The Thames

Close your eyes and conjure up a vision of the river Thames; what is the picture that you see? If you are a prosaic and commercial person, whose business lies by the river side, the vision will be one of wharves and docks, of busy cranes loading and unloading; a row of bonded warehouses rising from the water's edge; lighters filled with tea lying in their shadow, tarpaulined and padlocked; ships of all sizes and shapes, worn by water and weather.

And up and down, in and out, among it all you see river police on their launch, inquisitive and determined, watching everything, hearing everything, and turning up when least expected. The glories of the high Tower Bridge, and the smoky gold of the setting sun will not affect you, for your thoughts are fixed on prosaic detail. As for green fields and quiet backwaters, such things do not enter into the vision at all.

Yet for one who sees the Thames thus prosaically, a hundred see it in a gayer aspect. To many a man it is always summer there, for the river knows him not when the chill grey days draw in. He sees gay houseboats in new coats of paint, decorated with scarlet geraniums and other gaudy plants. He associates the river with "a jolly good time" with a carefully chosen house-party, with amateur tea-making and an absence of care. Nowhere else is one so free to "laze" without the rebuke even of one's own occasionally too zealous conscience.

To another the Thames simply means the Boat Race, nothing more and nothing less. Year by year he journeys up to London from his tiny vicarage in the heart of the country for that event. If the high tide necessitates it, he stands shivering on the brink in the chill whiteness of early morning. He sits on the edge of a hard wooden cart for an immense time, and, by way of keeping up his strength, eats an indigestible penny bun, a thing that it would never enter his head to do at any other time. He sees here and there one or the other of those school-fellows or university chums who have dropped out of his life for all the rest of the year. Then, after a moment's shouting, a moment's tense anxiety or bitter disappointment, according to the position of the boats, the flutter of a flag, and a thrill of something of the old enthusiasm that the unsparing poverty of his life has slowly ground out of him, he retires to his vicarage again for another year, elated or depressed according to the result of the race.

To others Henley is the embodiment of all that is joyous; the one week in the year that is worth counting. But to others, and these a vast majority of those who know the river at all, the Thames means fresh and life-giving air after a week spent within four walls. It means congenial exercise and light, and the refreshment that beauty gives, even if but half realised. It means a quiet dream with a favourite pipe in a deep backwater so overhung with trees that it resembles a green tunnel. The gentle drone of the bees sounds from the banks, there is a flash of blue sheen as a kingfisher darts by; a gentle dip and slight crackling tell of another favoured individual making his way cautiously along to the same sheltered alley; the radiant sunlight falls white upon the water through the leaves and sends shimmering reflections of dancing ripples on the sides of the punt. Such a position is as near Paradise as it is given to mortal to attain.

These are only a few of an inexhaustible variety of aspects of this glorious river, and each reader is welcome to add his own favourite to the list.

PANGBOURNE

For the purposes of this book we are dealing with the Thames between Oxford and London, though as a matter of fact, tradition has it that the Thames proper does not begin until below Oxford, where it is formed by the junction of the Thame and the Isis. Tamese (Thames) means "smooth spreading water." Tam is the same root as occurs in Tamar, etc., and the "es" is the perpetually recurring word for water, e.g., Ouse, ooze, usquebagh. Isis is probably a back formation, from Tamesis. In Drayton's Polyolbion, we have the pretty allegory of the wedding of Thame and Isis, from which union is born the sturdy Thames.

Now Fame had through this Isle divulged in every ear

The long expected day of marriage to be near,

That Isis, Cotswold's heir, long woo'd was lastly won,

And instantly should wed with Thame, old Chiltern's son.

In Spenser's Fa?rie Queene the notion is carried one step further, and Thames, the son of Thame and Isis, is to wed with Medway, a far-fetched conceit, for the rivers do not run into each other in any part of their course.

It is strange that a river such as the Thames, which, though by no means great as regards size, has played an important part in the life of the nation, should not have inspired more writers. There is no striking poem on the Thames. The older poets, Denham, Drayton, Spenser, Cowley, Milton, and Pope, all refer to the river more or less frequently, but they have not taken it as a main theme. It is even more neglected by later poets. There are poems to special parts or scenes, such as Gray's well-known "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College"; the river colours one or two of Matthew Arnold's poems; but the great poem, which shall take it as a sole theme, is yet to come. Neither is there a good book on this river, though it is among rivers what London is among the cities of men. Yet the material is abundant, and associations are scattered thickly along the banks. No fewer than seven royal palaces have stood by the river. And of these one is still the principal home of our sovereign. Of the others, Hampton Court, chiefly reminiscent of William III., is standing. The neighbouring palace of Richmond remains but in a fragment. At London, Westminster, the home of our early and medi?val kings, has vanished, except for the great hall and a crypt. Whitehall-the old palace-is wholly gone, though one part of the new palace projected by James I. remains. As for the old palace of Greenwich, so full of memories of the Tudors, that has been replaced by a later structure. I hesitate to name Kew in this list, so entirely unworthy is it of the name of palace, yet, as the residence of a king it should, perhaps, find a place.

From the annals of these palaces English history could be completely reconstructed from the time of Edward the Confessor to the present day.

But it is not in historical memories alone that the Thames is so rich. Poets, authors, politicians, and artists have crowded thickly on its banks from generation to generation. The lower reaches are haunted by the names of Hogarth, Cowley, Thomson; further up we come to the homes of Walpole, Pope, and Fielding. At Laleham lived Matthew Arnold. Not far from Magna Charta Island is Horton, where Milton lived. Though his home was not actually on the river, Milton must have often strolled along the banks of the Thames, and many of his poems show the impress of associations gathered from such scenery as is to be found about Ankerwyke and Runneymead:

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,

While the landscape round it measures:

Russet lawns and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray.

Meadows trim with daisies pied;

Shallow brooks and rivers wide.

From the records of Eton alone many a book might be compiled of the lives of men in the public eye, whose impressions were formed there by the Thames side. Indeed, had the river no other claim to notice than its connection with Eton and Oxford, through which more men who have controlled the destiny of their country and made empire have passed, than through any similar foundations in England, this alone would be cause enough to make it a worthy subject for any book.

Beside palaces and the homes of great men, castles and religious houses once stood thickly along the banks of the river. The notable monasteries of Reading, Dorchester, Chertsey, and Abingdon, etc., were widely celebrated as seats of learning in their day, and the castles of Reading, Wallingford, and Oxford were no less well known.

It is a curious law in rivers that, as a whole, the windings usually cover double the length of the direct axis, and the Thames is no exception to the rule. It sweeps in and out with a fair amount of regularity, the great bend to the south at Thames Ditton and Weybridge being reversed higher up in the great bend to the north at Bourne End and Hambleden. Naturally the sides of these indentations run north and south instead of in the usual course of east and west. From Wargrave to Henley the current is almost due north, and likewise from Surbiton to Brentford. A more apparent curve, because much smaller in radius, is that at Abingdon; here the course by the stream is about nine miles, in contrast to the two overland. The Great Western Railway is the chief river railway, but as it runs a comparatively straight course between London and Didcot, some places on the great curves are considerably off the main line, and are served by branches. After Reading it keeps very close to the river as far as Moulsford, and is not distant from it the rest of the way to Oxford, as it turns almost direct north from Didcot Junction. The Great Western Railway is ably supplemented by the London and South Western Railway, from which the lesser stations on the south of the river near to London can be reached, also the districts of Twickenham, Hampton, etc., included in the chapter called "The Londoners' Zone." Further up, Weybridge, Chertsey, Egham, and Windsor can also be reached by this railway, which cuts a curve and touches the river again at Reading.

DORCHESTER ABBEY

There are many zones on the river, and each has its devotees. It is curious to notice how one crowd differs from another crowd on its "people-pestered shores." It is difficult to draw hard and fast lines, but taking the boundaries of the London County Council as the end of London, we can count above it many zones, rich in beauty, divided from each other by stretches of dulness; for, beautiful as the river is, it must be admitted parts of it are dull, though, like the patches on a fair skin, these serve but to emphasise the characteristics of the remainder. A rather dreary bit succeeds Hammersmith, though this is not without its own attractiveness, and the first real zone that we can touch upon is that from Richmond to Hampton, which runs Maidenhead hard for first place in popularity; but the Richmond and Hampton river people are largely recruited from the inhabitants, while those at Maidenhead are mostly visitors. Passing over the waterworks and embankments above Hampton, we begin another zone, much less known because less accessible, but in its own way more attractive than that of Richmond. It is pure country, with green fields, willow trees, cows grazing on the banks, many curves and doublings in the channel of the main stream, and ever varying vistas, and this continues to beyond Weybridge. About Chertsey the scenery is flat, but Laleham and Penton Hook are two places that annually delight hundreds of persons.

Between Staines and Windsor there is a fairly attractive stretch, with the park and woods of Ankerwyke on one side, and the meadows on the other. High on the south rises Cooper's Hill, and beyond Albert Bridge we see the smoothly kept turf of the Home Park.

Windsor and Eton, of course, will require a chapter to themselves. In this general description it is sufficient to say that the influence of Eton is apparent all the way to Bray. Then we start a new zone, the most popular one on the river, that from Maidenhead to Bourne End. Of the delights of this beautiful and varied section it is unnecessary here to speak. But the Maidenhead reach is spoilt for fastidious people by its too great popularity. To those who love the river for itself, the endless passing and repassing, the impossibility of finding quiet, undisturbed corners, the noise and merrymaking, even the sight of too many fellow creatures, is a burden. From this the part above Marlow is protected by being less accessible. It is too far to be reached easily from Maidenhead, and those who come by train have an awkward change at a junction; therefore the crowd finds it not. Yet the beauties are no less admirable than those of the adored Maidenhead.

At Hambleden the influence of Henley begins to be felt, and above Henley we enter on another zone. Nowhere else on the river are to be found so many fascinating spots lying in the stream; certainly, no other part offers so many tempting backwaters. This is the zone for those who love the country pure and simple, and who can put up cheerfully with the inconveniences attendant on the procuring of supplies, for the sake of the quiet, marshy meadows.

The reach includes Sonning with its two bridges, its islands, and its rose-garden; but beyond Sonning dulness is apparent once more, and with the neighbourhood of the great and smoky town of Reading, charm withers. It is not until Mapledurham that the prettiness of the river becomes again apparent, and Mapledurham is rather an oasis, for in the reach beyond it, though the great rounded chalk hills grow opal in the sunlight, and the larks sing heavenwards, the attractiveness cannot be called beauty. From Pangbourne and Whitchurch to Goring and Streatley, the river lies beneath the chalk heights, which seem to dip underground, reappearing on the other side by Streatley; and the whole of the stretch, with its rich and varied woods, its delightful islands and weirs, its pretty cottages and churches, is full of charm.

DAY'S LOCK

Beyond Cleeve Lock, with the single exception of Mongewell, there is again dulness, though for boating pure and simple the reach is very good. Wallingford has a trim prettiness of its own, with its clean-cut stone bridge and its drooping willow. Park-like grounds and pleasant trees succeed, Sinodun Hill looms up ahead, and one may penetrate up the Thame to Dorchester, where the willows nearly meet overhead. Day's Lock still belongs to the clean prettiness of the Wallingford stretch, which, in fact, continues all the way to Culham, notwithstanding that we pass the much admired Clifton Hampden, where the church stands high on the cliff. Culham itself is dull, but with the pretty backwater of Sutton Courtney we begin a new kind of scenery. Abingdon has something of its richness and profusion, and Nuneham Courtney woods, though not rising so abruptly as those at Clieveden, are glorious. After this we begin the famous meadows that continue more or less all the way to Oxford, and have a fascination of their own.

The best way to see the river as a whole, for those who can spare the time, is to go on Salter's steamers, which run daily, Sundays excepted, during the summer. The fare one way is 14s., exclusive of food, and the night spent en route. The trip takes two days, the steamer leaving Kingston at 9 in the morning, and reaching Henley at 7.15 in the evening. The reverse way, it leaves Oxford at 9.30, and reaches Henley, which is about half-way, at 7 in the evening.

In this rough sketch it has been shown that there is no lack of choice for those who seek their pleasure on the river, and the opportunity meets with full response. Seen in sunshine on a summer morning, especially if it be the end of the week, the river is brilliant. The dainty coloured muslins and laces, the Japanese parasols, the painted boats, the large shady hats, the sparkle where the oars meet the water, and the white sails of the sailing boats bellying in the wind, are only a few items in a sparkling picture. Fragile, yellow-white butterflies and the richer coloured red admirals hover about the banks; purple loose-strife, meadow-sweet, and snapdragon grow on the banks with many a tall gaudily coloured weed. Here and there great cedars rise among the lighter foliage, showing black against a turquoise sky; while on the water, where the wind has ruffled it, there is the "many twinkling smile" ascribed by ?schylus to the ocean. But, to those who know the Thames, this smiling aspect is not the only lovable one: they know it also after rain, when the water comes thundering over the weirs in translucent hoops of vivid green, and the boiling foam below dances like whipped cream. To walk along the sedgy banks is to leave a trail of "squish-squash" with every step. All the yellow and brown flat-leaved green things that grow thickly near the edges are barely able to keep their heads above the stream, and the long reeds bend with the current like curved swords. Every little tributary gushes gurgling to join in the mad race, and the sounds that tell of water are in our ears like the instruments in an orchestra. There are the rush, the dip, and the tinkle, as well as the deep-throated roar. Watching and listening, we feel a strange sympathy with the new life brought by the increased current; we feel as if it were flooding through our own veins, and as if we, like the squirming, wriggling things that live in the slime below the flood-curtain, were waking up anew after a long torpor.

NEAR THE BRIDGE, SUTTON COURTNEY

Even in late autumn, when the slow, white mist rises from the marshy ground, and most of the birds are gone; when the eddies are full of dead leaves floating away from the wood where all their sheltered lives have been spent; when the sparkle and the gaiety and the light-heartedness are gone, and the water looks indigo and dun, with patches of quicksilver floating on it; when the great webs of the spiders that haunt the banks hang like filmy curtains of lace heavy with the moisture of the air, and the sun sinks wanly behind a bank of cloud-even then the river may be loved.

Assuredly, those who go on the river for the day only, and know it but under one aspect-that of lazy heat-lose much. In the evening time, as one steps from the long French window into the scented dusk, soft white moths flap suddenly across the strip of light, and one's feet fall silently on the velvet turf, cool with the freshness that ever is on a river margin. Down by the edge the black water hurries swiftly past with a continuous soothing gurgle. A sleepy bird moves in a startled way in a bush, and all the small things that awake in the night are stirring. One can reach down and touch the onyx water slipping between one's fingers like dream jewels; and far overhead in the rent and torn caverns of the clouds, the stars, bigger and brighter than ever they look in London, sail swiftly and silently from shelter to shelter. The plaintive cry of an owl sounds softly from the meadow across the water, and there is an indescribable sense of motion and poetry, and a thrill of expectation that would be wholly lacking in a landscape ever so beautiful, without the river.

Then there are the grey days, when sudden sheens of silver drop upon the ruffled water as it eddies round a corner, and in a moment the surface is peopled with dancing fairies, spangled and brilliant, flitting in and out in bewildering movement. Or the same cold, silver light catches the side of a ploughed field, a moment before brown, but now shot with green as all the long delicate blades are revealed. These, and a thousand other delights, cannot be known to the visitor of a day only. Under all its aspects, in all its vagaries, the river may be loved; and in the swift gliding motion there is an irresistible fascination. It gives meaning to idleness, and fills up vacancy. By the banks of the river one never can be dull.

The river is one of the greatest of our national possessions. Other rivers there are in England where one may boat on a small part, where here and there are beauty spots; but the Thames alone gives miles of bewildering choice, and can take hundreds and hundreds at once upon its flood. Now embanked and weired and locked, its waters are ideal for boating, and its fishing, with little exception, is free to all.

Shooting on the banks of the Thames is forbidden, and the birds have quickly learned to know their sanctuary. Lie still for a while in the lee of an osier-covered ait, or beneath the shelter of an overhanging willow, and that cheeky little reed-bunting will hop about so near, that, were you endowed by nature with the quickness of movement granted to a cat, you could seize it in one hand. White-throats, robins, thrushes, blackbirds, all haunt the stream, and reed warblers and sedge warblers have their haunts by the banks. The kingfisher is rapidly increasing, and makes his home quite close to the locks and weirs; the russet brown of his breast, as he sits motionless on a twig waiting his time for a dart, may now be seen by a noiseless and sharp-eyed watcher. The soft coo of the wood pigeons sounds from tall trees, and the cawing of the rooks, softened by distance into a melodious conversation, is wafted from many a rookery. The chatter of an impudent magpie may worry you, or the hoarse squawk of a jay break your rest, but they are only the discords that the great musician, Nature, knows how to introduce into her river symphony.

STREATLEY INN

Hotels on the river have, in the last few years, awakened to the cry of the middle classes for air and light, and yet more air. Some of the hotels are pretty with verandahs and creeper covered walls, but others are old-fashioned-with low rooms. Yet every proprietor who can by hook or crook manage it, now runs a lawn of exquisite turf down to the water's edge, decorates it with flowers far more vivid than can be seen elsewhere, and knocks up a bungalow-like building, terribly desolate in the winter when the green mould creeps insidiously over the wooden posts, and the sail-cloth rots in the damp; but airy and commodious in the summer, when relays of fifty people or more may be seated at a time, and yet there is no satiating smell of cooked food. The boat owners have also seen fit to accommodate their convenience to the demand, and at any large builder's landing-stage, boats may now be hired to be left almost anywhere on the river, to be fetched back by the owner.

Pessimists say that the river is losing its charm, that the advent of motor cars, stirring in people a hitherto dormant love of speed, makes the slow progress of punting a weariness instead of a relaxation. But this is not greatly to be feared. The charm of a motor is one thing, the charm of the river another; and we cannot spare either. Crowds may slightly diminish, but this is no loss, rather a gain to the real river lover.

Thames gardens are peculiar. By the nature of the case they must be far more public than ordinary gardens, for the owner's reason for buying the house was that he wanted to sit on his own green turf and see the river flow endlessly past. Therefore, though he may hedge around the three land sides with high walls and impenetrable thorns, he leaves the fourth side open so that all the world may look. No one has yet been clever enough to invent a screen that shall be transparent on one side and opaque on the other, and until they do, the owners of these beautiful river lawns must sit in the full light that beats upon the river banks, and allow every passing stranger who has raked up a shilling to hire a boat, to enjoy the beauties of a garden he has not paid for. Thames lawns are celebrated, and rightly so. Not even the turf of college quads, grown for hundreds of years, can beat their turf. Thick, smooth, closely woven they are, and above all, of a pure rich green that is a delight to see, and, by way of enhancing this marvellous green, the colour which is most often to be seen with it is its complementary colour, red. Whether the effect is obtained merely by contrast I do not know, but certainly it seems as if nowhere else could be found geraniums of so rich a vermilion, roses of so glorious a crimson. In many of these river gardens, too, especially where a little stream trickles down, a light trellis arch is thrown up and covered with Rambler roses, old rose in colour, and only second to the vermilion as a complement to the green lawn.

Two of these gloriously green lawns I have particularly in mind, one at Shepperton, and one near Thames Ditton, but where they are to be seen so frequently it is invidious to particularise.

These are the private gardens of a grand sort, and no whit less beautiful, though without the same expanse of lawn, are the gardens of the lock-keepers, in which the owners take a particular pride.

Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,

Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,

Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell,

And stocks in fragrant blow;

Roses, that down the alleys shine afar,

And open, jasmine-muffled lattices.

-M. Arnold.

But in taking count of Thames's decorations we are not confined to gardens. Among the flowers growing wild on the river banks we have no lack of choice. It is a pretty conceit of Drayton's, to make his bridal pair, Thame and Isis, travel to meet one another along paths flower-decked by willing nymphs. Old Thame, as the man, was to have only wild flowers, not those "to gardens that belong":

The primrose placing first because that in the spring

It is the first appears, then only flourishing,

The azured harebell next, with them they neatly mix'd,

T'allay whose luscious smell, they woodbind plac'd betwixt.

Amongst those things of scent, there prick they in the lily;

And near to that again her sister daffodilly.

To sort these flowers of show with th' other that were sweet

The cowslip then they couch, and th' oxlip, for her meet,

The columbine amongst they sparingly do set,

The yellow king-cup wrought in many a curious fret,

And now and then among, of eglantine a spray,

By which again a course of lady smocks they lay

The crow flower, and thereby the clover-flower they stick.

The daisie over all those sundry sweets so thick;

* * *

The crimson darnel flowers, the blue-bottle and gold

Which, though esteemed but weeds, yet for their dainty hues

And for their scent not ill, they for this purpose choose.

The "luscious smell" cannot refer to the harebell, which has a very faint perfume; besides, it is difficult to think of the harebell in this connection, for it is a full summer flower, while all the rest belong to spring: Drayton must, therefore, mean the wild hyacinth, which is still often called the bluebell by people in England, though in Scotland this name is correctly reserved for the harebell. The "luscious smell" exactly describes the rich, rather cloying scent of the hyacinth. There has been some discussion as to what is meant by the eglantine, which the old poets are so fond of mentioning. In Milton it means the honeysuckle, but in the others probably the sweetbriar; while woodbine is either the twining clematis, the "traveller's joy"-rather a misnomer, by-the-way, as it is an insignificant and disappointing flower-or the honeysuckle.

Isis was gay with garden flowers:

... The brave carnation then,

With th' other of his kind, the speckled and the pale,

Then th' odoriferous pink, that sends forth such a gale

Of sweetness, yet in scents as various as in sorts.

The purple violet then, the pansy there supports

The marygold above t' adorn the arched bar;

The double daisie, thrift, the button bachelor,

Sweet-william, sops-in-wine, the campion, and to these

Some lavender they put with rosemary and bays.

To make a catalogue of the flowers which may be found on the Thames banks at the present day would be out of place here, yet there are one or two plants so frequently seen that they may be mentioned. Among these are the purple loose-strife, with its tapering, richly coloured spikes, standing sometimes as high as four feet, and occasionally mistaken for a foxglove; the pink-flowered willow-herb; the wild mustard or cherlock, with its sulphur yellow blossoms, and creeping-jenny. The bog-bean, or buck-bean, with white lace-like flowers may be seen occasionally in stagnant swamps. The water-violet, which, however, is not in the least like a violet, is also to be found in the tributary ditches, as well as the tall yellow iris; the flowering rush and the bur-reeds often form details in a river picture. In the lock gardens herbaceous borders, full of phlox, sweet-william, stocks, valerian, big white lilies, and, later, red hot pokers, sunflowers, and hollyhocks, are ordinary sights. In the meadows near Oxford fritillaries, otherwise called snakes'-heads, are seen abundantly in spring, but these and other flowers shall be mentioned more particularly in connection with the places where they grow.

It remains but to end with the aspiration of Denham:

O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream

My great example as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;

Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing full.

This account of the river may well begin at Folly Bridge, seeing it is folly in any case to attempt to cut off a section of a river, and, as before explained, our course from Oxford to London is peculiarly arbitrary, for the Thames proper does not begin till below Dorchester, and at Oxford the river is the Isis. Having thus disarmed criticism, without further explanation or apology, we stand upon Folly Bridge, which is a little way above the end of the course for both Torpids and Eights.

To the left are the college barges, resplendent in many colours, with their slender flagstaffs rising against a background of the shady trees that border Christchurch meadows. The reach of water beside them is alive with boats, and the oars rise and dip with the regularity of the legs of a monster centipede. The barges should be seen in Eights week, when they are in their glory, occupied by the mothers, sisters, and aunts of the undergraduates, dressed in costumes that in mass look like brilliant flower-beds.

To see the bridge properly, however, it is necessary to go down to the tow-path and look back at it, when its quaint, foreign appearance can be better estimated. It stands across an island on which is the renowned Salter's boat-house, and its solidity and the tall houses near it, which throw black shadows in the yellow sunlight, make it look not unlike a corner in Venice.

Following the river down, we see on the Oxford side the narrow mouth of the meandering Cherwell under a white arched bridge. The most delightful place for "lazing" in a boat is the Cherwell, shady and not too wide; deliciously cool in the height of the summer, so rich is the foliage of the over-arching trees. Lower down is the New Cut, destined to relieve the Cherwell of its superfluous water in flood time and so prevent the flooding of the Christchurch meadows. Opposite the mouth of the New Cut is the University Boat-house, and further down, where a branch of the river runs off to the right, are the bathing places. This branch is crossed by a bridge, and it makes the next strip of land an island. The place is known as the Long Bridges. The river narrows at the point, and the narrowed part is called The Gut; just below a tributary from the Cherwell, known as the Freshman's river, dribbles into the Thames. It is at The Gut that the most exciting scenes in the races generally happen. As everyone knows, Torpids are in the fourth and fifth weeks after the beginning of the Lent term, and as they are not of so much importance as the Eights, and as the weather does not lend itself to open-air festivities, they are generally watched only by a shivering handful of spectators who have a more or less personal interest in them. The Eights, which take place in the middle of the summer term, are the event of the year to Oxford, and intensely exciting they may be. The lowest boat starts from the lasher above Iffley, and the course ends at Salter's Barge. But the crux of the whole matter often lies in The Gut, and much depends on the ability of the cox to steer a clean course, as to whether his boat is bumped or bumps. As the boats in cutting the curve below this crucial point come diagonally at it, disaster here often overtakes a crew which has before been doing well. The aforesaid narrow channel from the Cherwell is navigable only in a canoe and by good luck; but the tale is told that one cox, in his first year, being excited beyond reason, mistook it for the main channel, and, steering right ahead, landed his crew high and dry on the shoals. Hence the name, the Freshman's river.

IFFLEY

Here are two pictures, taken from life, which express the difference between the two occasions:

The Eights: Brilliant blue sky above, glinting blue water beneath. Down across Christchurch meadow troops a butterfly crowd, flaunting brilliant parasols and chattering gaily to the "flannelled fools" who form the escort. Despite the laughter it is a solemn occasion, for the college boat that is head of the river may be going to be bumped this afternoon, and, if so, the bump will surely take place in front of the barges. The only question is, before which barge will it happen? When the exciting moment draws near, chatter ceases, a tense stillness holds the crowd in thrall; the relentless pursuers creep on steadily, narrowing the gap between themselves and the first boat, and finally bump it exactly opposite its own barge! A moment's pause. The completeness of the triumph is too impressive to be grasped at once; then-pandemonium! Pistol-shots, rattles, hoots, yells, shrieks of joy, wildly waving parasols, and groans.

The Torpids: A raw cold February day; a leaden sky heavy with snow; dimly seen figures scudding over the frozen meadows of Iffley; the river itself is almost frost-bound, and the men waiting in the boats for the starting gun look blue and pinched. They must find these last ten seconds hard to endure. Nine, eight, seven, six-ugh! will it never go? At last! And, as the signal sounds, the oars strike the water with a splash, and the boats shoot off and begin the long tussle against a head wind and that strong stream which always makes the Torpids a harder matter than the Eights rowed in summer water. It is too late to follow them, so heigh-ho for the King's Arms Hotel at Sandford, and a cup of the good hot tea that the landlady knows so well how to make!

The channel running past the bathing places is equally unsuited for navigation, and is moreover guarded by two mills, but it may be negotiated with the aforesaid element of good luck. Hinksey Stream flows into this backwater, and there are several places, after shoals have been avoided or surmounted, where it is extremely pleasant to while away an idle hour. By means of the Long Bridges and the lock at Iffley it is possible to get across the river from side to side diagonally. Passing on down stream we soon come to Iffley. In the meantime we can see many of the pinnacles and spires and domes for which Oxford is famous, and marvellous is the way in which they appear to swing round as we change our position. The part of new Oxford which lines the Iffley road behind the meadows is not attractive, but when we come in sight of Iffley itself we may well exclaim that it would be hard to find a sweeter spot. There are stone walls, thatched cottages and farmyards, hay and orchards, elms, alders, and silver-stemmed birches; in consequence a quiet, rural atmosphere broods over all. The cows feed down to the edge of the river, and swallows dart about overhead, while perhaps a man paddling a canoe shoots up and away again, his white flannels and the strength and grace of his movement irresistibly recalling a swan. The mill, half stone, half wooden cased, is very ancient; the massive foundations have become like rock from their long immersion in the running water. There is a great quiet pool behind the lock island, and here and there a glimpse may be caught of the square tower of the famous church, which is not far off, but is well hidden by trees.

Iffley Church takes rank with Stewkley as the most beautiful example of a Norman church remaining to us out of London. It is, like so many Norman churches, very small and very solid. And it must yield to Stewkley in the fact that its architecture is not pure. Yet its massive central tower and its fine windows place it very high indeed. Its date is not certainly known, but is supposed to be between 1160 and 1170. "The interior seems at first sight curious. There are, in fact, two chancels, one behind the other. The further one is early English work, and is much lighter in style than the rest of the building, and the east end is disappointing. This may have been added to lengthen the church. In the bay next to it, where the choir now sit, there are fourteenth century windows inserted under Norman arches, showing that the walls were of the earlier date. These windows were added by John de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, in the latter half of the sixteenth century. There is a groined roof, and the piers are beautifully decorated. The arches supporting the tower are richly moulded, almost incongruously so in regard to the massive type of the masonry, which points to early Norman. The Perpendicular windows inserted in the north and south walls are good. It is only at the extreme west end that the Norman windows remain untouched. The font is of black marble, and is very curious. The triple west-end window, a splendid specimen, is best seen from the churchyard. Its moulding is very rich, and this alone would be sufficient to make Iffley rank high among ancient churches. Below it is a circular window inserted about 1858 on the supposed plan of a former one of which traces were found. The impossibility of approaching the style of the old work in modern times was never more strikingly shown. Below is a fine doorway with beak-head and billet moulding, worthy to be classed with the triple window. A very ancient yew stands on the south side of the church, and near it is the slender shaft of an old cross. The rectory house, dating from Tudor times, is a fine addition to the picturesque group."-Guide to the Thames.

Between Iffley and Sandford the famous Oxford meadows are seen at their best. In the summer they are gemmed with countless flowers, so that they rival the celebrated Swiss pastures. Prominent among these is the fritillary:

I know what white, what purple fritillaries

The grassy harvest of the river-fields,

Above by Ensham, down by Sandford yields,

And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries.

-M. Arnold.

Mr. G. Claridge Druce, the well-known botanist, who has made a special study of the Thames Valley and Oxfordshire, says:-"The Thames from Oxford to Sandford flows through meadows rich with fritillaries, its banks are bordered with the sweet-scented Acorus, and its waters are inhabited by Potamogeton pr?longus, flabellatus, and compressus, Zannichellia macrostemon, ?nanthe fluviatilis, &c., and near Sandford appears, for the first time in the river's course, the lovely Leucojum ?stivum." This is the flower better known as the summer snowflake, which we shall meet again. The above are only a tithe of the flowers which Mr. Druce mentions. Among others which may be recognised are the yellow iris, the cuckoo flower, the water villarsia, the purple orchis, and the willow weed. In the spring the marsh mallow is the first to appear with a vivid glory as of sunshine. The banks are flat and low, and, except for the flowers, uninteresting; nevertheless this is a useful part of the river, especially for sailing. Some college fours are rowed here. Passing under the railway line we see the pink-washed walls of the Swan Hotel, which stands on Kennington Island, connected with the mainland by a bridge; and then we come to Sandford itself, with charms almost as great as, though entirely different from, those of Iffley. The approach is disappointing. The tall mill chimney and the new brick houses are bare and ugly. The mill is a paper mill, and supplies the Clarendon Press. It stands close to the old-fashioned and pretty hotel, so completely ivy-covered that even one of the tall chimneys is quite overgrown. When close to the lock the mill is not noticeable and has the advantage of affording some shelter. As at Iffley, one can get right across from bank to bank by means of bridges, a most charming method that might well be adopted in other parts of the river. Indeed, near Oxford one great delight is the freedom from interference. Everyone is allowed full liberty; you may ride your bicycle along the tow-path, take it across locks, or even walk it by the side of the meadows, without any rebuke. Having put up a notice that they are not responsible for the condition of the tow-path and that people use it at their own risk, the Conservancy leave the matter alone. The islands at Sandford are rather complicated, and there are a couple of weirs, beneath which the water frills out over mossy stones into deep, shady pools. The fishing here is as good as any on the river. The Radley College boat-house and bathing place are near the lower pool, the college itself being rather more than a mile away. In spring these pools, with their broken banks of brown earth and their masses of scented white hawthorn, are most beautiful. The shy white violets hide in the grass near the weirs, and are found by only a few who know where to seek them.

RADLEY COLLEGE BOAT-HOUSE

In the Oxford zone we must include the woods at Nuneham Courtney, which, by the courtesy of the owner (Aubrey Harcourt), are open to undergraduates all Commemoration week and twice a week in the summer term; while the general public, after writing in advance, are allowed to picnic at the lock cottages two days a week from May to September. The Nuneham woods are on a ridge of greensand, and though they are not so high or at such a striking angle as those of Clieveden, they certainly have quite as great a charm. Anyone is allowed to walk through the park if it be approached from the road, but bicycles are not permitted. The lock cottages, which are a popular resort in the summer, stand beside a pretty wooden bridge which connects the islands with the mainland. Masses of wild roses and flowering clematis add their delicate touch to the beauty of the overhanging trees. Close by the water is the Carfax monument, a conduit or fountain erected by Otho Nicholson, who set it up at the place still called Carfax in Oxford, whence it was removed to its present position in 1787. The woods contain nothing very striking in the way of trees, though all the commoner sorts, the beeches, oaks, horse-chestnuts, and so on, are well represented. There are about 400 acres of wood, which surround the park, where the oaks show well, standing apart from each other.

As a headquarters for boating, for those who want to dawdle and explore odd corners and have no desire to rush through as many locks as possible in a day, Abingdon makes a good centre. It is within easy reach of the part lying below the woods at Nuneham, and in the other direction is the Sutton Courtney backwater, which, Wargrave notwithstanding, is not to be beaten on the Thames. Further down again is Clifton Hampden, which attracts many people, and the river at Abingdon itself is by no means to be despised. The bridge, called Burford Bridge, is a real delight.

It is old and irregular, with straggling arches, some rounded, some pointed; and all, even the highest, comparatively low down over the water, framing cool, dark shadows within the embrace of the mighty piers. The bridge cannot be seen in the glance of an eye. It is very long, and rests partly on an island. Standing on this, the Nag's Head Inn projects from one side of the bridge, and from it stretches out a small garden with several orchard trees. The red tiles and creamy tint of the hotel walls show well in contrast with the grey stone of the bridge, and when the hotel is seen from the river above the bridge, with the tall spire of St. Helen's Church rising behind it, it is worth noticing.

ABINGDON

There are bits of old wall lining the bank on the town side, and ivy grows freely over them. Many of the houses stand back from the water; a part of the ruined abbey and the long range of the abbot's residence can be seen between masses of blossom. The great exterior chimney of the abbey buildings should particularly be noticed. The blossom at Abingdon is a great feature, and one not to be found everywhere. Horse-chestnuts and holm oaks dip their boughs in the water, and from the branches arises a perfect chorus of birds. Abingdon has its chimneys, of course, as well as hideous buildings suited to modern requirements of business, but in the general view these things are lost sight of.

Burford is a corruption of Borough-ford, and before the building of the bridge in the fifteenth century, the ferry at Culham was the main means of communication with the other side of the river.

The range of Nuneham, below which runs the backwater called the Old River, can be seen to the south-east. If this ever was the main stream it must have been very long ago, for the memory of it is not recorded in any document now extant. The Old River is crossed by another bridge, and the two are linked by a straight road, made by Geoffrey Barbour at the same time as the building of the bridges. There is a picture of Barbour in the almshouses, and this shows the bridge being built in the background; while an illuminated copy of verses tells us:

King Herry the Fyft, in his fourthe yere,

He hath i-founde for his folke a brige in Berkschire,

For cartis with cariage may go and come clere,

That many wynters afore were mareed in the myre.

Culham hithe [wharf or landing] hath caused many a curse,

I-blessed be our helpers we have a better waye,

Without any peny for cart and for horse.

Below Burford Bridge, the great bur-reeds grow near the islands. There is one delightful old house, formerly a malt house, with all sorts of odd angles and corners. It encloses a small terraced court, from which steps lead down to the water. It stands on the site of St. Helen's nunnery, founded about 690. Further on are some of the newer almshouses-a blot on the scene; and then a glimpse may be had of the wooden cloister of the old almshouses, which, in their way, are as pretty as those at Bray.

Christ's Hospital, as the almshouses are called, was founded in the reign of Edward VI. out of lands belonging to a dissolved Guild of the Holy Cross. The central hall dates, however, from 1400. It has a stone mullioned window and panelled walls; in the ceiling is a dome or cupola. Once a week eighty loaves of bread are here distributed among the poor people of the town, and when the loaves, with their crisp, flaky, yellow crust, stand in piles on the polished oak table, and the poor old people gather for their share, there is an old-world touch in the picture such as one does not often see nowadays. The cloister or arcade of dark wood outside is decorated with texts and proverbs on its inner wall. The newer almshouses, built in 1797, lack all the homeliness and interest of the older ones. The church of St. Helen's, which has a very tall spire, is close to the almshouses and the river, and is well worthy of its position. It has been much restored, but is mainly of sixteenth century work.

THE MILL AT ABINGDON

Of course there was an abbey at Abingdon, though whether the name of the town arose from that fact or from a proper name Aben or ?bba is doubtful. The earliest name of the town was the unpronounceable one of Seovechesham, and it was then a royal residence. The abbey was founded by Cissa about 675. It was destroyed by the Danes and reconstructed long before most places on the river had begun to have any history at all. The abbey rose to great importance and wealth. It held manors innumerable, and its abbot was a person to reckon with. Even at the date of Domesday Book the abbey held no less than thirty manors. But its power did not save it, and it suffered the common fate at the Dissolution. A gateway of about the fourteenth century and some ruins, which show where the dwellings of the monks stood, are all that remain, beside the guest-chamber-a large, barn-like building-and the almoner's residence. The latter has a magnificent fireplace and chimney. The ceiling of the room below is groined, and looks like that of a crypt, but this is said to have been the kitchen. The chief feature of interest is the huge chimney, which is like a room, and has little windows on each side; its size is best appreciated from the exterior view. The church has quite disappeared, for the little ancient church near the gateway was not the abbey church, but is supposed to have been at first a chapel of ease. In this there is some Norman work, including the west doorway, and it is probably of quite as ancient lineage as anything now remaining of the abbey.

Henry I. was sent by his father, as a lad of twelve, to be educated at Abingdon Abbey, and the learning by which he gained the name of Beauclerc shows that there must have been some able men here. The town hall in the market place at Abingdon is really a fine bit of work. It has been attributed to Inigo Jones, and stands over an open arcade, according to the style of town halls of the seventeenth century. The lock is a good way above Abingdon, and from it the millstream, as usual a pleasant backwater, flows right back to the town, enclosing a large island.

SUTTON COURTNEY BACKWATER

The lock at Culham is one of the least interesting on the river, and of the hundreds who pass through it only a few know that they are close to the very prettiest backwater on the Thames, namely Sutton Pool. There is one backwater at Sutton Courtney which can be reached from above Culham Lock. This leads to the mill, now disused, and runs along the top of the numerous weirs that pour into Sutton Pool itself. It is pretty also, and it is pleasant to see the meadows where the cows stand knee-deep in flowering plants, and the little square tower of the church peeping through the trees. This backwater is the best for landing to go to the village. Along the top of the weirs runs a path-a public right-of-way-which leads across the fields to Culham Lock, and anyone may land here and look down upon the pool; but to get right into it the lock must be passed, and some way further, after going under the bridge, we can turn the corner of a large island and retrace our way upstream until we come into the great pool, with its miniature bays and tumbling water. The weirs are high, and the streams come down with force, making a restless heave and swell when the river is full. The little tongues of land that divide one bay from another are shaded by willows, and the lush green grass grows here and there around tiny beaches of white sand. In spring, masses of hawthorn, "all frosted" with flowers, bend down from above, and the wild hyacinths break up between the blades of grass. Tall reeds form tiny islets, and perhaps a little moorhen flaps out. It is in secluded places like this that the dainty nest of the reed-warbler may be seen, swinging so lightly upon its supports that it is extraordinary to think that so large a bird as the cuckoo should dare to deposit its egg there. Yet reed-warblers and sedge-warblers are both among the cuckoo's victims. Unfortunately, in this little paradise landing is everywhere strictly forbidden, but no one can forbid enjoyment of the beauties which appeal to sight.

CLIFTON HAMPDEN FROM THE BRIDGE

The village of Sutton Courtney is certainly worth visiting. The village green, with its tall chestnuts, limes, and elms, is the very picture of what a green should be. The church is particularly interesting, for it is that rarity an unrestored building, with the old red-tiled floor and the rudeness of the original-so often smoothed away behind stencilling and paint-still left untouched. There is a shelf of chained books, a fine carved screen, and an altar-tomb of some interest. The manor house, which is not far off, is in a medley of styles, ranging from Norman to Jacobean. Malefactors are said to have been hanged from the stout oak beam which is still in good preservation. One wing is of perfect Jacobean work, with an overhanging storey decorated with carved pendants. A fine old building, half-way up the village, is called the Hall of Justice; this, however, may have a meaning less obvious than supposed at first sight, as the family of Justice held the manor for some generations.

In it there is a fine old Norman doorway. The owner has furnished the interior with tapestry hangings, etc., somewhat in accordance with what it may have looked like originally when in use. It certainly gives one an idea of the old Saxon or Norman style of dwelling before even the upper chamber or solar came into fashion.

The river at Clifton Hampden is not a couple of miles from the river at Nuneham Courtney, so great is the loop by Abingdon. It may be noted that the name Courtney, though spelt differently, is derived from the ownership of the Courtenays, Earls of Exeter, in both the instances above. Clifton Hampden is a great favourite with artists, for the church, with its little, pointed spire, stands on a cliff which has in parts broken away, showing the rich yellow ochre of the soil. This makes up well in a "composition." The river sweeps round beneath it in a sort of little bay, and when white ducks dabble in the water and blue-pinafored children play beneath the yellow-ochre cliff, there is much to be said for it. The houses, too, are not without points. They are mostly thatched, and have their share of plants and creepers. The bridge is of red brick, and, with a little toning by weather, will make a capital accessory. But to my mind Clifton Hampden lacks that indefinable quality of charm found in such abundance elsewhere.

CLIFTON HAMPDEN