, seems to be, that Wyatt, in one of
his sonnets, speaking of the mistress of his
heart as being named Anna, and in another
deplores the miseries that had befallen him
in May, a month so pleasant to all men, but
so sad to him.
It will be remembered, that
that unhappy lady was executed in the month
of May.
A suspicion, however, was entertained of him by his contemporaries, and on
the trial it was attempted to implicate him in the fate of Norreys, Smeeton, and the others,
who suffered in that sad story, but the suspicion against him soon passed away.
He was
imprisoned in the Tower in 1536, not from
any participation in this affair, but on account
of some quarrel he had had with the Duke
of Suffolk, the particulars of which are not
known.
He was soon released; and in the
following year was knighted, and made Sheriff
of Kent.
He was also chosen by the King, to
show the especial confidence he had in him,
to fill the honourable post of his ambassador to
the Emperor of Germany; in which office,
after some months, he was joined by the notorious Bishop Bonner.
Wyatt acquitted himself to the satisfaction
of the King; but as the dignity he was obliged to keep up impoverished him considerably,
and he received no adequate allowance from
the King, he solicited his recall.
His letters to
Cromwell Earl of Essex, at this time, drew
forth replies from that able and amiable man,
which reflect great credit upon his memory.
They are filled with kind and gentlemanly
advice upon the profuse expenditure which,
both in his public and private career, was the
great failing of Sir Thomas; a failing, by the
by, which he shares with many other poets.
Cromwell acted the part of a disinterested,
thoughtful, and affectionate friend; and being
pressed by Wyatt, fearful that Bonner, who
had preceded him to England, and who was
known to entertain an animosity against him,
would prejudice the King's mind against him,
he procured his recall in 1539.
Henry expressed great satisfaction with his exertions to
fulfil duly the difficult objects of his mission,
and Wyatt repaired to Allington Castle, to
arrange his pecuniary affairs, which had fallen
into some confusion.
He was not allowed to remain long in seclusion.
The Emperor proceeded, towards the
end of the same year, through France into
the Low Countries; and it was thought advisable to despatch an ambassador to watch his
motions.
Wyatt was again selected to fill the
office, and remained abroad for about a year.
On his return he met the same honourable
reception he had experienced before, and seemed to all eyes to be high in the King's favour.
Within a few weeks after his return, his
friend Cromwell, one of Nature's own noblemen though the son of a blacksmith, fell into
disgrace, was tried, found guilty, and executed
for high treason.
Bonner, who was now in
power, justified Wyatt's preconceived distrust
of him.
By his means Wyatt was accused of
having spoken disrespectfully of his royal master to the Emperor of Germany, and of having held treasonable correspondence with Cardinal
Pole.
He was forthwith thrown into the
Tower, where it is believed he was treated with
much rigour.
In a short poem, addressed from
his place of captivity, to his friend Sir Francis
Brian, he makes it appear that he was fettered,
kept in a dungeon, where the close air wore
away his life, and where he could judge of the
"rain, wind, or weather, by his ears," but not
by his sight.
The disrespectful words, which
it was alleged he had used of the Majesty of
England to the Emperor, were, "that he feared
the King should be cast out of a cart's tail,
and that, by God's blood! if he were so, he
were well served, and he would that he were so.
"
Wyatt, on his trial, gained all hearts in
his favour by his firmness and his modesty.
When called upon for his defence, he made the
malice of his accusers so apparent, and refuted
seriatim, so successfully each charge against
him, that he was triumphantly acquitted.
But
his narrow escape disgusted him with courtly
life; he obtained permission to retire to Allington Castle, and Henry bestowed upon him
some lands in Lambeth, and made him High
Steward of the manor of Maidstone.
He now
devoted himself to the cultivation of poetry,
and the improvement of his estates.
It was
at Allington, amid his own woods, and on the
banks of the sweet stream that ran through
them, that he penned his satires addressed to
John Poyntz, on the vices of courts and the
quiet pleasures of the country.
Mine own John Poyntz, since ye delight to know
The causes why that homeward I me draw,
And fly the press of Courts whereso they go;
Rather than to live thrall under the awe
Of lordly looks, wrapped within my cloak;
To will and lust, learning to set a law,
It is not that because I scorn or mock.
'
The power of them, whom Fortune here hath lent
Charge over us, of right to strike the stroke;
But true it is that I have always meant
Less to esteem them than the common sort,
Of outward things that judge in their intent,
Without regard what inward doth resort.
I grant, sometime of glory that the fire
Doth touch my heart. Me list not to report
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attain,
That cannot dye the colour black a liar?
My Poyntz, I cannot frame my tongue to feign,
To cloak the truth, for praise without desert
Of them that list all vice for to retain.
I cannot honour them that set their
With Venus and with Bacchus all life long,
Nor hold my peace of them, although I smart:
I cannot crouch nor kneel to such a wrong;
To worship them like God on earth alone,
That are as wolves these sely[sic] lambs among.
I cannot with my words complain and moan,
Yet suffer nought; nor smart without complaint:
Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone.
I cannot speak and look like as a saint;
Use wiles for wit, and make deceit a pleasure;
Call craft council, - for lucre still to pant:
I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer,
With innocent blood to feed myself to fat,
And do most hurt where that most help I offer.
This is the cause that I could never yet
Hang on their sleeves that weigh, as thou mayst see,
A chip of chance more than a pound of wit:
This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk;
And in foul weather at my book to sit;
In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk;
No man doth mark whereso I ride or go.
In lusty leas at liberty I walk,
And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe,
So I am here in Kent and Christendom,*
Among the muses where I read and rhyme,
Where, if thou list, mine own John Poyntz to come
Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.
* The following explanation of this strange phrase "neither in Kent nor Christendom," which is still in use, is
given by Fuller, the author of the "Worthies".
"This
seems a very insolent expression, and as unequal a division.
Surely the first author thereof had small skill in even
distribution, to measure an inch against an ell; yea, to
weigh a grain against a pound.
But know, reader, that
this home proverb is English Christendom, whereof Kent
was first converted to the faith.
So then Kent and Christendom (parallel to Rome and Italy ) is as much as the first
cut and all the loaf besides.
I know there passes a report,
that Henry IV, King of France, mustering his soldiers at
the siege of a city, found more Kentish men therein than
foreigners of all Christendom besides, which (being but seventy years since) is by some made the original of this proverb,
which was more ancient in use, and therefore I
adhere to the former interpretation ".
Grose quoting this
explanation in his Provincial Glossary, says,
"the proverb rather seems intended as an ironical reproof to the good people of Kent for overrating the importance of their county;
the Kentish men formerly claiming the right of marching in the van of the English army."
A more obvious interpretation seems, as the words imply, that Kent by the satirist,
who invented the saying, was considered so rude and barbarous as not to be included in Christendom.
Wyatt, who
was a Kentish man, did not like this distinction, and takes
care to say that he lived both in Kent and Christendom.
In another satire addressed about the same
time to the same gentleman, the poet tells
the fable of the town mouse and the country
mouse, and expresses his own determination not
to imitate the latter, and be swallowed by a cat
for his pains; an allusion apparently to his royal
master.
He concludes, speaking of the Court
and its inmates:
Henceforth, my Pointz, this shall be all and sum,
These wretched fools shall have no more of me;
But to the great God, and unto his doom,
None other pain pray I for them to be:
But when the rage doth lead them from the right,
That looking backward, Virtue they may see,
Even as she is, so goodly fair and bright;
And whilst they clasp their lust in arms across,
Grant them, good Lord, as Thou mayst of thy might,
To fret inward for losing such a loss.
Notwithstanding his love of the country, and
his ardent hope that he might have no more
to do with courts, he was not allowed to remain in his darling privacy.
On the arrival
of ambassadors from the Emperor of Germany
in the autumn of 1542, the King commanded
Wyatt to meet them at Falmouth, and escort
them to London.
He was certainly, from his
previous employment, the fittest person for the
duty, and as he could not disobey the mandate, he set out immediately.
But he never
reached his destination.
The weather was extremely unfavourable for travelling; he overheated himself too, by hard riding, and on
his arrival at Sherborne, near Basingstoke, in
Hampshire, he was seized with a fever, from
which he never recovered.
He had some
friends in the town who paid the utmost attention to him, and especially Mr. Horsey,
who was unremitting in his kindness.
But
all aid was unavailing; his constitution gave
way, and he expired after a few days' illness,
in the thirty-ninth year of his age.
He was
interred at Sherborne, in the family vault of
the Horseys; but no inscription marks the
spot where he sleeps.
Of all the mourners that he left behind him,
none mourned so sincerely as his friend the
Earl of Surrey, - himself destined, at no distant
period, to join his heart's co-mate in an untimely death.
He has left in the following lines,
an eloquent description of the character and
acquirements of his friend.
Wyatt resteth here that quick could never rest
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head where wisdom mysteries did frame;
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain,
As on a forge, where that somework of fame
Was ever wrought to turn to Britain 's gain.
A visage, stern but mild, where both did grow
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice:
Amid great storms, whom grace assured so,
To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice.
A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme;
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;
A mark, the which (unperfected for time)
Some may approach, but never more shall hit.
A tongue that served in foreign realms his king;
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travail unto fame.
An eye whose judgment none effect could blind,
Friends to allure and foes to reconcile:
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposed, devoid of guile.
A heart where dread was never so imprest
To hide the thought that might the truth advance;
In neither fortune, lost nor yet represt,
To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.
A valiant frame, where force and beauty met;
Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes,
He lived, and ran the race that nature set,
Of manhood's shape ere she the mould did lose.
But to the heavens that simple soul is fled,
Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,
Witness of faith, that never shall be dead:
Sent for our health, but not received so.
Thus for our guilt this jewel we have lost,
The earth his bones - the heavens possess his ghost.
The poet left an only son of the same name,
called, to distinguish him from his father, Sir
Thomas Wyatt the younger.
His mother was
the Lady Elizabeth Brooke, third daughter of
Lord Cobham.
He it was who made the famous
insurrection against Queen Mary, which cost
him his life, and brought many others to the scaffold.
He was a man of great consequence, not
only in his own county, but throughout England, wherever the Protestant party had adherents.
When the persecutions carried on by
the Roman Catholics, under the authority of
Mary, had alarmed the people, and when her
projected marriage with Philip of Spain had
rendered them ripe for rebellion, Sir Thomas
was looked up to by his party to head a grand
national movement, to drive her from the
throne.
He undertook to raise the county of
Kent; Sir Peter Croft, Sir Peter Carew, and
others, undertaking to effect a simultaneous
rising in Devonshire, Cornwall, Wales, and the
Midland Counties.
This formidable outbreak failed for want of
proper concert among its leaders, and many
hundreds of persons perished miserably on the
scaffold.
The Princess Elizabeth, who was suspected of being privy to it, was, as is well
known, confined for a short time in the Tower
on the charge of treason against her sister,
resulting from her correspondence with Wyatt,
who, however, exculpated her with his dying
breath from all knowledge of his proceedings.
No previous insurrection since the time of Jack
Cade had excited such alarm in London as this
of Sir Thomas Wyatt.
As soon as it was
made known to the Lord Mayor that Sir
Thomas was up in Kent, additional guards of
substantial citizens were placed at the city
gates, and the aldermen, common councilmen,
and others, patrolled the streets in armour all
night long, to guard against surprise.
Five
hundred men were equipped at the cost of the
city, and sent by water to Gravesend, and
thence across the country towards Allington
Castle, to keep him in awe.
They found that
he had proceeded to Rochester Castle, of which
he had taken possession.
The Duke of Norfolk, who commanded the Queen's forces, had
possession of the bridge, on which he had
stationed four pieces of ordnance to besiege
the castle.
Brett, the captain of the Londoners, on his arrival at the bridge, suddenly
turned upon his company and addressed them
in an eloquent speech in favour of Wyatt;
urging them what a shame it would be if they
drew their swords against their countrymen,
who had been driven by tyranny to take up
arms; whose cause was righteous, and who
only wanted to deliver the land from proud
Spaniards and strangers.
The Londoners immediately raised a loud shout of "a Wyatt, a
Wyatt", and seizing upon the cannon turned
them against the Queen's forces.
Wyatt, see
ing the movement in his favour from the
battlements of the castle, sprang upon his
horse, and with a score of his stoutest fellows behind him, galloped in among the Londoners; and the Queen 's forces, panic-struck
with the suddenness of the movement, and the
loss of their artillery, took to flight.
Wyatt,
with this reinforcement, proceeded towards
Deptford, and thence to Southwark, intending
to assault the city, but failing, he marched up the Surrey shore of the Thames to Kingston,
where he crossed and endeavoured to enter
London from the west.
All the city were up
in arms, the Tower guns were in readiness,
and every thing prepared for a decisive struggle.
" All the Court," says Stowe, "were
wonderfully afraid, and drums went through
London at four o'clock in the morning, commanding all soldiers to arms, and to meet at
Charing Cross."
Wyatt, hearing that the Earl
of Pembroke had taken up arms against him,
stayed at Knightsbridge until the morning,
that his men, who were weary with their long
march,might refresh and strengthen themselves
by sleep and a supply of rations.
Wyatt planted his artillery upon the spot now known as
Hay Hill, Berkeley Square, and here a skirmish
took place.
Wyatt gained the advantage, and
pushed on towards Charing Cross, apparently
carrying all before him, and making people suspect that the Earl of Pembroke had turned
traitor, and was aiding instead of repulsing him.
"Then there was," says the quaint old historian, "a running and crying out of ladies and
gentlewomen, shutting of doors and windows,
and such a shrieking and noise as was wonderful to hear."
Wyatt forced his way through
Temple Bar to Ludgate, where being met with
a superior force, he returned again through
Fleet Street to Temple Bar, his adherents
dropping off one by one as they saw the reinforcements that were arriving from every side
to crush them.
Wyatt, at length, saw his gallant band reduced to less than a score of combatants, and, giving up the struggle, thought
only of securing his safety by flight.
He set
spurs to his steed, but was met in the Strand
by a party of the Queen's troops and taken
prisoner.
He was immediately conveyed along
with Brett, and some other leaders, to the
Tower.
On his arrival at Traitor's Gate, Sir
John Bridges, the Lieutenant, took him fiercely
by the collar, saying,
"O thou villain and unhappy traitor!
how couldst thou find in thy
heart to work such detestable treason against
the Queen's Majesty?
If it were not that the law must pass against thee, I would stick thee through with my dagger!"
Wyatt crossed his
arms on his breast, and looking at the Lieutenant with a stern face,merely replied,
"We are
not struggling for mastery now ", and passed on
to his dungeon.
The life of Lady Jane Grey, who had been
long a prisoner in the Tower under sentence of
death, might have been spared had it not been
for this unfortunate rebellion.
Five days after
the capture of Wyatt she was executed; the
Queen thinking, after these events, that there
could be no safety for her while her rival was
alive.
On the third day after she and her
husband had suffered, twenty gibbets were
erected in different parts of London, and fifty
of Wyatt's followers were hanged, drawn, and
quartered, and their limbs exposed on the city
gates.
Four hundred more of inferior note
were led to the Queen at Westminster, in
couples, with halters about their necks; and
her Majesty, looking from the windows of
the palace to the Tiltyard, where they were
drawn up in this miserable array, thought it
best to pardon them, lest the spectacle of so
much blood should prove too revolting to her
subjects.
The Duke of Suffolk, father of Lady
Jane Grey, was next beheaded; and, lastly,
Wyatt, after he had been confined in the
Tower from the 12th of March to the 11th of
April.
As he was brought out to the Green
to suffer execution, he addressed himself to one
Bourne, the Queen's secretary, and implored
him to speak favourably of him to the Queen,
and beg her countenance for his unhappy wife
and children; adding, that if it had pleased
her Majesty to have given him his life, he
would have done her such good service as
would have gone far towards making reparation for the great treason he had committed.
But since she would not spare him, he could
only trust that God would show him that
mercy which was denied him by his fellow creatures.
When he came upon the scaffold
he desired all men to pray for him, and commenced the awful preparations for death.
We
quote his dying speech from Stowe: -
"Good people", said he, "I come here presently to
die, being thereto lawfully and worthily condemned, for I have sorely offended against God
and the Queen's Majesty.
I trust God will
forgive me, and will take mercy upon me.
I
beseech the Queen also of forgiveness."
"She hath forgiven you", said Doctor Warton, the chaplain who attended.
"Then", continued Sir Thomas, "let every man beware
how he taketh anything in hand against the
higher powers; unless God be prosperable
to his purpose it will never take good effect
or success, whereof you may now learn of
me, and I pray God I may be the last example in this place for that or any other like.
And whereas it is said and noised abroad that
I should accuse the Lady Elizabeth and the
Lord Courtney, - it is not so, good people, for
I assure you neither they nor any other now
yonder in hold was privy to my rising before
I began, as I have declared no less to the
Queen's Council, and that is most true."
And
so without any more talk Sir Thomas put off
his gown, untrussed his points, then taking the Earl of Huntingdon, the Lord Hastings,
Sir T. Strangwish,and many others by the hand,
he plucked off his doublet and waistcoat, and
then kneeling down laid his head on the block;
and raising himself again to his knees, after a
few words spoken with his eyes lifted up to
wards heaven, he knit the kerchief over his
eyes, and holding up his hands, suddenly laid
down his head, which the executioner took
from him at one stroke.
Thus perished, in the flower of his manhood,
Sir Thomas Wyatt the younger, whose name,
had success rewarded him, would have shone
among the brightest in the page of English
history: Elizabeth would have reigned a few
years earlier, and Lady Jane Grey, Cranmer,
Ridley, Latimer, and a thousand illustrious
victims would have been saved from the scaffold and the stake.
But he failed, and he
ranks among traitors and rebels.
Posterity,
however, has done his memory some injustice,
and he does not rank so high as the Russells
and the Sidneys, because he flourished at an
earlier period, and because his motives, though
as noble, are not so well known.
If he sought
his end by civil war, it should be remembered
that in his day there was no Parliament worthy
of the name, in which the great change he was
desirous of making for the benefit of his country, could be constitutionally effected.
He was
a brave soldier, and a true patriot in heart, and
not the common rebel that some have represented him.
After his execution, the estates of Allington
as belonging to a traitor, reverted to the Crown,
and remained untenanted during the reign of
Mary.
Queen Elizabeth granted them on lease
to John Astley, her master of the jewels, to
whose son, Sir John Astley, they were afterwards granted by letters patent at the annual
rent of £100 2s. 6d.
They have since come into
the possession of the Earls of Romney.
The castle of Allington had been long in
ruins before Hasted published his "History of Kent."
A very small remnant of is is now in
existence, and forms a part of the adjoining
farm-house, "which itself," says Hasted, "seems
to have been built out of the ruins of Sir
Thomas Wyatt's house."
There was formerly
a park belonging to the castle, as we learn from
the poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt the elder, but
it was cleared away soon after the forfeiture of
the domain.
The parish of Allington is very small, and
in the year 1808, consisted but of one house
besides the castle and the parsonage.
Some
parts of the castle were lately inhabited, and
some few additional houses have been built.
The church is small and mean, and contains
some monuments of the seventeenth century,
but none of them are remarkable.
The next place on the Medway is the ancient town of Maidstone; so named, it is
thought, from Medway-stone.
Its Roman
name was Madaviacis, thought to have been
derived from the British.
In this town, as
already stated in our account of Dartford,
Wat Tyler and his rebels had their headquarters, before they marched to Blackheath
to attack London.
Here, also, Sir Thomas
Wyatt, the poet's son, began his insurrection.
Being joined by many of the principal inhabitants, over whom his influence from his own
character, as well as his father's, was considerable, the whole town fell under the displeasure of Queen Mary.
It lost, in consequence,
all the privileges of self-government which it
had enjoyed from a very early age, and remained disfranchised until the second year of Elizabeth, when the Queen, by letters patent,
restored their rights, and granted some additional privileges, among which was a confirmation
of their ancient prescriptive right of sending two burgesses to parliament, the granting
to the mayor the authority of a justice of
the peace, and the exemption of the townsmen from foreign sessions.
Several other charters have been granted to the town by James
I, Charles I, and George II.
The manor belongs to the Earls of Romney, who have a
seat in the neighbourhood of the town called the Mote.
Maidstone is a small, quiet, simple, and pleasant-looking town.
The chief trade is in hops.
It is considered the county town of Kent, and
here the assizes are held, and on some now happily rare, occasions criminals are executed.
There is a small bridge over the Medway.
The river is navigable for barges of fifty or
sixty tons, and the tide flows up to the town,
although the river is so narrow.
Close by,
the Lenn, one of the streams mentioned by old
Michael Drayton as "bearing the limber train
of the Medway," falls into the parent river.
There are several antiquities at Maidstone
which are worth notice.
On the eastern bank
of the river, at a short distance from the parish
church, are the remains of St. Mary and All
Saints' College, built by Courtenay, Archbishop
of Canterbury, at the close of the fourteenth
century.
The gate is the only part that gives
any idea of the beauty or grandeur of the original building, which is now converted into
a farm-house.
Near the High Street are the
remains of another ancient foundation, called
the Friary, supposed to have been part of
a convent of Franciscans founded by Edward
III. and the Earl of Cornwall in 1331.
"The church," says Hughson, "is spacious
and handsome, and consists of a nave, aisle
and chancel, with an embattled tower, in which
are eight bells.
On the tower formerly stood
a spire that was destroyed by lightning in
1730.
The walls are also embattled and supported by buttresses.
The whole is enlightened by large windows, divided by mullions,
with rich tracery above; the east window is
particularly handsome.
The chancel was rebuilt by Archbishop Courtenay in 1395, who
then altered the dedication of the church to
All Saints, it having been previously dedicated
to the Blessed Virgin."
The Archbishop was buried in the middle of the chancel, in a
grave between five and six feet deep, where
his skeleton was found in the year 1794,
in consequence of a search made for it by
the Rev. Mr. Denne, who was one of the
Dry-as-dusts who had carried on a long controversy about these very bones.
The one party
contended that they lay in Maidstone, and the other that they were buried in Canterbury.
Mr. Denne made search accordingly,
and gained the victory.
Maidstone was the birth -place of Thomas
Trapham, surgeon to Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, and the man employed to prepare the
body of Charles I. for interment.
He it was
who used the coarse and infamous expression
relating to that office, "I have sewed on the
head of a goose".
Maidstone also gave birth
to Andrew Broughton, secretary to the High
Court of Justice, and employed in that capacity
to read to the unfortunate Charles the charge
preferred against him, and the sentence of the
Court.
He was one of those excepted at the
restoration from the Act of Indemnity.
He
fled to Switzerland, and died at Vevay at an
advanced age.
From Maidstone to Tunbridge, a distance
as the crow flies of about twelve miles, but
by the windings of the Medway of eighteen
or twenty, the river takes its course through
a beautiful country, abounding with small villages, and almost covered with luxuriant hop-grounds.
The Medway receives at Yalding,
about half way between the two towns, the
waters of the "clear Beule", or Beult, a little
trout stream, which runs for about fifteen miles.
This district is one of the finest in the fine
county of Kent, and towards the end of May,
when its abundant cherry and apple trees are
in bloom, scenting the breeze with their odorous treasures, appears redolent of peace and
plenty.
But to the gossiping traveller it offers
nothing to stay him long; - men cannot always
prattle of waving woods, enamelled meads, or
hedge-rows green; so, having pointed out the
district to the lover of seclusion and rural
scenery, we pass on our way to the busier
haunts of men, in search of the places where
the great and good have been born or have died,
where philosophers have preached and poets
sung, or remarkable men have strutted away
their little hour ere the grave engulphed them.
Among the pleasant villages in the ride from
Maidstone to Tonbridge are Baring, Teston,
Farleigh, Nettlestead, Yalding, Lillyhoe, and Wateringbury; and among the country seats
which arise on every commanding knoll, amid
every green refreshing coppice, are Hailes Place,
Barham Court, and Mereworth Castle, surrounded by very extensive woods, and affording
a most delightful prospect over the Medway
and its rural banks.
This place formerly gave
name to an ancient family who held the manor
for about two centuries, and after whose extinction it passed to the Malmains, Bohuns,
and Bambres.
The latter built a spacious castle which was possessed in succession by the
Earls of Arundel and the Lords of Abergavenny.
From them it came to the Le Despencers, whose heiress Lady Mary Fane was
created Baroness Le Despencer by King James
I.
The son of this lady was made Earl of
Westmoreland by the same monarch, and his
grandson erected the present castle.
Smart,
now an almost forgotten versifier, wrote a poem
upon the hops of Kent, in which he mentions
this castle.
Nor shalt thou Mereworth remain unsung,
Where noble Westmoreland, his country 's friend,
Bids British greatness love the silent shade;
Where piles superb, in classic elegance
Arise, and all is Roman like his heart.
The famous Palladio of Italy, so often taken as a model by our English architects in their designs for the country-houses of our nobility and gentry, is the structure that was imitated by Mr. Colin Campbell, when he built this under the direction of Lord Westmoreland. It formerly contained, and perhaps does still contain, a valuable collection of pictures.
Tonbridge, or the town of bridges, is seated
upon the Medway, and four nameless streams,
which here pour their waters into that river.
From the bridges over these waters the town
obtained its name.
Here the Medway ceases to
be navigable, and up to the year 1740, it was
not navigable further than Maidstone, but an
act was then passed by which the improvement
was carried into effect at a considerable expense.
Tonbridge Castle, now in ruins, was built
about forty years after the Conquest, by Richard de Clare, Earl of Brionne in Normandy.
His own castle of Brionne had been destroyed
by the famous Robert the Devil, familiarized
by name, at least, to the public of late years,
by the opera bearing his unenviable soubriquet;
and Rufus, in compensation for that loss, gave
him a square league of land at Tonbridge,
upon which he erected a new castle more magnificent than the old one.
The possessor of this
estate in the reign of Henry VIII. was Edward
De Bohun, Duke of Buckingham, who having
been executed for treason, his estates were forfeited to the crown.
Since that time the castle
has been suffered to fall to decay.
Tonbridge,
though small, is a flourishing town.
Its church
is a handsome and spacious edifice, dedicated
to St. Peter and St. Paul, and contains several
monuments of the neighbouring families, but
none of them remarkable.
The Grammar
School, in the patronage of the Skinner's Company of London, was founded in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth by Sir Andrew Judde, a native of the town, and Lord Mayor of London.
In this school was educated Sir Sidney Smith,
the gallant hero of Acre, buried in a strange
land, and as yet without a monument to his
memory in England.
We are now approaching the source of the
Medway; the stream has become a mere brook;
an active man might, without much difficulty,
jump over it: and it soon loses its name in that
of the many small streams which unite together
to form it.
But 'ere we bid it farewell, upon
one part of its banks we must linger with a
fond delay: the groves of Penshurst, where
Sidney, the darling of his age, was born, - where
that other Sidney, the stern republican, lived
and wrote, - where Sacharissa lived, and where
Waller sung.
Penshurst Place is an extensive pile, disposed in the form of a quadrangle,
enclosing a spacious court, and comprehending
a great hall, chapel, gallery, and numerous
suites of apartments.
The state rooms are furnished and decorated with much magnificence;
and the place contains a valuable collection of
old portraits, including all the illustrious members of an illustrious house.
The park includes more than four hundred acres, gently
diversified with hill and dale, from which
may occasionally be seen the two small confluent streams of the Medway and the Eden.
Near a fine sheet of water called Lancup Well,
stands the noble oak, about twenty-two feet in
circumference, which is said to have been planted at the birth of the gallant Sir Philip.
Penshurst was granted by King Edward VI.
to Sir William Sidney, the Lord Chamberlain
of his household.
Philip was the son of Sir
Henry Sidney, Lord Deputy of Ireland, and
was born on the 26th of November 1544.
Before he had attained his twenty-ninth year,
when he returned to England after his continental travels, he had acquired a reputation all
over Europe as the most gallant gentleman and
most accomplished scholar of his age.
The King
of France, Henry III. appointed him one of
the gentlemen of the royal chamber.
The
Poles put him in nomination for the throne of
that country, and Queen Elizabeth delighted
to honour him.
The Prince Palatine of the
Rhine having been offered the high honour
of the Garter, gave Sidney his procuration to
receive his stall, and take possession of it in
his name, upon which occasion Mr. Sidney received the honour of knighthood.
Who does not remember the many fond
stories of Sidney's bravery, his generosity, and
his learning, which his admiring contemporaries have handed down concerning him?
He was the Mæcenas of the age - the man to whom
hundreds of poetasters and many poets looked
up as their patron.
The author of "The Defence of Poesy" and the "Arcadia", was the
critic whose approbation was sufficient to ensure success; and who, of all the eminent men
of that day, was selected by the then unknown
and unbefriended Spenser, as the patron of his
"Faery Queen ".
While the work was yet in manuscript, the poet sent it to Sir Philip, who was
so transported with delight, if we may believe
the old tradition, that he rose up in an ecstacy,
and ordered his steward to give the author
fifty pounds.
Cooled a little, he began to read
again, but coming to another beautiful passage,
he started up again in rapture, and ordered
the poet to have a hundred pounds.
Still as
he read, his rapture grew; and he finally raised
his gratuity to two hundred pounds, and shut
up the book for that day, lest, as he said, he
should be tempted to give away his whole
estate.
A pretty story, which we devoutly
believe, and which we hope no arithmetical
man of precision, no too curious inquirer into
dates and other ugly matters of the like sort,
will ever interfere with and destroy.
We have a vision of our own,
And why should he undo it?
The "Arcadia "was not written at Penshurst,
but at Wilton, the seat of the Earl of Pembroke; but that nobler work, "The Defence
of Poesy," was planned and composed amid the
groves of his paternal seat, and while he was
Knight of the shire for the county of Kent.
Every reader will remember that work, and its
affectionate dedication to his sister - that sister,
upon whose death Ben Jonson wrote the beautiful epigram - it can scarcely be called an
epitaph.
Underneath this sable hearse,
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death! ere thou hast slain another
Learned, and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
The grass upon which we tread - the trees
that wave over us- everything we behold in
the face of nature at Penshurst acquires additional interest as we reflect upon these things.
We can almost fancy we behold the gallant Sir
Philip walking arm-in-arm with his beloved
sister through the glades, and hear him discoursing to her of romance, and chivalry, and poetry.
Or we can fancy him at the still hour of midnight, strolling alone amid his "paternal acres"
and their venerable trees, enditing that sweet sonnet,
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climbst the sky,
How silently, and with how wan a face."
We must not forget, however, while dwelling
upon the popular reminiscences of one Sidney, that the next century produced another
whose name was to be enshrined among the
great and good of English history - the honest
and stern republican, Algernon.
Through a
long and busy life, he steadily adhered to his
early principles, and supported, with no inconsiderable influence, the cause of popular freedom - - showing, in his own person, what many
others of its supporters at that time did not,
that he was a worthy apostle of the freedom
he preached.
Cromwell found in him a powerful friend, until Sidney discovered that he also
was a despot, and he then withdrew his support,
and retired to private life, to the family seat of
Penshurst, where it is generally believed that
he composed his well known "Discourses on
Government."
After the Restoration, he lived
abroad till 1677, when he returned, made his
submission, and was pardoned.
The manner
in which he was implicated in the conspiracy
against Charles II. is well known, and has been
alluded to in our account of the Rye House;
and not less known is the manner in which the
evidence was strained against him to ensure
his condemnation.
Bishop Burnet, who knew
him well, describes him as "a man of most
extraordinary courage: a steady man, even to
obstinacy; sincere, but of a rough and boisterous temper, that could not bear contradiction.
He seemed to be a Christian; but in a
particular form of his own.
He thought it
was to be like a divine philosophy in the
mind: but he was against all public worship,
and everything that looked like a church.
He was stiff to all republican principles; and
such an enemy to everything that looked like
monarchy, that he set himself in high opposition against Cromwell when he was made
Protector.
He had studied the history of
government in all its branches, beyond any
man I ever knew ".
And as he lived, he died.
His name has become a household word; and
the great statesmen of our day receive the
praise of their countrymen in proportion as
they
"Serve well the sacred cause
That he and Hampden died for".
Waller, the poet, in his youth was a frequent
visitor to Lord Leicester, the then representative of the house of Sidney, and occupier of
Penshurst.
His well known Sacharissa, to
whom he addressed so many of his poems,
was the Lady Dorothea Sidney, the daughter
of that nobleman.
She, however, heeded not
the voice of song, or the accomplishments of
the poet, but gave her hand to the Earl of
Sunderland, who had, besides a title, a longer
rent-roll than Waller.
The latter, as far as
worldly wealth was concerned, would have
been no bad match for the lady; but she was
too proud to form a connexion with a commoner.
Waller did not grieve very much;
and it is related of them, that they met again
when they were both considerably past sixty,
when the lady asked her former admirer when
he would again write such verses upon her
as he had written in his youth.
"When you
are as young, madam, and as handsome, as
you were then,"
was the gallant, and yet ungallant, reply of the poet, who turned upon
his heel, and left her.
The Lady Dorothea was the eldest of eight daughters.
Her sister, the Lady Lucy, was
also honoured by the encomiastic verses of this
courtly rhymer.
She was, it appears, very
young when he wrote them; but they are superior to those (filled with poor conceits and
rhodomontade, instead of passion ) which he
addressed to the elder.
In his poem to the
Earl of Leicester, then absent in France, he
can find no more natural compliment than to
say, that the trees of Penshurst groan and
make moan that their lord is abroad; and that
his deer repine and think themselves unjustly
slain by other hands than his, and long for the
day when their blood shall stain his arrows!
In the same park, thinking of the charms of
the haughty Sacharissa, he launches out in the
following strain,
While in this park I sing, the listening
Attend my passion, and forget to fear;
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.
To gods appealing when I reach'd their bowers,
With loud complaints they answer me in showers;
To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,
More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven.
It appears in no degree wonderful that the
lady was not caught by such verses as these,
and as little wonderful that the severe, but
just critic, Samuel Johnson, should have said
of Waller, that it was not easy to look without
contempt upon his love verses.
The present age will not confirm the opinion
of the past as expressed by a poetical admirer,
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Tho' unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Leaving this ancient seat of the Sidneys,
the Medway is lost; four streams, two of
which rise in Sussex, one in Surrey, and the
other in Kent, claim the honourable name,
but to neither of them can it in strict justice
be applied.
The honour must be divided
among them; neither is the Medway, but each
contributes to produce it.
In most maps the
name is given to the Surrey branch, that rises
near Bletchingley, and flows past Eaton bridge
to Hever Castle, Chiddington, and Penshurst.
The Sussex branch rises near East Grinstead, and
flows to Hartfield, Groombridge, and Ashurst,
and joins the former at a short distance south
east of Penshurst.
Obliged to make a selection, we shall pursue the windings of the Surrey stream,
and leaving Penshurst and its patriotic and literary reminiscences behind us,
tramp along the by-roads to Hever Castle.
This venerable ruin was built by William de
Hever, in the reign of Edward III, and is
chiefly remarkable for being associated with the
names of two of the queens of Henry VIII.
It was purchased from the family of Hever by
Sir Geoffrey Boleyn, from whom it descended
to his grandson, Sir Thomas Boleyn, the father
of the luckless Queen Anne Boleyn.
Upon
his death, it was claimed by Henry VIII. in
right of his wife, and afterwards granted by
him to his repudiated consort Anne of Cleves.
That quiet and amiable person lived here in
seclusion for some months after her divorce,
and some authorities say that here she ended
her days.
This, however, is not true.
De
Thou, in his History, is also in error when he
says that she retired to the Court of her brother, the Duke of Cleves, and that there she
died.
By the provision of an act, whereby
estates in several counties of England were
granted her for life, she was forbidden to leave
this country, and she died at her house in Chelsea, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
From this place we follow the river to Eden,
or Eaton bridge, remarking by the way, that by
some this branch of the Medway is called the
Eden.
This village is small, but pretty and
rural, and is remarkable as one of the very many
places in England that were affected by the
great earthquake at Lisbon in the year 1755.
A pond of about an acre in extent, was observed to be agitated in a very peculiar manner, on the day in question; but no further
mention was made of the matter, until the
news arrived in England of the calamity in
Portugal, when it was brought again to the
recollection of the neighbours, and public notice taken of the fact.
The Medway, which we have thus tracked
from its junction with the ocean, where it is
a broad, rapid, and deep river, to the neighbourhood of its source, where it is but a few
feet in width, and so shallow that sometimes
it may be traversed dry-shod, flows altogether
about eighty miles, for about sixty of which
it is navigable.
It is spanned by twenty
three bridges, and its navigation is aided by
fifteen locks.
It flows through a delightful
country, and is remarkable as the deepest river
in England.
The task would have detained us
too long in one spot if we had
stayed in the course of our
voyage down the Thames, to
note the memorabilia of Frost
Fair, as it has several times been held upon its
bosom opposite London.
Many curious pictures of the manners and customs of former
generations may be gathered from such accounts of these festivals as have reached our
times; and in this chapter we propose to collect them for the amusement of the general
reader, as well as for the antiquary, for whom
it is more especially designed.
The latter will
not be displeased to find, at the beginning of
our chapter, a chronology of frost as regards
the Thames; and we hereby present it without further observation, than the mere remark,
that no detailed accounts have reached us of
any of the fairs held upon the Thames prior
to the year 1683-4, when our information, both
in prose and verse, becomes tolerably extensive.
In the year 250 the Thames was frozen over
for nine weeks;
in 291 for six weeks;
in 401
for two months;
in 558 for six weeks;
in 695
also for six weeks, when booths were built,
and a market held upon the ice;
in 827 for
nine weeks;
in 908 for two months;
in 923
for thirteen weeks;
in 998 for five weeks;
in
1063 for fourteen weeks;
in 1114 for four
weeks;
in 1207 for eleven weeks.
In 1434 - 5 the frost lasted from November 24th to February 10th, the Thames being passable on foot
from London to within a mile of Gravesend;
in 1565 the frost lasted six weeks;
in
1683 thirteen weeks.
In 1716 a fair was held
on the Thames for several days;
again in 1739;
then in 1778;
and lastly, in 1814.
Holinshed informs us, that in 1565,
"the 21st of December, began a frost, which continued so extremely that on new year's eve
people went over and along the Thames on
the ice from London Bridge to Westminster.
Some played at the foot-ball as boldly there
as if it had been on the dry land; diverse of
the court shot daily at pricks set up on the Thames; and the people, both men and women, went on the Thames in greater numbers
than in any street of the city of London.
On
the 31st day of January, at night, it began to
thaw, and on the fifth day was no ice to be
seen between London Bridge and Lambeth,
which sudden thaw caused great floods and
high waters, that bare down bridges and houses,
and drowned many people."
There being no further records of any earlier
frosts, we shall proceed with that of 1683,
when the cold was so intense that the trunks
of oak, ash, walnut, and other trees, were cleft
asunder, so that they might be seen through;
and the cracks were often attended with noises
as loud as the firing of musketry.
A full
account of the severe weather of this year is
given in a sheet, not, however, of the choicest
English, preserved in the British Museum,
printed for J. How, at the Coach and Horses,
without Bishopsgate Street, 1684; and entitled,
A STRANGE AND WONDERFUL
RELATION
OF MANY REMARKABLE DAMAGES, SUSTAINED BOTH AT
SEA AND LAND, BY THE PRESENT UNPARALLELED FROST.
This island and age wherein we live,
says the author, (whose orthography we have corrected, but whose language, with all its imperfections in other respects we have left unaltered,)
have experienced as many strange and
prodigious observations of nature's effects, together with as many and various kinds of
afflicting judgments from the correcting hand
of an offended God, as any nation in preceding
times can demonstrate, and rather seems the
total sum of all, than a parallel of any; as,
sword, plague, fire, &c.
But whether the
present unparalleled frost may be attributed
to the effects of natural causes, or not rather
to the scourging hand of an offended God, I
shall not determine, though the consequences
following seem to proclaim the latter, and
loudly call for humility and amendment of
life, lest a worse judgment fall upon us.
But
leaving this general caution and instruction, I
shall present your view with such remarkable
passages as certain knowledge, credible report,
and spreading fame have brought to light.
From Deal, it has been observed that a
vessel belonging to Lubeck (which her colours
signify), riding in the Downs for several days,
has been in great distress; which by their signs
and weffs (the language of seamen in such
cases) is understood by them as well as if they
discoursed face to face; whereupon several
yachts and other vessels have attempted to relieve them, but all industry ineffectual;
the vessel being congealed and environed with a massy
substance of ice; so that it is altogether inaccessible, and now no further attempts can be
made for their relief, because the sea for above
a mile from the shore is so hard frozen beyond
our apprehensions to imagine or chronologies
to parallel.
From Liverpool, in Lancashire, we
have advice, that two vessels lying at anchor
had their cables one night severed asunder
by the sharpness of the ice, notwithstanding
the industry of the distressed mariners, who
are now drove from hope of succour.
Though
attempts have been made by some, beyond probability of their own safety, to relieve them,
but in vain, whose fear is not so much for their
want of provision as the danger of being bilged,
(a sea term for breaking holes in the vessel),
with the ponderous strokes of such bulky congealed cakes of ice, as the impetuousness of the
unruly surges cast against them.
It has been also observed, that the ice has
cut away most of the buoys or sea-marks, as
well in the south as north channel, so that
such as have weathered the distresses in harbours, and escaped dangers at home, by the
frost, are, notwithstanding, incident to those dangerous wrecks of rocks and sands,
and shunning Scylla may fall upon Charybdis.
It is also credibly attested that vast solid
cakes of ice, of some miles in circuit, breaking
away from the eastern countries of Flanders
and Holland, &c. have been by the east and
north-east winds driven upon the marine borders of Essex, Suffolk, and Norfolk, to their
no small damage.
And it is also reported, that some skait
sliders upon one of those large icy plains, were
unawares driven to sea, and arrived living
(though almost perished with cold and hunger)
upon the sea coast of Essex; but as to the certainty of this report I refer to the credit of
succeeding intelligence, as also those wonderful damages upon the coast of Scotland
relating of the loss of some shipping, and the
lives of many ingenious and industrious navigators;
nor may those prodigious and lamentable damages seem strange, when in our own
harbour, the river of Thames, several ships,
both inward and outward bound, as well at
Redrif as other adjacent places, have been
broken to pieces, and sunk by the effects of
this so unparalleled a frost.
It is needless to inform London (for whom
principally this intelligence is collected ), what
unheard of rendezvous is daily kept upon the
face of her navigable river; what long and spacious streets of booths and tents are builded;
what throngs of passengers, both horse and
foot, do travel; what pyramids of provisions,
baked, boiled, and roast; what deluges of wine,
coffee, beer, ale, and brandy, for sale; what fleets
of vessels sailing upon sledges; what troops
of coaches, caravans, and waggons; what games
and new invented sports and pastimes, bull-baiting, bear-baiting, &c.; together with shops
for the vending of most sorts of manufactures
and for working artificers, the account of which
alone would require a volume to describe; and
therefore omitting its description in particular,
I must leave it with amazement and admiration
in general.
But to speak of the land, where the damage
is no less considerable than at sea, there being
such an overwhelming snow in Scotland, that
man and beast, though not equally, are too
sensible of the affliction.
Also in England, in
several places, through the extraordinary violence of the present frost, no water can be had
for cattle in many miles, which general complaints will need no other confirmation than
from the tongues of the cattle themselves, who
with pity have been observed to lick the ice
to abate their thirst, for want of their fill of
refreshing water.
From a credible person in France to a gentleman of worth in London by letter, before
the sea was blocked up by this extreme frost,
mention is made of the severe effects produced
by the extremity of cold as well of weather
as of charity, attesting by modest computation
that no less than sixty persons have lately died
upon the road between Paris and Calais; and
doubtless many in the city of London, through
the same extremes, have perished in the same
calamity, of which a weaver in the parish of
St. Giles's Cripplegate was one, and though I
take no notice of others whose wants call upon
the Diveses of this age to consider the condition of the Lazaruses in the streets."
The following, in relation to this frost, was communicated to the Gentleman's Magazine, for February 1814, by a respectable friend from a memorandum left by his great grandfather.
20th December 1683, a very violent frost
began, which lasted till the 6th of February
in soe great extremitie that the pooles were
frozen eighteen inches thick, at least; and the
Thames was so frozen that a great street from
the Temple to Southwark was built into shops
and all manner of things sold.
Hackney
coaches plyed there as in the streets.
There
were also bull-baiting and a great many shows
and tricks to be seen.
This day the frost
broke.
In the morning I saw a coach and
six horses driven from Whitehall almost to
the bridge, yet by three o'clock this day, next
to Southwark, the ice was gone so as boats did
row to and fro, and the day after, all the frost
was gone.
On Candlemass-day (2nd February) I went to Croydon market and led my
horse over the ice at the ferry at Lambeth.
As I came back I led him from Lambeth upon
the middle of the Thames to Whitefriars stairs,
and soe led him up them; and this day an
ox was roasted whole over against Whitehall,
and King Charles II, with the Queen, did eate
a part of it.
There is a curious little duodecimo volume in
the British Museum, published for
"D. Brown at the Black Swan and Bible without Temple Bar,
and J. Waltho at the Black Lyon in Chancery Lane over against Lincoln's Inn, 1684."
It is entitled "An historical account of the
late great frost, in which are discovered in several comical relations the various humours, loves,
cheats, and intrigues of the town as the same
were managed upon the river of Thames during that season."
This frost,
says the author,
began about
the 16th of December last, and so sharply set
in, that in a fortnight's time, or thereabouts,
the river of Thames, who, one might think, by
the daily flux and reflux of her twice-returning
tides in the space of twenty-four hours, and the
native course of her own rapid streams, was secured against the force of the hardest weather
yet this river, beyond the bridge of London
upwards, was all frozen over; and people began
to walk thereon; and booths were built in
many places, where the poor watermen, whose
boats were locked up, and could not work
them for their usual livelihood, made a virtue
of necessity, and therein retailed wine, brandy,
beer, ale, and other liquors, which, for the
novelty of the same, very few but were in a
short time their customers; and their trades increasing, their booths began to be increased
and enlarged for the reception of multitudes of
people, who daily resorted thereunto, insomuch
that in a short time roadways were made from
place to place, and without any fear or apprehension the same was trod by men, women,
and children.
Nor were the same only foot
paths, but soon after, hackney-coaches began
to ply upon the river, and found better custom
than if they had continued in the streets, which
were never, in the midst of business, half so
crowded, so that the same became the only
scene of pleasure in and about London.
The
fields were deserted, and the river full; and in
Hillary term, which soon after ensued, it was
as usual for the lawyers to take coach by water
to Westminster as through the Strand; and so
public was the same, that in a short time it
obtained the name of Frost Fair.
A whole street of booths, contiguous to
each other, was built from the Temple Stairs to
the barge-house in Southwark, which were in
habited by traders of all sorts, which usually
frequent fairs and markets, as those who deal
in earthenwares, brass, copper, tin, and iron,
toys and trifles; and besides these, printers,
bakers, cooks, butchers, barbers, coffee-men,
and others, who were so frequented by the
innumerable concourse of all degrees and qualities, that,
by their own confession, they never met elsewhere the same advantages, every one
being willing to say they did lay out such and
such money on the river of Thames.
Nor was the trade only amongst such who
were fixt in booths, but also all sorts of cries
which usually are heard in London streets,
were there; the hawkers with their news, the
costermonger with his fruit, the wives with
their oysters, pyes, and gingerbread, and such
like.
Nor was there any recreation in season
which could not be found there, with more
advantage than on land; such as foot-ball play,
nine-pins, cudgells, bull and bear-baiting, and
others which on the occasion was more ordinary, as sliding in skates, chairs, and other
devices, such as were made of sailing-boats,
chariots, and carrow-whimbles; so that at one
view you might behold the thriving trader at
his shop, the sportive at their recreations, the
laborious with their burthens at their backs,
and every one, with as little concern or fear as
if they had trod the surface of the more centred element.
And in all places smoking fires
on the solid waters, roasting, boiling, and preparing food for the hungry and liquors for the
thirsty; eating, drinking, and rejoicing, in as
great crowds as Smithfield during Bartholomew
Fair could ever boast.
But, as thus far my relation only extends
to the general, which I doubt not but most of
those who were in London, and in health, can
join with me in the truth of, and to whom I
speak of no novelty, their own eyes having
been witnesses of this and much more; so that
I shall leave the same, and proceed to what
may more deserve their attention,whilst I relate
the several amours, intrigues, cheats, and humours, carried on and managed upon the said
river during this season.
That so by these as
so many items to the memory of the peruser
they may put him in mind of a season so
memorable, and the which his eyes, or perhaps
those of his posterity, may never see the like
again.
The author then goes on to relate at great
length the humours, loves, cheats, and intrigues above alluded to, of how country squires, who had come from afar to behold the
sports, were fleeced of their superfluous cash
and jewellery, by the too fair and most frail
ladies of London.
How honest men were
deceived; and how rogues of every degree
profited.
We will let the author speak for himself,
and relate one of his stories in his own way.
He first of all states, that two country gentlemen, who had come to London to see Frost
Fair, were separated accidentally from each
other by the great crowd on the ice.
One of
them, being smitten by the charms of a pretty
lass, was by her inveigled and hocussed, as we
would call it in the present day, robbed of all
his money, and conveyed, fast asleep, to a
solitary booth on the Thames, and there left to
his fate.
His friend, in the meantime, says
our author, fruitlessly endeavoured to find
him; and at last, being about to give up the
search and go to his lodgings, as he was very
cold, he was resolved to strike into a booth and
take a glass of wine, and advantage of the fire; making enquiry of the master of the same
whether he had seen such a gentleman as he
described our other squire to be, pass that
way?
To which a person standing by, much like a gentleman in his garb, told him:
"Sir, I believe I saw such a gentleman as you speak of
about a quarter of an hour ago walk by this
booth with a lady in his hand, and I believe
they may be landed on Lambeth side, to which I saw them incline."
"A lady!"" says our present Squire, "it cannot then be the same, for I
am certain he is not acquainted with any here
abouts."
"How know you, sir," says the landlord, "but he may have met with some kind lady that obliges him with her company;
for, if I am not mistaken, I remember whom this gentleman means.
If so, he was in a fair periwig, a broad gold-laced cloak, and a waist-belt,
embroidered."
"The very same," replied the squire.
"Oh, rogue! has he these tricks? Would I could catch him, I would make sport
with him in this adventure."
"Sir" says the gentleman, I believe they must return this
way, and it may not be very difficult as he
comes back to surprise them."
Whether this discourse was of design or
not I cannot learn, though I suppose it might;
and the squire sat down, expecting his friend
and lady, and began to drink with the gentleman.
Some persons near them being at play at cards, the gentleman proposed a game for a
bottle.
"With all my heart", says the squire;
"I like the diversion".
Whereupon the cards were brought, and they went to it for a bottle,
which the squire won.
They then renewed the sport, and began to play for money, which,
in short, our squire had such good luck in, that
he won most of the gentleman's stock, to the
value of ten or fifteen guineas.
At this time the evening approached, and
there was no sight of his friend.
The gentleman being very desirous to win back his money that he had lost, persuaded the squire, if
he would go ashore at Lambeth, he could obtain money there of some relations he had, and
he would pay it off; adding, that he might,
perhaps, meet the party he was in search of,
and surprise him with his lady at some tavern
thereabouts.
The squire consented, paid the
reckoning, and went with him.
But in vain
were all inquiries for his friend: no such person could be heard of.
The other gentleman
having recruited his pockets, with much persuasion got the squire to play again, which he
was the more unwilling to do that it grew late,
and there was danger in passing the Thames.
But the gentleman told him, the moon would
shine, and all was safe.
He therefore sat him
down to his sport, where success still attended
him, and in three or four hours, which passed
the more merrily away, he broke the gentleman a second time of twenty guineas, which
were all he had.
About this time, and after a passing bottle,
he took his way over towards Westminster
Stairs.
He went all alone to this place just as
the clock struck twelve, and was got half way
over, when he perceived from behind a booth
two red-coats start up and make towards him.
Being thereat a little surprised, he made his
speed the greater toward the shore; but they
having soon overtaken him, presented their
pistols at his breast, and bade him stand and
deliver!
The squire, in great fear, began to
tell them he had no money, and many such
excuses, which were no answers to them.
They
pursuing their work, got him down, and robbed him of near a hundred and fifty guineas,
and stripped off all his upper garments, binding
him with his hands behind him; and in this
miserable condition, exposed to the season, did
they unrelentingly leave him, telling him, if
he made the least noise, they would certainly
return and cut his throat.
Not knowing in this extremity what to do; fearing their
threats on the one hand, and on the other, that
he must perish with cold if not quickly relieved, he saw them make away with all the
haste they could.
Believing them to be out
of hearing, he cried out for help, and the shore
not being far off, he was heard by a person that
kept a public-house, who came and unbound
him at such time as he was ready to starve
with cold, and thorough wet with the snow,
which had melted under him.
The good man conveyed him to his house,
and by a good fire brought him to himself,
where he related the whole circumstances of
the robbery.
The host desired him to go to
bed, and told him he would make a diligent
inquiry about the same the next morning.
When the morning dawned the landlord came
to his bed-side, and bade him be of good cheer,
for that he had taken a rogue, whom he verily
believed was one of those that had robbed him.
The squire was glad at the news, and inquired
into the particulars.
"Sir", says he, "about six
this morning I got up, and went by the light
of the moon to a booth, which I have on the
Thames, and where, in the straw, I found a
man, habited as you describe the robbers.
He
was fast asleep; and after I had waked him
he called for his wife and companions, which was all I could get out of him for a great
while, till, looking about him, after some time,
he began with fear (I suppose being sensible of
his guilt) to pretend himself to be trepanned,
and cheated; and at other times, madman-like,
to cry out about his misfortunes, and a thousand other extravagant discourses, which I
could make nothing of; so I have brought
him hither, where he is below, in the hands of
an officer, to see if you can identify him."
"This must be one of the rascals", says the
squire; "be sure you don't let the vagabond
escape, and I'll be with you presently, and
make an example of the rogue."
In the meantime, as he was dressing himself to come down, the landlord was upbraiding
the man, (who was no other than the squire
who had gone off with the lady, and who also
had been robbed, stupefied with drugs, and
left all night in a booth,) and threatening him
that he would most assuredly be hanged.
"Do I dream?" said this disconsolate squire.
"Where am I! Oh, tell me! am I awake, or
is this all a delusion?"
"Delusion!" cries the landlord,
"pretty delusion, indeed! you rascal!
to rob a man, and leave him for dead!
'Tis such delusion as shall delude you with a
halter!"
"I am quite innocent", replied the
squire: "I understand no more of this crime
than the child unborn; and how I came where
you found me I can give no other account than
that I was found there."
"A pretty excuse indeed!" said the constable;
"rob men of their moneys, sirrah, get drunk, and ramble;
and when you fall asleep you know not how you
came thither!
See whether this answer will serve the justice, and be enough at the assizes
to save your cragg."
"No, you rogue!" interposed the landlord, "here's a gentleman, the
honest gentleman, that will find you out.
Answer him, if you can."
At which time the other squire had got up
and come down.
No sooner had he seen the woful metamorphosis of his friend, whom he
recognized immediately, but he stood amazed
at the same, and for some time, between shame
and surprise, could not utter a word himself.
"And is it you, my friend, that I am accused
of robbing?" said the other.
"Yes, you vagabond," interposed the landlord;
"and how dare
you be so impudently bold with a person of
quality whom you have abused?"
and there upon he gave him a good hunch.
"Hold!" says the other squire, "I know this gentleman,
however he became thus disguised, and will
answer for him that he is not the person you
take him for."
And with that he embraced him, and discharged the constable and his officers, to the great joy of our accused squire,
who longed to get in private, and discourse
with his friend touching the circumstances
they were both under; which they soon did,
telling each other the stories of their misfortunes.
They agreed, in conclusion, to be silent
as to the particulars, and to send for clothes,
and a supply of money, whereby they might
take leave of their friends, and repair into the
country, though with heavy hearts for their
misadventures in Frost Fair.
There are several contemporary prints of the
sports at the fair, with poetical descriptions,
some of which are preserved in the Museum,
in a collection of ballads, chiefly relating to
London, which were formerly in the possession
of George IV.
Of one of them, a large
broadside, with rude wood-cut, containing
Arundel House, Essex Buildings, and the
Temple, with a complete view of the river,
with its booths, and various places set apart
for bear-baiting, we shall quote the whole description, as containing several particulars not
mentioned in the prose accounts.
It is entitled,
"GREAT BRITAN'S WONDER, OR LONDON'S ADMIRATION,
being a true representation of a prodigious frost, which began about the beginning
of December 1683, and continued till the
fourth day of February following, and held on
with such violence that men, and beasts,
coaches, and carts went as frequently thereon
as boats were wont to pass before.
"There was also a street of booths built from
the Temple to Southwark, where were sold all
sorts of goods imaginable, namely, cloaths,
plate, earthenware, meat, drink, brandy, tobacco, and a hundred sorts of other commodities not here inserted.
It being the wonder
of this present age, and a great consternation
to all the spectators.
Behold the wonder of this present age,
A famous river now become a stage:
Question not what I now declare to you,
The Thames is now both fair and market too;
And many thousands daily do resort
There to behold the pastimes and the sport,
Early and late, used by young and old,
And valued not the fierceness of the cold;
And did not think of that Almighty hand
Who made the waters bear like to the land:
Thousands and thousands to the river flocks,
Where mighty flakes of ice do lye like rocks:
There may you see the coaches swiftly run,
As if beneath the ice were waters none;
And sholes of people every where there be,
Just like to herrings in the brackish sea;
And there the quaking water-men will stand ye,
"Kind master, drink you beer, or ale, or brandy?
Walk in, kind sir, this booth it is the chief,
We'll entertain you with a slice of beef,
And what you please to eat or drink, 'tis here,
No booth like mine affords such dainty cheer".
Another cries, "Here,master, they but scoff ye,
Here is a dish of famous new-made coffee."
And some do say, a giddy senseless ass,
May, on the Thames, be furnish'd with a lass.
But, to be short, such wonders there are seen,
That in this age before hath never been:
Before the Temple, there a street is made,
And there is one almost of every trade;
There you may also this hard frosty winter,
See on the rocky ice a working printer,
Who hopes by his own art to reap some gain,
Which he perchance does think he may obtain;
Here is also a lottery, and music too,
Yea, a cheating, drunken, lewd, and debauch'd crew;
Hot codlins, pancakes, duck, goose, and burnt sack,
Rabit, capon, hen, turkey, and a wooden jack.
In this same street before the Temple made,
There seems to be a brisk and lively trade,
Where ev'ry booth hath such a cunning sign,
As seldome hath been seen in former time,
The "Flying P---- - Pot," is one of the same;
The "Whip and Egg-shell", and the "Broom" by name;
And there, if you have money for to spend,
Each cunning snap will seem to be your friend;
There you may see small vessels under sail,
All's one to them, with or against the gale;
And as they pass, their little guns do fire,
Which feedeth some, and puffs them with desire
To sail therein, and when their money's gone,
'Tis right, they cry, the Thames to come upon;
There on a sign, you may most plainly see 't,
Here's the first tavern built in Freezland- street;
There is bull-baiting, and bear-baiting too,
That no man living yet e'er found so true;
And foot-ball play is there so common grown,
That on the Thames before was never known:
Coals being dear, are carried on men's backs,
And some on sledges there, are drawn in sacks:
Men do on horseback ride from shore to shore,
Which formerly in boats were wafted o'er.
Poor people hard shifts make for livelihoods,
And happy are if they can sell their goods;
What you can buy for threepence on the shore,
Will cost you fourpence on the Thames, or more.
Now let me come to things more strange yet true,
And question not what I declare to you:
There roasted was, a great and well-fed oxe,
And there, with dogs, hunted the cunning fox;
Dancing o'th' ropes, and puppit plays likewise,
The like before ne'er seen beneath the skies.
All stand admired; and very well they may,
To see such pastimes, and such sorts of play!
Besides the things I named to you before,
There other toys and baubles are great store:
There you may feast your wand'ring eyes enough;
There you may buy a box to hold your snuff;
No fair nor market underneath the skies,
That can afford you more varieties.
.
There you may see some hundreds slide in skeets,
And beaten paths like to the city streets;
There were Dutch whimsies turned swiftly round,
Faster than horses run on level ground.
The like to this I now to you do tell
No former age could ever parallel;
There's all that can supply most curious minds
With such varieties of cunning signs,
That I do think no man doth understand,
Such merry fancies ne'er were on the land:
There is such whimsies on the frozen ice
Makes some believe the Thames a paradise.
And though these sights be to our admiration,
Yet do our sins call for loud lamentation.
Though such unusual frosts to us are strange,
Perhaps it may predict some greater change:
And some do fear may a fore-runner be
To an approaching sad mortality.
But why should we to such belief incline,
There's none that knows but the blest Power divine:
And whatsoe'r is from Jehovah sent,
Poor sinners ought therewith to be content;
If dreadful, then to fall upon the knee
And beg remission of the Deity.
But if beyond our thoughts he sends us store,
With all our hearts let's thankful be therefore;
Now let us all in great Jehovah trust,
Who doth preserve the righteous and the just.
And eke conclude, sin is the cause of all
The heavy judgements that on us do fall;
And call to mind, fond man, thy time misspent,
Fall on thy knees and heartily repent:
Then will thy Saviour pity take on thee,
And thou shalt live to all eternity.
Printed by M. Haly and J. Millet,
and sold by Robert Walton at the Globe
on the north side of St. Paul's Church Yard, near that end towards Ludgate.
Where you may have all sorts and sizes of maps, coppy-books, and prints,
not only English, but Italian, French, Dutch.
And by John Seller, on the west side of the Royal Exchange, 1684".
There is another broadside in the same collection, entitled
"
The Thames uncased,
or the Waterman 's Song upon the Thaw:
to the tune of Hey boys, up go we.
London, printed for the author, and sold by J. Norris, at the
King's Arms without Temple Bar, 1684."
As this doggerel ballad is very rare, and has never
been reprinted, the antiquarian reader will not
be displeased at the reproduction in this place
of some of the stanzas.
As a whole, except for
its allusion to the time, it is but little worth.
THE THAMES UNCASED,
OR,
THE WATERMAN'S SONG UPON THE THAW.
Come, ye merry men all
Of Waterman's Hall,
Let's hoist out our boats and careen;
The Thames it does melt
And the cold is scarce felt,
Not an icicle's now to be seen.
Let's pull down each skull
That hung up in hall,
Like weapon so rusty, and row;
Let's cheerly fall to 't;
If we have not forgot;
For the frost is over now.
Let's set up our masts
That stood like posts,
As props to our tents on the Thames;
Or signe-posts made
With an ancient display'd,
While our oars were the great cross-beams.
Let's hoist up our sail
That was a side vail,
To hide Doll when with brandy she'd glow;
Or a roof compos'd
You might else have been froz'd,
Though the frost be over now.
We'll no longer stand
With a tapster's hand,
With the spigot for an oar,
Crying out our trade is cold,
Here's four gallons in hold,
I have drawn out but half my store:
Prithee, lads, stand to 't,
And help pump it out,
That the vessel once more may flow;
Then come again
With a thirsty train;
But the frost is over now.
Let's tune our throats
To our usual notes,
Of Twitnam, Richmond, hey!
Sir, skuller, sir? Oars, sir?
Loudly roar, sir;
Here 's Dick, sir, you won't pass him by.
Instead of good ale,
And brandy wine stale,
Let 's cry out, Westward, hoe!
Shall we Mortlack make,
Or for Brandford tack?
For the frost is over now.
The town too 's gone
That they waited on,
And the people flock'd to see,
It fled in one night
Quite out of our sight,
As the castles enchanted that be;
While country squire,
Whom journey might tire,
With wat'ry eyes cannot view
The street, a long way
That he came to survey;
For the frost is over now.
Not a horn can he buy,
Nor an earthenware toy,
His wife or his children to cheer;
Since Isis does turn
Her watery urn,
All the pitchers are march'd off here;
Nay, on the Thames wide,
There remains not a slide
On which he may whisk to and fro;
He returns as he came,
To his country dame;
For the frost is over now.
Mean time, if ought
Of honour you've got,
Let the printers have their due,
Who printed your names
On the river Thames,
While their hands with the cold look'd blue;
There's mine, there's thine,
Will for ages shine,
Now the Thames aloft does flow;
Then let's gang hence,
To our boats commence,
For the frost is over now.
Another broadside, the literary portion of which is somewhat superior to the last, but not much, is entitled,
True description of Blanket Fair
upon the River Thames,
in the time of the great Frost in the year of our Lord 1683.
How am I fill'd with wonder for to see
A flooding river now a road to be;
Where ships and barges used to frequent,
Now may you see a booth of sutling tent;
And those that us'd to ask "Where shall I land ye?"
Now cry, "What lack ye, sir, - beers ale, or brandy?
Here, here, walk in and you shall surely find,
Your entertainment good, my usage kind."
Booths they increased dayly more and more,
People by thousands flocking from the shore,
And in such heaps they thither did repair,
As if they had been hasting to a fair,
And such a fair I never yet came near,
Where shop rents were so cheap and goods so dear;
There might you have all kind of earthenware,
You can scarce name a thing but what was there;
There was to sell both French and Spanish wine,
And yet, perhaps, a dishclout for a signe;
In short, the like was never seen before,
Where coaches run as if upon the shore.
And men on horseback to and fro did ride
Not minding either current or the tide.
It was exceeding strange at first to see
Both men and women so advent'rous be;
And yet at last it grew so very common,
'Twas not admired, it seemed strange to no man.
Then from the Temple there was built a street,
Made old and young and all admire that see 't,
Which street to Southwark reach'd; there you might see
Wonders, if you did love variety.
There was roast-beef and gammon to be sold,
But at so dear a rate I dare be
To say 'twas n 'er sold so on the shore,
Nor on the Thames in haste be any more.
There were Dutch whimsies turning swiftly round,
By which the owners cleared many a pound.
And coal and corn was there in sledges draw'd,
As if the Thames would never have been thaw'd.
All kind of trades did to this market come,
Hoping to get more profit than at home.
And some, whose purses were a little swell'd,
Would not have cared how long the frost had held.
In several places there was nine pins play'd,
And pidgeon-holes for to beget a trade.
Dancing and fidling too, there was great store,
As if they had not been from off the shore.
The art of printing there was to be seen,
Which in no former age had ever been.
And goldsmiths' shops well furnished with plate,
But they must dearly pay for 't that would ha't.
And coffee-houses in great numbers were
Scattered about in this cold freezing fair:
There might you sit down by a charcoal fire,
And for your money have your heart's desire.
No, no, if you the world should wander through,
No fair like this could pleasant seem to you.
There was the baiting of the ugly bear,
Which sport to witness hundreds did repair.
And I believe, since the world's first creation,
The like was never seen in this our nation.
And foot-ball playing there was day by day;
Some broke their legs, and some their arms, they say;
All striving to get credit, but some paid
Most dearly for it, I am half afraid.
Bull-baiting, likewise, there was known to be,
Which on the Thames before none ever see.
And never were poor dogs more bravely tost
Than they were in this strange prodigious frost.
Th'enraged bull perceiv'd his enemies,
And how to guard himself could not devise;
But with his horns did toss them to and fro,
As if their angry meaning he did know.
Besides all this, a thing more strange and rare.
Than all the things were seen in Freezland fair:
An ox was roasted whole, which thousands saw;
For 'twas not many days before the thaw.
The like by no man in this present age,
Was ever seen upon this icy stage.
And this hard frost it did so long endure
It pinch'd, and almost famish 'd many poor.
But one thing more I needs to you must tell
The truth of which thousands do know full well,
There was fox -hunting on this frozen river,
Which may a memorandum be for ever.
For I do think, since Adam drew his breath,
No Fox was hunted on the ice to death.
Thus have you heard what wonders there were seen,
How heaven and earth the people walk'd between.
And since the world at first had its creation,
The like was never seen in this our nation.
Yet was it hard and grievous to the poor,
Who many hungry bellies did endure.
Sad spectacles enough you might behold,
Who felt the effect of this prodigious cold.
But God who is most righteous, good, and just,
Will them preserve who in him put their trust;
And when their dangers greatest seem to be,
Blest be his name, he then doth set them free.
Then let us all, while we have time and breath,
Be still prepared to meet with pale-faced Death.
That when he comes we need not be afraid,
Nor at his dart be frighted or dismay'd.
If we on Jesus Christ wholly depend,
He'll prove to us an everlasting friend.
London: Printed by H. Brugis,
in Green Arbor, Little Old Bayly, 1684.
Besides these, several ballads, copper-plates,
and wood-cuts, were published at the time.
The following list of engravings, - many of them, if they exist at all, being only to be
found in private collections, - was made by the
late Mr. J. T. Smith, of the British Museum,
whose general taste and antiquarian research
were well-known.
The list, most probably, is
not complete, but imperfect as it may be, it will be found of value by the collector and
antiquary.
1. A large broadside, entitled
"Wonders
of the Deep, or the most exact Description of
the frozen River of Thames; also, of what was
remarkably observed thereon in the last great
frost, which began about the middle of December 1683, and ended on the 28th of February
following.
Together with a brief Chronology
of all the memorable (strong) frosts for almost
six hundred years, and what happened in them
to the northern kingdoms.
A very rude wood
cut, with an explanation of the piece in figures,
containing thirty-nine references, ending -
The Hoop, the Rose, the Three Tuns, and the Bellows,
The Whip and Eggshell, entertains good fellows.
Then follow fifty-nine verses, and the chronology of memorable frosts.
London, printed by M. J. and J. M. for P. Brooksby, at the sign
of the Golden Ball in West Smithfield, and at
his shop at the Golden Harp and Ball, near the
Bear Tavern in Pye Corner.
2.
Wonderful news from the River of
Thames, to a pleasant new tune.
Printed on
the frozen Thames,
by the loyal young printers,
viz. E. and A. Milbourn, S. Hinch, J. Mason,
1683.
Eight verses with the music.
3.
An exact and lively Mapp, or representation of Booths and all the varieties of
Shows and Humours upon the Ice on the river
of Thames of London, during that memorable
frost in the thirty-fifth year of the reign of his
sacred Majesty King Charles II. A.D. 1683,
with an alphabetical representation of the most
remarkable figures.
Printed and sold by William Warten, stationer, at the signe of the
Talbott, under the Mitre Tavern in Fleete
Street, London.
4.
A true description of Blanket Fair
upon the river Thames, in the time of the great
Frost, in the year of our Lord 1683.
London,
printed by H. Brugis, in Green Arbour, Little
Old Bayly, 1683.
A broadside sheet with a
woodcut, and three columns of verses under
neath.
5.
Erra Pater's Prophecy, or Frost Faire,
1683.
Printed for James Norris, at the King's
Armes without Temple Barr.
This contains
a whole length portrait of a man in a turban,
with a view of the Thames and London in the
back ground, and twelve verses underneath.
6.
A Prospect of the frozen river Thames,
and below, "Printed on the frozen Thames, Feb. 1683-4".
The booths are inscribed as follows:
Tavern, Printing Booth, Oxford Booth,
Loyal Coffee-house, Wiltshire Booth.
And the passage along them is inscribed
Frezland Street, alias Blanket Faire.
The word "Foot Ball" is the only other writing upon this
plate.
7.
The same copper-plate as the above with
alterations, and with twenty-two numbers for
reference, printed upon a broadside of letter
press, headed thus:
The true and exact Representation of the Wonders upon the Water,
during the last unparallel'd Frost upon the
River of Thames, 1683-4.
The references are
printed below in fifty verses, in rhyme, beginning -
The various sports behold here in this piece,
And ending -
But in six hours this great and rary -show,
Of booths and pass-times all away did go.
London: printed by G. Croom, at the Blew Ball. . .(here it is torn ). . .Street, over
against Baynard's-Castle, 1684.
The additions
to this state of the copper-plate are
the Tinker, marked 11;
the Man fallen into a Hole, marked 16;
the figure marked 2;
and other figures introduced;
and the booth next to the Loyal Coffee-house, is marked "Weavers, 22".
8.
The copper-plate, commonly ascribed to Faithorne.
The Title in a Cartouche above,
and the reference by letters of the alphabet,
beginning the Temple Staires, with People
goeing upon the Ice to Temple Street, A;
end ing London Bridge, Z.
Printed for and sold
by William Warten, stationer, at the sign of
the Talbott, over against Fetter Lane end in
Fleet Street.
This is the first address.
The
view is looking down to London Bridge.
9.
The same plate,with the address of Warten altered thus:
at the signe of the Talbott vnder the Mitre Tavern in Fleet Street, London.
10.
An impression of the last, ruled in
squares, with letter-press numbers stamped on
each; probably, for some lottery or game.
11.
An original Drawing, by Wyck; a View
on the Frozen Thames, with a Booth in the foreground, bearing the sign of a pair of horns,
hanging out under a wreath, and a flag with
the Union Jack hoisted.
The distant bank of
the river is too indistinct to fix the precise point
of view.
At the top is written with a pen, in
an old hand
London Thaems, January the 15 AD 1683-4.
Ten verses in letter-press with a border
printed on the Thames.
Behold the liquid Thames now frozen o'er
That lately ships of mighty burthen bore;
The watermen, for want of rowing boats,
Make use of booths to get their pence and groats.
Here you may see beef roasted on the spit,
And for your money you may taste a bit;
There may you print your name, tho' cannot write
'Cause numb'd with cold, - 'tis done with great delight,
And lay it by, that ages yet to come
May see what things upon the ice were done".
The next celebrated frost upon the Thames was in the year 1715-16, thus mentioned by Gay in the second book of his entertaining poem of Trivia.
O roving Muse, recall that wondrous year
When Winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air,
When hoary Thames, with frosted osiers crown's,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound;
The waterman, forlorn along the shore,
Pensive reclines upon his useless oar,
Sees harness'd steeds desert the stony town
And wander roads unstable, not their own;
Wheels o'er the hardened waters smoothly glide
And raise with whiten'd tracks the slipp'ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire.
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear,
And numerous games proclaim the crowded fair.
So when a general bids the martial
Spread their encampment o'er the spacious plain,
Thick rising tents a canvass city build
And the loud dice resound through all the field.
In the public papers of the 12th of January
1715-16 appeared this advertisement:
"This is to give notice to gentlemen and others, that
pass upon the Thames during this frost, that
over against Whitehall stairs they may have
their names printed, fit to paste in any book,
to hand down the memory of the season to
future ages."
You that walk there and do design to tell
Your children's children what this year befell,
Go print your names, and take a dram within,
For such a year as this has seldom been."
Dawkes' News Letter of the 14th of January
says,
The Thames seems now a solid rock
of ice; and booths for sale of brandy, wine,
ale, and other exhilarating liquors, have been
for some time fixed thereon; but now it is
in a manner like a town; thousands of people
cross it, and with wonder view the mountain
ous heaps of water that now lie congealed into
ice.
On Thursday a great cook's-shop was
erected, and gentlemen went as frequently to
dine there as at any ordinary.
Over against
Westminster,Whitehall, and Whitefriars, print
ing presses are kept on the ice.
The London Post of January 21st 1716 contains the following:
Tuesday last four men, in a bravado, bound
themselves not to leave one another whatever
should happen, and to travel on the ice up
the middle of the Thames as far as they could
for four days together, and to avoid all the
tracks that any had gone in before them.
On
this adventure they went from the Old Swan
near the bridge over all the roughest of the
ice, with long poles in their hands, till they
came over against Somerset House, where one
of them found it for his present occasion to
fall in, but by the help of his pole recovered,
having only cooled his posteriors; so they
went on, and right against Lambeth another
also had occasion to slip in up to his arm-pits,
but he was helped out; but they still boldly
went on, and none of them have ever since
been heard of.
The Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer, of
January 21st says,
Last Tuesday the Prince of Wales and
the Duke of Marlborough, with several other
noblemen, went on the Thames on the ice from
Old Palace-yard to Lambeth, and back again,
through the loud huzzas and acclamations of
the people, who showed a general satisfaction
at the sight of his Royal Highness.
A set of doggerel verses thus described the fair; and as we cannot get any better prose description of it, we must take one in rhyme.
There miles together, for the common good,
The slippery substance offers dainty food:
Here healing port-wine, and there Rhenish flows;
Here Bohea tea, and there tobacco grows!
In one place you may meet good Cheshire cheese;
Another proffers whitest Brentford peas!
Here is King George's picture; there Queen Anne's;
Now nut-brown ale in cups, and then in cans.
One sells an Oxford dram as good as can be,
Another offers General Pepper's brandy!
See, there's the Mall! and in that little hut
The best geneva's sold, and love to boot!
See, there a sleek Venetian envoy walks;
See, here an alderman more proudly stalks.
Behold the French Ambassador - that's he!
And this the honest sire and Captain Leigh!
Here is St. James's Street, yonder the Strand;
In this place Bowyer plies; that's Lintot's stand.
The News Letter of the 15th of February announced the commencement of the thaw, and
in two days the river was entirely free of ice.
For the following list of the various prints
of this fair we are also indebted to the late
Mr. J. T. Smith.
1.
Frost Fayre, being a true prospect of
the great variety of shops and booths for trades
men, with other curiosities and humours, on
the frozen river of Thames, as it appeared be
fore the city of London on that memorable
frost in ye second year of our Sovereign Lord
King George, anno Domini 1716.
Printed and
sold by John Bowles and Son, at the Black
Horse in Corn Hill.'
2.
Faithorne's copper-plate of 1683, altered
to the year 1716.
The references different,
and engraved afresh.
London: sold by John
Lenthall, stationer, at the Talbot, against St.
Dunstan's Church, in Fleet Street, London.
Price sixpence.
3.
A copper-plate, ten inches two eighths
high (including the margin), fourteen inches
one eighth wide, inscribed,
A Prospect of the
Fair kept upon the River of Thames (during
the time it was frozen, beginning on December
ye 3rd, and ended on the 28th of January
1715-16.
Drawn by C. Woodfield, as it appeared upon a View at the Temple Stairs, London.'
Below are twenty-eight references, beginning
A. The Water-house at London Bridge,
and ending,
4, New Cheapside. Sold by J. Nutting, at ye Crown in Fleet Street, near Water
Lane end.
4.
A rude woodcut view of the sports on the
river, looking down towards London Bridge,
the Monument, Tower, &c.
Size, seven inches
high, including margin, eleven inches four
eighths wide.
Below are eight verses -
Behold the liquid Thames,' & c.
From the Printing-house in Bow Church-yard.
Thirteen references: some curious; viz.
B - Cripple Atkins roasting an Ox.
F - A Shoulder of Mutton roasting in a String at the Sign of the Rat in a Cage.
M - Huffing Jack.
N - Will. Ellis, the Poet, and his Wife Bess rhyming on the hard Frost.
Believed to be the only portrait of that poet.
In a bordure[sic] in the centre is printed the name of Mr. David Hannott.
Printed
on the ice, at the Maidenhead at Old Swan
Stairs, Jan. 25, 1715-16.
The frost of 1739-40 commenced on Christmas-day, and lasted till the 17th of the following February, when it began to break up; but
the river was not clear of ice till the end of the
month.
The usual sports of a fair were made
upon the ice; booths and drinking-tents erected; and also printing-presses, which in all these
fairs upon the Thames seem to have been considered the greatest wonder of all.
The verses
beginning
Amid the arts which on the Thames appear,
and
You that walk here, and do design to tell,
were revived, and indeed appear
to have been popular, till 1814, when we meet with them again.
The author of a little work, called "Frostiana", printed in 1814, and which gives a
slight account of all the great frosts,
with the exception of that of 1683-4, which is not even alluded to,
[ in "Frostiana" at the end of Chapter 1 the chronological table has "1683 - frost for 13 weeks"],
thus describes, from some contemporary account, to which he has forgotten to
give the reference, the severity of the season.
The watermen and fishermen, with a peterboat in mourning, and the carpenters, brick
layers, &c., with their tools and utensils, in
mourning, walked through the streets in large
bodies, imploring relief for the necessity of their families.
[ . . . ]
A few days after the frost had set in, great damage was done among the shipping by a high wind, which broke many vessels
from their moorings, and drove them foul of
each other, while the large flakes of ice there
floated on the stream, overwhelmed various
boats and lighters, and sunk several coal and
corn vessels.
By these accidents many lives were lost,
and many others were also destroyed by the
intensity of the cold, both on land and water.
Above bridge the Thames was completely
frozen over, and tents, and numerous booths
were erected on it for selling liquors, & c. to the
multitudes that daily flocked thither for curiosity or diversion.
The scene here displayed
was very irregular, and had more the appear
ance of a fair on land than a frail exhibition,
the only basis of which was water.
Various
shops were opened for the sale of toys, cutlery,
and other light articles.
[ Even ] A printing-press was
established, and all the common sports of the
populace in a wintry season were carried on
with augmented spirit, in spite or forgetfulness of the distress that reigned on shore.
Many
of the houses on the [London] bridge, as well as the bridge itself, received considerable damage when the thaw commenced, by the driving of
the ice.
The following is Mr. Smith's catalogue of
the prints relating to this fair.
1.
An engraving fifteen inches five-eighths
high and one inch one-eighth margin below,
width nineteen inches six-eighths.
The title is
An exact draught of Frost Fair, on the River
Thames, as it appeared from White-hall Stairs,
in the year 1740.
Printed for, and sold by
George Foster, print-seller, in St. Paul's
Church-yard, London.
There are twelve verses, beginning,
Old Thames, &c.,
ending
to us again.
There are two of the piers of Westminster Bridge on the right, and people
mounting on one of them by a ladder, coarsely
engraved.
There is another engraving of this,
apparently retouched all over, with the addition of a booth with a flag at the right-hand
edge of the plate, and a little above it, a man
up to his middle in the ice; also a woman next
to the man, who lifts both his arms up, on the
same side of the plate.
2.
A coarse engraving, nine inches high with
out the margin, twelve inches wide.
In the
margin above is
The View of Frost Fair.'
In the margin below are twelve verses beginning
Scythians of old, &c.
and ending,
This view to future times shall show
The medley scene you visit now.
York Buildings tower is seen on the left.
Though there is no date on the print, it evidently belongs to the frost of this year, as the
two piers of the new Westminster Bridge are indicated on the right.
3.
An engraving eight inches six-eighths
high exclusive of margin, thirteen inches four
eighths wide: the title below is
Frost and Ice Fair, shewing the diversions upon the river
Thames, begun the 26th of December, 1739-40,
ended February the 17th
Sixteen verses,
The bleak north-east &c.,
and ending,
Cheering streams.
To the left, are seen York Buildings waterworks, and St. Paul's; to the right,
are the two piers of the new bridge.
There are numbers on the plate, intended for as many
as fifteen references, the same, apparently, as
those to G. Beckham 's Frost Fair, with a few
exceptions.
It is printed in red.
4.
An engraving six inches six-eighths high,
twelve inches three-eighths wide, at the left
hand side close to the plate line, is
G. B. inven. fc. according to Act of Parliament, January 18, 1739-40.
This is the first state of the plate;
Mr. Smith's impression had the following name and date in letter-press,
T. Beauford, printed on the river of Thames,
when frozen over, January 21, 1739-40.
5.
The same plate, as retouched and published the next day, as appears by Lord Orford's
name in letter-press, thus
The Right Hon. the Earl of Orford, printed on the river
of Thames, when frozen over, January 22,
1739 -40.
In this state the sky is darkened in places, and in the margin below is this title:
Frost Fair. This transient scene, &c.
four verses.
Printed on the river Thames in ye month of January, 1740;
also fifteen references and corresponding numbers inserted on the
view.
6.
Another impression in the first state.
In
letter-press are the words.
Frost Fair,
the same references as were engraved afterwards, but
without any numbers to them, and also the
words, Printed on the river Thames in the
month of January, MDCCXL.
It is curious to
observe the rapid sale of this plate, brought
out January 18, and the references not engraved till January 22.
It is one of the commonest frost prints of this date.
7.
Another engraving by Beckham, six
inches six-eighths high, twelve inches wide.
The
view taken from near a tobacco chimney, on
the Surrey side.
The title is below,
Ice Fair, Amidst ye arts ye on ye Thames appear, &c.
four verses.
Printed on ye river Thames, now
frozen over January 31, 1739-40.
Fifteen references, of which,
No. 1, is Westminster Bridge, Sword and Spur, shown.
2 - Westminster Abbey, Whitehall, and ye stairs.
On the right under the plate line is
G. B. invent. fc. according to Act of Parliament, January
1739-40.
This is more curious and uncommon
than the last.
8.
An engraving apparently by C. Mosley,
eight inches four-eighths high, twelve inches
three-eighths wide.
The title in the margin
below
Frost Fair,
eight verses,
The bleak north - east,' &c.
ending,
From shore to shore.
At the left, under the plate line,
C. M. invent. fc. according to Act of Parliament.
The
view shows the neighbourhood of York Buildings.
At the top, in the margin, is,
Printed
upon the river Thames, when frozen, January
the 28th, 1739-40.
9.
Another impression, differing only in a
trifling retouch of the shading to the printing
booth, which is darkened.
Below is this name in letter-press, in a square bordure, containing an inscription relative to the invention of
The noble art and mystery of printing.
Dorothy Jones, aged 74.
Printed upon the
Thames when frozen, February 6, 1740.
10.
An engraving seven inches high, eight
inches wide.
In the margin below is this title,
Frost Fair, printed upon the ice on the river
Thames, January 23, 1739-40.
Eight verses revived from 1683, and already quoted in our
account of the frost of that year,
Behold the liquid Thames, now frozen o'er, &c.
Boats and booths in the front, a church tower, and
another high building among the houses on the
bank: a very rude engraving.
This impression has in letter-press below this name, James
Theobalds, jun. Whitehall: printed upon the
ice on the river Thames, February the 14th,
1739 -40, and the verses as above.
11.
A broadside of letter-press, entitled,
The English Chronicle, or Frosty Kalendar,
with four columns of accounts of frosts for many
years past; particularly the severe one this
present year, in the months of December, Jan
uary, and February, 1739-40.
In the middle
is a copper- plate five inches six-eighths high,
seven inches four-eighths wide, with twelve
references below, of which
A - goldsmiths;
B - turners;
C - ye rowling press printers;
L - an ox roasted.
Printed on the Thames, January, 1739-40
The view is a general one of the city,
with St. Paul's, the Monument, London bridge,
and numerous city churches.
In the foreground is a man sitting with a bottle and
glass, and saying, Bung your eye probably
a slang phrase of the day; another crying, buttons or buckles.
It is inscribed London.
12.
A drawing in India ink, said to be by
B. Lens, seven inches four-eighths high, thirteen inches wide, looking towards Lambeth Palace in the distance; the two piers of the new
bridge fix it to the frost of 1740.
Booths, one
of which has a rolling press in it; men playing at bowls; and a sledge going round.
The
view is taken from near Whitehall.
13.
A frontispiece engraved by Bickham,
representing London Bridge, and the houses on
it, and booths on the ice, one inscribed
Nobell art of Printing,
another,
old gold,
another has a rolling press, in a bordure of icicles, and a head of Winter, with expanded wings below,
under which is
G. Bickham, fecit.
It belongs to an 8vo. tract, entitled,
An account of all the principal frosts for above an hundred years past: with political remarks, and
poetical descriptions.
To which are added, a
Philosophical Theory of Freezing; and a Frigid Essay upon Frost Fair.
By Icedore
Frostiface, of Freesland, Astrologer,
No longer Thames, the shores of London laves,
But chains of ice constrain his rising waves;
A rugged prospect the wide surface crowns,
Rocks, ruins, boats infix'd, and men and towns.
Printed and sold at the Golden King's-Head,
Printing booth, in Frost Fair; and by C. Corbett publisher, over against St Dunstan's
Church, Fleet Street, 1740; price sixpence.
The Thames was again frozen in 1767-8, but
the cold was not so intense as it had been on
previous occasions; and the sports on the river,
owing to the comparative insecurity of the ice,
were not so well attended, nor did they last
so long as on previous occasions.
In the year
1788, however, the citizens of London had a
complete revival of the ancient sports on the
river.
The frost set in on the 25th of November, 1788, and lasted with great severity for
several weeks.
The following notices appear in a diary in
the "Gentleman's Magazine,"
Monday, Jan.
12th - A young bear was baited on the ice opposite Redriff, which drew multitudes together,
and fortunately no accident happened to interrupt their sport.
Saturday, 17th - The captain
of a vessel lying off Rotherhithe, the better to
secure the ship 's cables, made an agreement
with a publican for fastening a cable to his
premises.
In consequence, a small anchor was
carried on shore, and deposited in the cellar,
while another cable was fastened round a beam
in another part of the house.
In the night the
ship veered about, and the cables holding fast,
carried away the beam, and levelled the house
with the ground, by which accident five persons asleep in their beds were killed."
Another contemporary account in the "Gentleman's Magazine," says,
The river Thames,
which at this season usually exhibits a dreary
scene of languor and indolence, was this year
the stage on which there were all kinds of
diversions, bear-baiting, festivals, pigs and sheep
roasted, booths, turnabouts, and all the various amusements of Bartholomew Fair multiplied and improved.
From Putney Bridge in
Middlesex, down to Rotherhithe, was one continued scene of merriment and jollity; not a
gloomy face to be seen, but all cheerfulness,
arising apparently from business and bustle.
From this description the reader, however, is
not to conclude that all was as it seemed.
The
miserable inhabitants that dwell in houses on
both sides of the river during these thoughtless
exhibitions, were many of them experiencing
the extreme of misery; destitute of employment, though industrious, they were with families of helpless children pining for want of
bread; and though in no country in the world
are the rich more extensively benevolent than
in England, yet their benefactions could bear
no proportion to the wants of the numerous
poor, who could not all partake of the common
bounty.
It may, however, be truly said, that
in no great city or country on the continent
of Europe, the poor suffered less from the rigour of the season than the inhabitants of
Great Britain and London; yet, even in London, the distress was very great, and though
liberal subscriptions were raised, many perished
through want and cold.
On this occasion the
City of London subscribed £1500 towards supporting such persons as were not in the habit of
receiving alms.
The following account of the same frost, is
from "The Annual Register," under date of
the 12th of February.
The Thames at Irongate to the opposite shore is frozen over, numbers of persons having walked across yesterday.
At Shadwell the Thames is likewise frozen
over, several booths are fixed on the ice; and
yesterday an ox was roasted whole, and sold
to the people who were skaiting and sliding.
The scene on the river is very entertaining.
From Putney Bridge upwards, the river is
completely frozen over, and people walk to and from the different villages on the face of
the deep.
Opposite to Windsor street, booths
have been erected since Friday last, and a fair
is kept on the river.
Multitudes of people are
continually passing and repassing; puppet
shows, roundabouts, and all the various amusements of Bartholomew Fair are exhibited.
In
short, Putney and Fulham, from the morning
dawn till the dusk of returning evening, is a
scene of festivity and gaiety."
The next great frost upon the Thames was
in 1814.
The following contemporary accounts of "The Annual Register," and some
others from Hone's "Every Day Book ", will
be read with interest.
January 21st. In London the great accumulation of snow already heaped on the ground,
and condensed by three or four weeks of continued frost, was on Wednesday increased by
a fresh fall, to a height hardly known in the
memory of the oldest inhabitants.
The cold
has been intensely severe, the snow during the
last fall being accompanied with a sharp wind
and a little moisture.
In many places, where
the houses are old, it became necessary to relieve the roofs, by throwing off the load collected upon them, and by these means the
carriage-way in the middle of the streets is
made of a depth hardly passable for pedestrians,
while carriages with difficulty plough their
way through the mass.
The water pipes being
generally frozen, it has become necessary for
several days to afford supplies by opening the
plugs in the streets, and the streams thus constantly flowing, add to the general mass of ice.
An enormous increase has taken place in the
price of coals, in consequence of the river
navigation and other means of conveyance being so greatly impeded.
[ The roads throughout the country were
impassable.
The mails from London to Oxford did not arrive for three days, and from
Dover and Canterbury for the same period;
and a circular was issued by Lord Sidmouth
on the 29th of January, to the Lords Lieutenant of the various counties, directing them
to take immediate steps for providing all practical means to remove from the highways and
principal roads of communication within their
respective counties, the obstructions which had
been caused by the snow.
This object,' said
the circular, 'would afford employment to various classes of individuals, who were temporarily deprived of their usual earnings by the
inclemency of the season;' and their Lordships
were accordingly requested to communicate
without delay to the magistracy, and through
them with the trustees of turnpike roads, the
overseers of the poor, the surveyors of the
highways, and other subordinate officers of the
various districts and parishes, in such manner
as to insure the most speedy and effectual
means of carrying the intentions of the Government into effect.]
January 27th.
Yesterday the wind having
veered round to the south-west, the effects of
thaw were speedily discernible.
The fall of the river at London Bridge has
for several days past presented a scene both
novel and interesting.
At the ebbing of the
tide huge fragments of ice were precipitated
down the stream with great violence, accompanied by a noise equal to the report of a small
piece of artillery.
On the return of the tide
they were forced back again; but the obstacles
opposed to their passage through the arches
were so great as apparently to threaten a total
stoppage to the navigation of the river.
February 1st.
The Thames between Blackfriars and London Bridges continued to present the novel scene of persons moving on
the ice in all directions and in greatly increased
numbers.
The ice, however, from its roughness and inequalities is totally unfit for amusement, although we observed several booths
erected upon it for the sale of small wares,
but the publicans and spirit-dealers were most
in the receipt of custom.
The whole of the
river opposite Queenhithe was frozen over, and
in some parts the ice was several feet thick,
while in others it was dangerous to venture
upon, notwithstanding which, crowds of foot
passengers crossed backwards and forwards
throughout the whole of the day.
We did
not hear of any lives being lost, but many
who ventured too far towards Blackfriars
Bridge were partially immersed in the water
by the ice giving way.
Two coopers were
with difficulty saved.
February 2nd.
The Thames this day presented a complete frost fair.
The grand mall
or walk extended from Blackfriars to London
Bridge.
This was named the city road, and
was lined on each side by persons of all descriptions.
Eight or ten printing-presses were
erected, and numerous pieces commemorative
of the great frost were printed on the ice.
At one of the presses an orange-coloured standard was hoisted with the watch-word "Orange Boven" in large characters.
This was an allusion to the recent restoration of the Stadtholder.
One of the printers issued a circular to the following effect: -
Friends, now is your time to support the freedom of the press.
Can the
press have greater liberty?
Here you find it
working in the middle of the Thames, and
if you encourage us by buying our impressions,
we will keep it going in the true spirit of liberty during the frost.
February 3rd.
The number of adventurers increased.
Swings, book-stalls, dancing in a
barge, suttling-booths, playing at skittles, and
almost every appendage of a fair on land appeared on the Thames.
Thousands flocked
to the spectacle.
The ice presented a most
picturesque appearance.
The view of St. Paul's
and of the city, with the white foreground,
had a very singular effect; in many parts
mountains of ice upheaved, resembled the rude
interior of a stone quarry.
February 4th.
Each day brought a fresh
accession of pedlars to sell their wares, and the
greatest rubbish of all sorts was raked up and
sold at double and treble the original cost.
The
watermen profited exceedingly, for each person
paid a toll of twopence or threepence before
he was admitted to the fair; and something
also was expected for permission to return.
Some of them were said to have taken as much
as six pounds in a day.
Many persons remained on the ice till late at night, and the
effect by moonlight was singularly novel and
beautiful.
The bosom of the Thames seemed
to rival the frozen climes of the north.
February 7th.
The ice between London
Bridge and Blackfriars gave way yesterday, in
consequence of the high tides.
On Saturday,
thousands of people walked on the ice from
one bridge to the other notwithstanding there
were evident signs of its speedy breaking up,
and even early yesterday morning some fool-hardy persons passed over from Bankside to
Queenhithe.
About an hour after this the
whole mass gave way, and swept with a tremendous range through the noble arches of
Blackfriars Bridge, carrying along with it all
within its course, including about forty barges.
The new erections for the Strand bridge impeded its progress and a vast quantity of the
ice was there collected, but the strong current
on the Somerset House side carried everything
before it, and the passage of the river became
at last free.
Numbers of boats were then busily
employed, saving rafts of timber and towing
the drifted barges to the shore.
We have
heard that some persons who had the folly
to remain on the ice to a very late hour on
Saturday night either lost their lives or were
in great jeopardy.
They had remained carousing in the tents till midnight, and were suddenly alarmed by the parting of the apparently
solid mass on which they stood.
Being unable
to reach the shore they contrived to get into
two barges which had been stationary, but
which were now borne upward by the tide,
and which of course were quite unmanageable.
One of these barges safely cleared Blackfriars
Bridge; the other struck against a pier where
it remained fast: luckily, however, there were
some spectators of the dismal situation of the
persons on board, who, having procured ropes,
contrived to haul them up in safety.