CHAPTER VITWIN VILLAGES

WALLINGFORD

In some ways Wallingford reminds one of Abingdon. They are both homely, pleasant, brick-built market-towns, rather sleepy, but self-respecting. There are several islands beside the bridge; but Wallingford has not made the most of its islands. They are bare, and disfigured by boat-building works. The bridge is fair, and, seen from below, where a weeping willow falls softly over one bank, the view is pretty. A conspicuous feature is the steeple of the church near, looking as if it had been joined on to the body without any thought of continuity of style. There are three churches in Wallingford, which once owned fourteen! There is rather a good seventeenthcentury Town Hall in the market-place and a Corn Exchange. Friday is the market-day. Both above and below the town the river is pleasant, though without original features; there are well-kept parks and fine-grown trees to be seen frequently. The only interesting place in the stretch below is Mongewell, where a large piece of artificial water joins the river, and near it is a small church quaintly built. Shute Barrington, the well-known Bishop of Durham, married for his second wife the heiress of Mongewell, and lived here before his death. Below Mongewell is a long, dull stretch, good for boating, but too unshaded and open to be pleasant for loiterers. The Trial Eights take place here in December.

STREATLEY MILL

When two villages stand facing one another across a bridge, it is inevitable that comparisons, however impertinent, will be made. And it may be said at once that Streatley, for all its old church, its pretty hotel, and its mill, cannot dispute the palm with Goring, which has an older church and a more charming mill, and many other advantages. Streatley church is singularly vivid in colouring. Rarely is there to be seen a deepergreen-gold than that made by the lichen on the red roof, and when the sunshine flashes out upon it the effect is positively startling.

Not less attractive in its way is the red-roofed hotel with its backing of thick, green foliage, its tiny grass plots on the river's edge, and its gay flowers. The flour mill would be a valuable asset in the beauty items of any place not eclipsed by so near a neighbour.

There are islands in the stream, and the bridge which runs across them is singularly picturesque. This is one of the few old wooden bridges remaining, and it is doubtless destined soon to be replaced by one of iron, as has been done at Pangbourne. At this one can hardly cavil, for delightful as are the long slender wooden piles to look at, they do seem as if they might give way unexpectedly at any minute.

STREATLEY

If we stand down by the lock there are numberless views in all directions, each good in itself. It is a hot day in summer, and the vivid scarlet and the deep carmine of the lock-keeper's geraniums literally strike one's eyeballs with their colour. We do not, alas! hear the wash of the water tumbling over the weir, for weirs in summer often run dry, or give only a small trickle, though it isjust the time when their gay music would most appeal to the heart of man. The lock-keeper has stories to tell of the days before the "pound" locks, as they used to be called, were made. What we call the weirs were then the "locks." The great barges had to be towed up the weirs by means of rope and capstan; and sometimes, when the water ran low, they had to wait for weeks for a freshet that would enable them to get up. The lock here is only five-eighths of a mile below that at Cleeve, and these two are the nearest together on the river, except those of Temple and Hurley. Beyond Cleeve there is a long stretch of six and a-half miles before the next, Benson Lock. It almost seems as if the powers that deal with locks had in their justice tried to make things even by multiplying them in the beauty spots, so that those who want only the best have to pay for it by the worry of passing locks; while those who are content with something less can have it without bother. Some locks, however, have been done away with as unnecessary. There used to be one between those of Cleeve and Benson, and another at Hartslock Wood, below Goring; but these have disappeared.

The ancient road known as the Icknield Streetcrosses the river at Streatley; it was used by the Romans, but made long before their time.

High beyond the bridge, and, rising above it, as we stand at the lock, is the grand sweep of hill locally known as Greenhill, in distinction from Whitehill on the Goring side.

To the right, on the top of the heights, are the golf links, and the small white road winds steeply up, carrying with it a touch of melancholy, which the sight of a far-away and steep road always gives, a suggestion of a journey that winds "uphill all the way."

Reading has now established a regatta to keep its own folk in its own neighbourhood on the August Bank-Holiday; and a great boon this has been to the quiet up-river places, for they are not now invaded by launches full of rollicking, bottle-shying crowds, such as are characteristic of the neighbourhood of all great towns, and on these occasions apt to become remarkably prominent.

GORING CHURCH

Goring stands high among Thames villages, literally and figuratively. Its main street runs winding up-hill to the station, and though there are few of the genuine old cottages left, the small houses which have replaced them have been mostly built in the best modern river style, with exteriorbeams, porches, projecting windows and ornamental gables. Creepers flourish abundantly. From the river the church is easily seen. A small and narrow backwater leads under a bridge to within fifty yards of the tower.

The building is very old, and was originally the church of the Augustinian priory. It is partly covered with rough stucco, which is peeling off untidily in patches. The tower is Norman, and has a bastion turret, which greatly adds to its appearance, and, what is more uncommon, the east end is an apse, though we are bound in honesty to say an apse rebuilt.

Close by the church is the mill, which eclipses that at Streatley in appearance, and shows adaptability in applying its power as an electric generating station, while Streatley remains conservative, and still grinds the sweet-scented white flour. But the electric charging has not spoilt the mossy roof, gleaming green and russet alternately, or the pretty pigeon-house from which flocks of white pigeons often sweep round over the glistening water and the low islands. A very large and neat boat-house lies below the bridge on the Goring side.

Between this and Pangbourne we have at first rich well-covered heights on the one side, and high,open chalky hills on the other, dotted with the neat circular clumps usually associated with chalk uplands. But after a while these are replaced by the famous Hartslock Woods.

Speaking of the valley of the Thames between Goring and Henley, in his introduction to theFlora of Oxfordshire, Mr. G. Claridge Druce says:

"We may wander for miles through verdant alleys whose groundwork begins in early spring with the glossy gold of the smaller celandine, followed by the pale stars of the wood anemones and myriads of primroses, these giving place to sheets of hyacinths, 'that seem the heavens upbreaking through the earth,' the blue being here and there relieved by the yellow archangel or brightened with stitchwort; still later on the bluebells are replaced by masses of the fragrant woodruff, and these by the more sombre colouring of the bugle. Then come the creamy-white flowers of the helleborine, the dull, livid spikes of the bird's nest orchis and the blue forget-me-nots, giving place to a galaxy of summer flowers, brightening in later months into the brilliant yellow of the ragworts and the purple of the foxgloves. The grassy downs, too, in spring are resplendent with the milkwort in all its purity of colour, whether of that typical bluewhich rivals the Swiss gentian in beauty, or fading into white or blushing to pink; while mixed with it are brilliant patches of rich orange yellow hippocrepis. Later on appear the rosy crimson spikes of the pyramidal orchis and the pale lemon flowers of lady's fingers, and the drooping blue-flowered campanula. If perchance the land have remained fallow, the bright flowers of iberis, sometimes suffused with rich purple, the glaucous foliage of rare fumarias, the deep crimson petals of the hybrid poppy, the bright rosy pink spikes of sainfoin and yellow toad flax, combine to form a varied show."

GORING

Before reaching Pangbourne we pass acres of osier beds on the right. Pangbourne and Whitchurch stand to each other in the same relation as do Goring and Streatley, but in this case it is the southern side to which the palm must be awarded. At Pangbourne the old wooden bridge has given place to an iron one, but the deed has been carried out in a manner that reflects credit on the doer, for the new bridge runs in a graceful curve, and its sides of latticed ironwork are painted white. Seen in glimpses between the islands, the new bridge does not detract from the charms of Pangbourne, but rather adds to them.

There are numbers of islands at Pangbourne,and they lie in a great basin between and beneath the weirs, which are small and frequent. The pool is full of beauty. The trees grow freshly and well, and throw a veil of tender green over the water, which is, on a summer day, brilliant in hues of blue and green, cobalt, sea-green, pale apple, indigo; these can all be traced lying in strips and sections where the riotous torrent from the weirs frays out its inquietude and loses itself. In one corner by a pretty cottage is a splash of vivid crimson, an arcade of roses. Near the bridge great launch works are a blot and an eyesore, but it is so seldom we find our ointment without the proverbial fly.

PANGBOURNE FROM THE SWAN HOTEL

Pangbourne village is quaint and pleasing enough, but it is not so beautiful as some of the villages along the Thames side. No village built haphazard, with a little river bridged over in its main street, with a brick-towered church, with dark evergreens, and a fair amount of creepers, could fail to be attractive in some sense. But there is too much new brick in Pangbourne. The river Pang is a tiny streamlet, and the winding ways do not hold that charm which can be felt even as one races by in a motor. Further up the river a row of neatly-built, red-brick and white-balconiedhouses stands up against a high chalk bank overlooking the river; behind this, in a deep cutting, runs the railway line. Above the bridge there is a landing on the Whitchurch side close to the church, which is a well-kept flint building. In the chancel there is a monument to the Lybbe family, dated 1599. Whitchurch is mostly built of red brick, and is neat and clean, but without any very great attractions. Before reaching Mapledurham a fine old house, Hardwicke, is passed. Charles I. stayed here and played bowls. The house itself is well protected by trees, but it stands in rather open country, amid bare chalk uplands, where sometimes may be seen a curious opaline glow in pale sunshine.

WHITCHURCH LOCK

Mapledurham is greatly spoilt by the churlishness of its main landlord. The lock-keeper is strictly forbidden to ferry anyone across the river, and though the crossing would be but short, and would involve only a walk of a few seconds along the bank to the mill, it is not permitted. As the nearest bridges on each side are those of Pangbourne and Caversham, it is necessary for anyone going by road to keep to the north side of the river between these points if he wants to see Mapledurham. The place certainly is worth some trouble, but it issmall, and the restrictions are tiresome. The fine old Elizabethan house is a real mansion of the good old sort; one could imagine endless stories of romance connected with it. It was fortified during the civil wars by Sir Arthur Blount, governor of Reading, and is still held by the same family. The principal entrance is by an avenue of elms nearly a mile long, but the house is perhaps best seen through the gates from the churchyard. The church is small, and Perpendicular in style, with the exception of the tower, a modern addition in flint and brick. There is within a Blount chapel with many family memorials, including an altar-tomb.

MAPLEDURHAM MILL

The mill at Mapledurham is also a great delight to look upon, and numbers of artists sketch it from every point of view. The islands lying in the swirl of the weir-pool afford many a quiet nook in which to anchor, though landing is forbidden. From this it may be judged that if Mapledurham is a Paradise, it is sternly guarded with notices, which meet one on every side with the persistence of the flaming sword.

The Abbot of Reading was, like the Abbot of Abingdon, mitred, and bore powerful rule. Reading ranked third among the abbeys of England, and held the great privilege of coining. It was founded in 1121 by King Henry I. himself, who was afterwards buried here. It was for long supposed that Adeliza his queen lay here also, but the evidence goes to show she was buried in Flanders. The Empress Maud lies at Reading. The great church was dedicated by Thomas à Becket, and in it took place the marriage of John of Gaunt.

Fuller, who is always worth quoting, says thatthough Ely "bare away the bell for bountefull feast making," Reading "spurred up close" to it, and continues: "The mention of Reading minds me of a pleasant and true story, which, to refresh my wearied self and reader, after long pains, I here intend to relate":

"King Henry VIII. as he was hunting in Windsor forest lost himself, and struck down about dinner-time to the Abbey of Reading, where, disguising himself, he was invited to the abbot's table and passed for one of the king's guard. A sirloin of beef was set before him on which the king laid on lustily, not disgracing one of that place for whom he was mistaken. 'Well fare thy heart,' quoth the abbot, 'and here in a cup of sack, I remember the health of his Grace your master. I would give a hundred pounds on the condition I could feed so heartily on beef as you do. Alas, my weak and squeasy stomach will hardly digest the wing of a small rabbit or chicken.' The king pleasantly pledged him, and heartily thanking him for his good cheer, after dinner departed as undiscovered as he came thither. Some weeks after the abbot was sent for by a pursuivant, brought up to London, clapped in the Tower, kept close prisoner, fed for a short time with bread and water. Yetnot so empty his body of food as his mind was filled with fears, creating many suspicions to himself, when and how he had incurred the king's displeasure. At last a sirloin of beef was set before him, on which the abbot fed as the farmer of his grange, and verified the proverb that 'Two hungry meals make the third a glutton.' In springs King Henry out of a private lobby where he had placed himself, the invisible spectator of the abbot's behaviour. 'My lord,' quoth the king, 'presently deposit your hundred pounds in gold, or else no going hence all the days of your life. I have been your physician to cure you of your squeasy stomach, and here, as I deserve, I demand my fee for the same.' The abbot down with his dust, and glad he had escaped so, returned to Reading, as somewhat lighter in purse, so much more merrier in heart than when he came thence."

When the Dissolution came, the abbot, full of belief in his own strength, defied the king, though he saw the whirlwind around him which had devastated other monasteries no less powerful than his own. There was no over-tenderness in Henry's methods, and Hugh Faringford, thirty-first was abbot, hanged, drawn and quartered in front of his own gateway in 1539.

There is very little left of this famous abbey now, and the gateway has been so carefully "restored" that there is more restoration about it than anything else; in fact, it is simply a reconstruction. Nearly all the remains lie within a very few acres, and the Forbury public garden is on the site of one of the courts of the abbey. The ruins at the east end are heavily covered with masses of ivy, but preserve the outlines of the chapter house and church, which was over five hundred feet in length.

Reading possessed a castle as well as an abbey, and the castle has vanished still more completely, leaving even its exact site unknown, though it is supposed to have been at the west end of the present Castle Street, or at the place where the prison now stands.

CAVERSHAM

In 871 the Danes got as far up the river as Reading, and seized both town and castle. Many times has parliament been held in the ancient town, and many sovereigns have visited Reading, including Queen Elizabeth, who stayed there no less than six times. In the civil wars Reading was a stronghold for the king until, after a severe siege, in 1653 the garrison capitulated on condition of being allowed to walk out free with arms and baggage, a boon which was granted. After this theplace was held by the Parliamentarians, but was again occupied for the king, only to become once again the headquarters of the Parliamentary army, and so it had many changes of fortune. St. Giles's church still bears the marks of the artillery from which it suffered during those uncertain times. There are other churches in Reading, but this is not a guide book, so there is no need to enumerate them. Archbishop Laud was born in Reading, and educated at the Free School. Reading is not actually on the river, and Caversham may be called its river-suburb. It is not a place which much attracts boating men. From its size, its manufactories, its chimneys, it is necessarily in many aspects unpleasant to those who have come to seek their rest and pleasure far from smoke and toil. The most important industries are Messrs. Sutton's seed emporium, and Messrs. Huntley and Palmer's biscuit factory, which employs more than five thousand persons; there are also breweries and many lesser works. Did it not lie between two such pre-eminently charming places as Sonning and Mapledurham, boating people would avoid it altogether.

There are certain notable details of the river-side which stand out in the mind after the rest have been merged in mere general remembrance of lazy happiness. In these we may include the backwater at Sutton Courtney, the woods at Clieveden, the Mill at Mapledurham, and the Rose Garden at Sonning. Roses grow well all along by the river, but nowhere so well as they do at Sonning, and the rose garden forms an attraction which draws hundredsto the place. Yet Sonning has other attractions too; it is very varied and very pretty. When one arrives at it first, perhaps coming upstream, one is rather perplexed to discover the exact topography. We round a great curve which encloses an osier bed; here, in early spring, the osiers may be seen lying in great bundles, shaded from olive-green to brown madder. Then we see some green lawns and landing places beneath the shadow of a fine clump of elms, and catch sight of the lovable old red-brick bridge, with its high centre arch, spanning the stream. But there is another bridge, a wooden foot-bridge, which also spans the stream, at right angles to the other, and peering through beneath this, we can see the continuation of the red brick one in a new iron structure, which stretches on right up to the neat flower beds of the French Horn Hotel. The truth is, the river suddenly widens out here into a great bulge, and in the bulge are several islands, on one of which are a mill and a house and several other things, not to forget a charming garden. It is the river channel between this island and the bank that the first bridge, the old one, spans. And what a view it is! Above the bridge can be seen rising the little grey church tower. On one side is the White HartHotel, with its warm tone of yellow wash, its red tiles and its creepers, and above all its famous rose garden. In the foreground is a willow-covered ait placed in exactly the right position. It is a perfect picture. But yet this is not the best side of the bridge. The other side is better; for here, to resist the flow of the current, the builders placed the buttresses which emphasise the height of that centre arch; buttresses now capped with tufty grass and emerald moss, and from the crevices of which spring clumps of yellow daisies, candytuft, wallflower, hart's-tongue fern, and other things. In the bricks all colours may be seen, after the manner of worn bricks, not even excluding blue. The mill is, as it should be, wooden, and with Sandford Mill, is mentioned in Domesday Book. From the dark shadow beneath its wheel, the largest on the river, gurgles away the water in cool green streams, passing beneath the overhanging boughs of planes and horse-chestnuts. From the mighty sweep of the wheel, as it may be seen in its house, the drops rise glittering in cascades to varying heights like the sprays of diamonds on a tiara. The mill-house, called Aberlash, stands not far off on the same island, with a delightful garden.

THE ROSE GARDEN AT SONNING

This island spreads onward with green lawns in asweeping semicircle to the lock and cottage, and from two small weirs the water dances down, adding variety to a beautiful pool where stand many irregular pollard willows on tiny aits. Over the smaller weir, framed in a setting of evergreens, is a bit of far distant blue landscape. There is a bank here too, an embankment, which might be covered with flowers according to its owner's design, but that the water nymphs, intolerant of flowers, except those of their own choosing, take a wicked delight in sweeping down over the weir, and sending the water flowing like a lace shawl all over the embankment to carry back all the roots and bulbs and other things that may have been planted there to use as playthings; their gurgle of delight at their own unending joke may be heard all day long.

The shy kingfishers love the big pool below the weir, but it is not often they are seen unless the watcher has the faculty for making himself invisible against his background and is able to remain motionless.

The woods of the Holme Park, rising high close by, throw a deep-toned shadow on the picture, particularly refreshing on a baking summer's day. Many birds find their refuge in these woods, and atnight the weird cries of the owls sound hauntingly over the flats. A ghost is supposed to inhabit the park, and the owl's cry might very well serve for a ghost's moan on occasion.

Having thus explored the puzzling bit of river, we may land and walk up through the Rose Garden, or, according to Mr. Ashby Sterry in hisLays of a Lazy Minstrel:

Let's land at the lawn of the cheery White Hart,Now gay with the glamour of June!For here we can lunch to the music of trees,In sight of the swift river running,Off cuts of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese,And a tankard of bitter at Sonning.

Let's land at the lawn of the cheery White Hart,

Now gay with the glamour of June!

For here we can lunch to the music of trees,

In sight of the swift river running,

Off cuts of cold beef and a prime Cheddar cheese,

And a tankard of bitter at Sonning.

For the sake of those who have gardens of their own, we give a list of the principal roses grown at Sonning:

Monsieur E. Y. Teas, Madame Marie les Dier, Marie Baumann, Viscountess Folkestone, Duchess of Bedford, Aimée Vibert, Prince Camille de Rohan, W. A. Richardson, Edouard Morren, Queen of Queens, Sultan of Zanzibar, Suzanne M. Rodocanachi, Madame de Watteville, Souvenir d'un Ami, Homer, Duke of Teck, Duke of Edinburgh, Cristal, Jules Margottin, Mavourneen, Rêve d'Or, Clio, Countess of Rosebery, The Bourbon, Souvenir de la Malmaison, Maréchal Niel, Alfred Colombo, Mrs. W. J. Grant, Magna Charta, La France, Prince Arthur, Charles Lefebvre, Dean Hole, Mrs. F. Laing, Maman Cochet, Madame Willinoz, Horace Vernet, Caroline Testout, Gloire de Dijon, Auguste Rigstard, Abel Carrière, Abel Grand, Eclair, Rubens, Bessie Brown, Beauty of Waltham, Boule de Neige, Jeremiah Dickson, Catherine Mermet, Gruss an Teplitz, Lady Battersea.

SONNING

With this brilliant mass of colour, the rich dark reds, the glorious pinks, the pale yellows, dead whites and the flaming apricot of William Allen Richardson, the effect may be imagined; and the entry to all this beauty is beneath a trellised arch covered with masses of the Crimson Rambler!

Sonning village itself is very irregular, uphill and downhill, with roads all ways. There are rights of way through the quiet churchyard, where there is a row of magnificent elms, and the villagers are real flower lovers. Almost at any season of the year at which flowers will flourish out of doors, flowers there are to be seen. Earliest of all, the quince, the yellow jasmine, and the dainty almond blossom; then the golden bunches of laburnum and the fresh mauve lilac; later on roses of all kinds, not always climbing, but in bushes and clumps. Window boxes are seen everywhere, and Virginia creeper and ampelopsis cover up all bare corners. The houses themselves are charming. There are many more cottages in the older style than can be found at Wargrave. Many a tiny diamond-paned window is seen high up, almost lostin a straggling creeper. The projecting storeys, the brown lathes imbedded deep in the brick, making rectangles of broken colour, the yellow wash of a deep umber, the high external chimneys, all make up many nooks to be looked at again and again with appreciation. Sydney Smith was staying at Sonning in 1807, and we can but admire his taste.

There is a tradition, very hazy, that Sonning was once the seat of a bishopric. There is no evidence at all as to this, but the fact that the See of Salisbury has held the manor since the time when Domesday Book was made may have led to the error.

The bishops had a house here, and it was at the bishops' house that King John stayed for six days a month before his death. Leland says: "And yet remaineth a faire olde House there of stone, even by the Tamise Ripe longging to the Bishop of Saresbyri, and thereby is a fine Park."

The oldest parts of the church probably date from 1180, but there is very little of this date left. The principal bits are the south doorway and a small window above it. The south aisle was built about 1350, the piers of the nave about 1400, at which date the chancel was added. The northchancel aisle and the north aisle came about 100 years later. The whole church was restored in 1852. There are one or two interesting monuments to be seen in it, and it is a good model of what a well-preserved, dignified parish church should be.

Wargrave is one of the most delightful of Thames-side villages. There is not much that is old among the houses that line the village street; thatch has almost gone. Wooden beams are not noticeable, except when used in the modern architecture that imitates the old; the material seen everywhere is red brick. Wind and weather, however, soon tone down the asperities of red brick,and from the rich soil creepers spring up quickly to cover it with loving tendrils; so the street becomes a delightful medley of casement windows, gable ends, and bushy foliage. Not the least of the charm is that each small house has its own ideas about frontage, and entirely refuses to stand in line with the rest. There are houses with their doorsteps in the roadway, and houses modestly retiring behind bushes in their strip of garden. Here is a wistaria with a stem as thick as a man's arm, and there roses and sweetbriar, purple clematis and starry jasmine, succeeding and intermingling. Wargrave has learnt to choose the good and refuse the evil of the modern spirit; she is clean and self-respecting as some villages will never learn to be. Her small shops are good of their kind, but self-conscious she is not, or garish, or any other of the horrible things associated with modernity.

THE CHURCH AT WARGRAVE

The place centres about cross roads, but straggles in many directions, and on the high ground surrounding it many a new house has been built lately, and stands amid delightful grounds.

The church, which is near the open green, where grow fine trees, is of flint, with a red-brick pinnacled tower, half ivy-covered. In the churchis buried Thomas Day, author ofSandford and Merton, who was killed by a fall from his horse in 1789. A Norman doorway, a carved oak pulpit black with age, and a huge family pew, tell of long survival, and give the church the same touch of self-respecting dignity that the village has. It can be seen from the water, peeping over greenery near a backwater, with its tower overtopped by trees.

The whole of Wargrave is seen to advantage from the water or from the meadows opposite. Many green lawns slope down to the brink, and the height of the bushy elms is a thing to note. A few Lombardy poplars break the fulness of the bosky foliage with their elongated ovals, and that most graceful of all trees, the wych elm, curves his beautiful lines in soft arches over the velvety lawns or smoothly-flowing water.

Witch elms that counterchange the floorOf this flat lawn with dusk and bright;And thou, with all thy breadth and heightOf foliage, towering sycamore.—Tennyson.

Witch elms that counterchange the floorOf this flat lawn with dusk and bright;And thou, with all thy breadth and heightOf foliage, towering sycamore.

Witch elms that counterchange the floor

Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;

And thou, with all thy breadth and height

Of foliage, towering sycamore.

—Tennyson.

The river turns almost a right angle at Wargrave, and, from running eastward, goes due north. The little village, being situated at the bend, gets the benefit of both vistas. The George Hotel,indeed, stands exactly at the angle, and the sweep of the water catches its wharf with full force. It boasts a signboard painted by two R.A.s; this is preserved indoors, while another swings as its proxy in the village street. Placed as it is in regard to the river channel, and with the wide flats of Shiplake meadows opposite, the hotel is exposed, and the very openness of its garden, an attraction which draws hundreds of summer visitors, makes it a butt for the racing winds of early spring. It is a pretty hotel built of brick, with a white painted verandah, after the usual river pattern; and a gigantic wistaria embowers all the front in its delicate mauve in summer, while roses trained over trellis work flash answering colour signals.

The view over the river includes the glowing sunsets, which leave a slowly dying splendour behind a distant bank of trees.

And there was still, where day had set,A flush that spoke him loth to die;A last link of his glory yetBinding together earth and sky.—Moore.

And there was still, where day had set,A flush that spoke him loth to die;A last link of his glory yetBinding together earth and sky.

And there was still, where day had set,

A flush that spoke him loth to die;

A last link of his glory yet

Binding together earth and sky.

—Moore.

Looking up to the left is the railway bridge, which is not so ugly as it might be; below, every hundred yards shows fresh beauties.

Wargrave backwater is one of the most noted on the river, and in summer, or early spring, is a fairyland of greenery. The entrance is behind the large willow-covered island that lies below the hotel. The tiny arched bridge, not far in, is so low that one has to lie full length in a boat in order to pass under it. This is called Fiddler's bridge, though no local tradition keeps alive the origin of the name. The gentle light shimmers down between the spear-leaved willows in a veil of glory, and the stream is so narrow, one can almost touch the banks with both hands at once. In the main stream meantime, there are several islands decorated with the new rough stuccoed houses now so popular in river architecture, and, at the end where the backwater emerges again, there is a brightly-coloured boat-house. Beyond this, again, is a long stretch where there are generally house-boats. In winter, a little creek on the left bank is a kind of storehouse for them. This is a fine wide reach, and above it rises Wargrave Hill with its large white house conspicuously placed.

Further down, the river makes a succession of curves; and facing up stream is Bolney Court, in a solid, old-fashioned style, of a dull yellow colour,while, behind and around it, the deep blue-green of Scotch firs is seen among the lighter foliage, and on the curving heights which block the vista to the north, the heights above Henley, these trees are conspicuous everywhere. Indeed, evergreens of all kinds flourish well in the chalky soil about Wargrave.

The late C. J. Cornish said somewhere that Thames eyots always seem to have been put in place by a landscape gardener, and those about Bolney recall the words. They are thickly grown over by sedge and osiers, and overshadowed by taller trees; between them, the channels of shining water, half hidden half revealed, gain all the charm of elusiveness. Has anyone ever reflected what a kindly thought it was of Nature's, to arrange that trees growing on the water's edge should invariably take an outward angle, so as to lean over the water? How much less effective the result would have been had they grown inward, may be pictured by imagining a river without reflections. In the stillness of a backwater, or in the narrowed channel beside a large island, the beautiful effect of this outward angle is best seen. If the channel be very narrow, the trunks fold one behind the other in perspective,so as to form an arch over a shining aisle. In the water, all the many-coloured gnarled stems are smoothed by the gentle movement into something softer than the rigid reality, with its hard knots of shadow. The different colouring on the stems of the same species of tree is a thing to marvel at. From the deep mahogany of a joint where the damp has made an open wound, to the faint biscuit-colour of the place where a strip of bark has been newly peeled off, the stems of pollarded willows furnish every brown and yellow on a painter's palette. Many of them are richly crowned by a head of ivy, whose satin-smooth leaves fall in garlands like locks, and sway with every touch of air. These are reflected in the water as a shaded mass of green with no detail.

There are so many varieties of willow that it is difficult for the lay mind to remember them all, and numbers of them are to be seen about Wargrave. It is the Crack willow and the White willow, with long slender leaves, that are commonly pollarded as osiers, though they will grow tall enough if they are allowed to. There is a legend that the mournful droop of the leaves of the weeping willow is a reminiscence of the sad time of the Captivity:

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered thee, O Sion;As for our harps, we hanged them up upon the willow trees that grow therein.

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered thee, O Sion;

As for our harps, we hanged them up upon the willow trees that grow therein.

Besides the willows, there are their cousins, the poplars, chief among which, is the fine Populus tremula, whose leaves whisper perpetual secrets, even on the stillest days. This is caused by the broad leaves being attached to a slender flattened stalk. They are silky on the wrong side, and when the wind blows through the foliage it turns a soft greyish white, like a cottony mass. There is a legend that the wood of this tree was used for the Cross, and that in consequence it has trembled ever since, and so its leaves are in a perpetual state of quivering.

The poplar, like the ash, is not kind to neighbouring trees, its numerous suckers taking more than their share of nourishment and moisture from the ground, and the leaves, when they fall, seem to be as destructive as those of the beech, for grass will not grow where they lie.

In spring, these trees shed their long catkins, like hairy caterpillars, all over the water, and they are swept up in heaps into every eddy.

In spite of the delights of summer, there is atime which well bears comparison with it; I mean the first fine days of early spring, before the rest of the world has awakened to the fact that winter is over. And about Wargrave at such times there is to be found great charm by those whose senses are alert. It is true that the splendid hedge that lines the tow-path shows only the long withes of the creepers and no starry flowers; that the graceful sprays of the wild rose now appear barbed and polished and ferocious, instead of sweet and enticing. A bush of barberry or berberis is not often seen in hedges, for the old folk-lore taught that wheat never throve when the barberry was in the hedge; therefore the farmers grubbed it up whenever they found it. But science has confirmed the empirical wisdom of our fathers, for it was discovered that the barberry furnishes the intermediate host for rust in wheat. On the green river bank there are quivering blades of tender green, but no flowers with their umbrella heads of white, or bunchy yellow, or pale mauve. Yet still there are compensations. To begin with, the river itself talks in spring as it never does in summer, and what is better, one can hear it without the interruption of human chatter or noise. One hasthe whole stretch to one's self, and attuning one's ear to the key of that conversation, one can listen to it sucking at the bank, flop-flopping under the prow of one's punt, chuckling as it races past the pole, and, laughing a little silvery laugh of merriment, that we call rippling—a word we have learnt to adapt to our poor human attempts in the same direction. The river sprites are with us, and very busy they are—ceaselessly busy about nothing at all, and so happy in their activity that to hear them is to laugh for right good fellowship. The wind is in the water, urging them on faster and faster; each wavelet has its crest of foam, and, in the heights and hollows ahead there is every shade of green, from emerald to olive. One must be very still in order to imbibe the real spirit of the scene, for they are shy, these river nymphs, as shy as the birds and beasts that live around them, and have learned the fear of tempestuous man. A shy-bold wren, with a sudden glint of sunlight on his rich brown back, flies to the edge of the water where the punt lies drifting, and then darts back in haste to the shelter of that commanding hedge he never likes to leave. His pertness is all in his appearance; never did looks so belie a timid character!A water-hen, startled by the sudden dip of the pole, flies out of the reeds close by, and skims in a swift low line to the islet opposite; her smooth dark body, with the elongated neck and scant tail, resembles an Eastern water skin.

There is a gentle continuous whispering among the reeds, as if they questioned themselves, with quiet disapprobation, why the river was always in such a hurry. From the field behind the hedge comes the sweet scream of a wheeling peewit, and two large wood-pigeons flap noisily from the tall trees on the island, a very picture of contented domesticity.

We slide on gently, close by the tow-path, until the tall hedge comes to an end, and the green meadows stretch right away from the lip of the river, and around them rise the tree-crowned heights in a semicircle, like the tiers of a giant amphitheatre.

Flop! A water rat dives furtively. Though called a rat, he is in reality a vole, and is almost exclusively graminivorous; in this differing from his namesake, the real rat, which also haunts river banks, especially near mills. With hoarse squawk, a wild duck rises heavily from cover, and after the first difficult spiral, wings off like an arrow,his long neck extended. It is a day of cloud and shadow, and suddenly the light breaks out on the trees ahead with a wild freshness that makes one catch one's breath. It races up stream, and the dun is turned to gold at the touch of its breath. The sweetness of early spring is in the air and in our blood; the larks feel it as they rise:

Sounds of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.—Shelley.

Sounds of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Sounds of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

—Shelley.

And there is a stirring of sap and juice in things—small things deep down in dark holes and corners, and in all green and growing things.

After this, how cloying the richness of summer, with its still days, its glaring reflections, the luscious foliage, and the overpowering scents—the thought of it strikes one's senses as the thought of a hothouse would strike a child of the moor and the mountain. And when we remember Wargrave regatta, with its crowded banks, its lined shores, its flags a-flutter, and its noise, we are thankful that August is afar off.

Though we have wandered down stream, thebit above Wargrave is equally attractive. Just beyond the railway bridge the river Loddon flows into the Thames. To pass up it and its tributary, St. Patrick's stream, is no easy feat; yet by using this loop the lock may be evaded, and it is the only place on the river where such a trick is possible. It is, however, far the best to explore this by-way from the other end and to come down stream by its means. To reach it, one must go high up above the lock, beyond the last of the chain of islands which here breaks the channel, and there turn in under a small bridge, into this curious tributary, which starts from the river and returns to it again. It flows at first through wide flat meadows, and then bifurcates, one branch, blocked by a weir, communicating again with the Thames, and the other falling into the Loddon, and with it rejoining the main river.

Part of St. Patrick's stream is fringed by well-grown uniform pollard willows that hedge it like a wall. In summer, when the meadows are rich in buttercups, and the wind hums softly over the clover, bringing wafts of scent, and many a quaint weed adds its note of colour to the general harmony, it is very charming. But the most delightful feature is the growth of theLeucojum æstivum, or summer snowflake, which is so numerous that it is popularly known as the Loddon lily. This is like a large snowdrop in which several blooms spring from one head. It is also to be found on several of the islands in the main river near, but is not abundant there. The Loddon itself rises far inland: Twyford gets its name from lying near two branches, a twy-ford. The stream is slow, and it is only the swift current of St. Patrick that enlivens it lower down.

Above the mouth of the Loddon there lies an interesting bit of the river. On a large island, owned by the Corporation of London, stands the lock-keeper's cottage, and opposite to it, on the mainland, a delightful old mill-house with tiled roof, and that weather-worn, rather battered appearance, which all self-respecting mill-houses aim at as the perfection of ripeness. The long tongue of the lock island projects down stream like the nose of a pike. In winter, the little moorhens, partly tamed by hunger, and reassured by the absence of those noisy humans who come in such numbers in warmer weather, run about all over it. Other things run too, all the year round; the lock-keeper has a fine stock of hens, but accepts philosophically the fact that he cannever rear any chickens "because of the rats." The rats, which are attracted by the ample stores at the mill-house, and find such variety of lodgings along the banks of the stream and in the crevices of the much worn woodwork, are the pest of these places.

The island is a popular camping ground, and the pitches are generally secured early in the season, having been well prepared beforehand by being laid in sand and flints to ensure a dry foundation. There are also a tiny bungalow, to be had for two guineas the week, and a bathing place available. Altogether a very attractive island. The main stream races over the weir, forming a wide tumbling pool below, and on the other side of the island there is a pleasant stretch down to the lock. These lock channels are among some of the most charming places on the river. They are generally very still, with the mass of water hardly moving. On some days every twig is reflected, and the view in this particular one is well worth looking at, as, with the group of the mill buildings rising high on one side, and the cottage with its accompaniment of standard roses on the other, there are the elements of a most satisfactory composition.The meadows slope down at just that angle that shows them off to the best advantage; they are dotted with fine trees and are crowned by clumps of wood, from which sounds the homely cawing of rooks. The red cows stand knee-deep in the placid water, lashing at the flies with their tails; and on the other side is a mass of greenery:

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