Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.

THE THAMES

Volumes in this Series by Mortimer Menpes

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AGENTS

THE THAMES

BY MORTIMER MENPES, R.I. TEXT BY G. E. MITTON PUBLISHED BY A.&C. BLACK SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.

Published July 1906

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Illustrations in this volume were engraved and printed at the Menpes Press, Watford.

CHAPTER I THE BEAUTY OF THE RIVER

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 Faërie 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 mediæval 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: