CHAPTER XHENLEY REGATTA

I ...Walked forth to ease my painAlong the shore of silver streaming Thames;Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,Was painted all with variable flowers,And all the meads adorned with dainty gemsFit to deck maidens' bowers.Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.—Spenser.

I ...

Walked forth to ease my pain

Along the shore of silver streaming Thames;

Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,

Was painted all with variable flowers,

And all the meads adorned with dainty gems

Fit to deck maidens' bowers.

Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.

—Spenser.

Shiplake stands high above the flat meadows by the river bank. The little flint church, in which Tennyson was married, has a prettily buttressed tower, and around it grow many tall evergreens and waving trees. There are also some interesting old frescoes on the walls, two representing St. Christopher, who seems particularly appropriate in a river church. From the porch, down between two rows of shrubs, one can look on to the top of a mass of trees, which shuts out a bend of the silver river, and beyond them see the bluedistance, miles and miles away. Mrs. Climenson, whose book on Shiplake was privately printed, suggests that the name originated in schiff-laacken, for the story goes that when the Danes got so far, their boats stuck on the shoals, and their commander ordered them to be burnt, to prevent a possibility of retreat.

Who can ever think of Henley without its regatta? And yet Henley is very well worth thinking of at all times of the year. It is a pleasantly-built, middle-aged, red-brick town. Its history does not reach back so far as that of Abingdon or Reading. It boasts neither abbey nor cathedral. Near the esplanade above the bridge, there are one or two of the tumble-down, out-of-perpendicular style of cottages, which invariably add so much to a river scene; but the mainpart of the town, which is, of course, of red brick, has a homely air of the seventeenth century about it. The solid and stately Red Lion Hotel, close to the bridge, is one of the most historic houses in the place. Charles I. stayed here in 1632, when, after severe dissensions, he was trying the method of ruling England without a Parliament, and when the terrible fate that was to befall him had not yet "cast its shadow before." It is doubtful if he paid his bills, for he was in chronic want of money; but he left a memento behind him which has more than repaid the hotel, for it forms a perennial source of interest. This is a large fresco painting of the royal monogram and coat of arms over one of the mantelpieces, and from the date it is evident it was done at the time of this visit. It was not discovered till 1889, having probably been hastily concealed during the troublous days of Cromwell's ascendency. Being on one of the principal coaching roads, Henley received more than its share of celebrated visitors. On July the 12th, 1788, George III., with the Queen and three of his daughters, had breakfast at the Red Lion; George IV. once dined here; and the celebrated Duke of Marlborough regularly kept a room herethat he might use it in his journeys from Blenheim; his bed is still preserved. After these associations, that of Shenstone, who wrote a poem with a diamond on a window-pane, comes as an anticlimax. The poem begins:

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire,From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;Nor art thou found in mansions higherThan the low cott or humble inn.

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire,

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cott or humble inn.

And the last verse, which is often quoted, runs:

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,Whate'er his stages may have been,May sigh to think he still has foundThe warmest welcome at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,

Whate'er his stages may have been,

May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.

In summer the red brick of the hotel is almost hidden by the creepers which embrace it; especially noticeable is the glorious wistaria, most lovely of all the climbing plants.

RED LION HOTEL, HENLEY

The bridge was built in 1786, and is of stone. The keystones of the central arch are adorned with sculptured masks of Thame and Isis. They were the work of Mrs. Damer, a cousin of Horace Walpole's, and as such falling within the limits of the great man's kindly appreciation. Behind the hotel and well seen from the bridge, is the church, with its four corner pinnacles.

At the time of the regatta, and for some weeksbefore, it is impossible to get accommodation in the town anywhere. Of all the river regattas Henley is by far the greatest, and comes even before the Boat Race in the estimation of some people. The races used to end at the bridge, and so the lawn of the Red Lion was in the position of a favoured grand-stand, but now the winning post is a quarter of a mile short of this, opposite the last villa on the left bank. The starting point is near Temple or Regatta Island, and the reach certainly makes a fine one for the purpose. The course is railed off by piles and booms, and all the hundreds of craft which gather to the scene have to cram themselves in somehow, so as not to cause obstruction. It is well not to select an outrigged boat for such an occasion. The best and most commonly seen craft are punts, worked by means of canoe paddles; for the punts are too solid to collapse easily in the pressure that may be put upon them, and the paddles, requiring little room to work, are less dangerous to one's neighbours than poles. But all kinds of skiffs and canoes appear, and some are even bold enough to tempt fate in Canadian canoes. On a brilliant day, when the light sparkles on the water, and there is enough wind to set the pennons and streamers flying, the sceneis undeniably gay and pretty. All the luncheon tents on the green lawns near form a bright adjunct. Salter and Talboys, from Oxford, and other boat-builders, have landing-stages for the week, and the various clubs entertain largely. Chief among these is the Leander, whose fine club-house is on the right bank not far from the bridge; it also has a lawn further down. Not far off are the grand-stand, the Grosvenor, and the New Oxford and Cambridge Clubs, and one large lawn is taken as a clublandpied-à-terrefor the use of any members of London clubs in general. But beside these there are the Isthmian, Sports, and Bath Clubs on the left bank, and Phyllis Court, with smooth lawns; and then a long line of house-boats begins, continuing past Fawley Court on to Temple Island, with just one break for the lawns of the Court. Bands play, luncheons are consumed, flags flutter; everyone is gay and lively, and the scene is one that can hardly be described justly in mere word painting. At noon the first race is rowed. A bell is rung to clear the course. All sorts of boats and canoes have slipped out between the openings left for them, and they must hurry back and crush into the already tightly wedged mass; in a moment everything else isforgotten in the excitement of the special event. On the last evening of the regatta there is a grand firework display and a procession of illuminated boats; and, as may very well be guessed, the real success of Henley depends greatly upon the weather, which, even in the first week of July, when it takes place, is not always kind.

HENLEY REGATTA

As we have said, the surroundings of Henley are of a sort to attract attention, even without the additional glories of the regatta. Above the bridge is a long ait, and high on the right bank rise the woods of Park Place. Here the brilliant green of the beeches is diversified by the dark blue-greens of fir and cedar. The Place was once the residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and the grounds were greatly improved by Field-Marshal Conway, a cousin of Horace Walpole. A long glade is cut through the wood. It runs under a bridge made of blocks of stone taken from Reading Abbey, and over this passes the road. From the river a peep of the striking vista can be had. Higher up again is Marsh Lock.

HAMBLEDEN

But the influence of Henley extends down as well as up the river. Phyllis and Fawley Courts both at one time belonged to Bulstrode Whitelocke. Fawley was wrecked very early in thecivil wars; but Phyllis was strongly fortified, and some of the earthworks may still be seen. Henley was a Parliamentarian stronghold, and was annoyed by the neighbourhood of plucky little Greenlands at Hambleden, which, "for a little fort, was made very strong for the King."

It belonged in the time of the Stuarts to Sir Cope d'Oyley, who was a staunch Royalist. When he died his eldest son held Greenlands for the King, and his house was battered by the cannon of the Parliamentarians from across the water. In the nineteenth century the Rt. Hon. W. H. Smith lived here, and his widow took from the village the title he himself never lived to enjoy. In Hambleden also there is a fine old manor house, and some of the clipped yews in the gardens of private houses are very remarkable. High above the place rise the woods near Fingest and Stokenchurch. The weirs at Hambleden are the most attractive on the river. Long curved bridges run across them from shore to shore, and are open to the public as a right-of-way. The curves strike off at different angles, and every moment the point of view changes. Whether we are passing over tumbling weirs, where the water glides across long mossy planes, or over sluice-gates where it burststhrough, the enchantment is the same. Flags and tall yellow irises and the greenest of green tufts grow in the water and about the foundations of the bridges. Looking back at the mill, we see it reflected in the calm, deep water above the weirs as in a polished looking-glass. There are old cedars and red-roofed cottages, and plenty of Scotch firs and yew hedges in the background. Away up the river is the white mass of Greenlands with its pierced look-out tower.

One of the greatest calumnies I ever heard expressed was the remark, "What, writing a book about the river! Why, the river is all alike, isn't it?" It is true that many reaches of the river are so exceedingly attractive that there is a danger of applying the adjectives "pretty" and "beautiful" and "charming" to many of them, but the sameness is not in the reaches, it is in the poverty of one's own language. What can be more different,for instance, than the river about Maidenhead and the river above Marlow? Yet both are delightful. The patrons of the Maidenhead part no doubt outnumber those of Bisham and Hurley, but that is because Maidenhead is one of the most accessible places on the river. The station at Marlow is on a branch, and many a weary hour must be spent waiting, if one is dependent on trains. This is the only station for Hurley and Bisham, unless we go on equally far in the other direction to Henley. However, this is one of the reasons why the Marlow section is preferable to the Maidenhead one—when you do get there.

Great Marlow itself is a fairly important place for a riverside village. It is like a little country town, and though many new red-brick villas are springing up, it could not be called "residential" in the way that the word could be applied to Richmond, for instance. The ground plan is very simple. One wide street runs straight down to the bridge, and another street crosses it at the top. In the latter is to be found Marlow's chief literary association, for here still stands the cottage where Shelley lived. It is marked by a tablet, and is a low, long building, creeper-covered, and is now divided into several cottages. Here he wroteThe Revolt of IslamandAlastor, or the Spirit of Solitude.

GENERAL VIEW OF MARLOW

Down by the water side the whole aspect of Marlow is bright and open. It must be entirely different from the older Marlow, when the wooden bridge—which crossed the river lower down than the present one—and the old church were still in existence. At present, in the summer all is gay and clean looking. The suspension bridge, which is the best of the modern sort of bridges from an artist's point of view, is rather low over the water; standing on it one can look right down on to the green lawn of the Compleat Angler Hotel, and see the many-coloured muslins, the white flannels, the gay cushions, the awnings, and the sunshades, as if they were all a gigantic flower bed. The red hotel itself is from this point caught against the background of the Quarry Woods. Opposite to it is the very green strip of the churchyard coming right down to the edge of the river, and only separated from it by a low stone parapet: weeping willows fling their green spray out over the water, and behind is the church. It is undeniable that the materials used in the church are distinctly ugly, but the steeple goes some way towards redeeming it,and if it can be seen silhouetted, so that the materials are lost in dimness, and only the outlines are apparent, it becomes at once more than passable. Spires are not common in Thames-side churches, which are far more often capped by rather low battlemented towers.

One of the glories of Marlow is its weir. It runs in a great semicircular sweep below the hotel; and, from a terrace there, one can look right down into the swirling water; or by coming up the backwater below in a boat, one can land at the hotel without facing the lock at all, a great advantage. The weir is in several planes, and the extended flood makes a perpetual wash, rising to a roar in winter, and dwindling to the merest tinkle in summer. Marlow is distinctly a summer place: its openness, its many trees, its wide reach of water, and the splash of the weir are all summer accompaniments; and in winter, when the wind sweeps down from the south, the unprotected side, and the water hisses and bubbles in its struggle to get down to lower levels, it is weird and melancholy.

QUARRY WOODS

The lock channel is fringed by several islets, and there is the usual mill, and a pretty wooden foot-bridge. Several of the most graceful ofour trees, the dainty silver birch, stand near the mill. On some of the lower islands osiers grow, and there are one or two neat boat-houses. Wide meadows fringe the river below; and eastward—the bridge lies due north and south—are the famous Quarry Woods, held by many to be superior even to the Clieveden Woods. In some points they are, and not the least of these is that they are traversed by several roads, while those at Clieveden are kept strictly private. The woods are composed almost wholly of beech, the tree that loves the chalk, here so abundant, and only a few patches of larch may be seen in clumps among them. Beginning at the water's edge, rising above the curious white castle with harled walls called Quarry Hill, now to let, the woods continue in a straight line inland, getting further and further from the river as they go. It is difficult to say at what season of the year they are the most beautiful. In early spring, before the buds burst, if looked at in the mass, there is to be seen a kind of purple bloom made by the myriad buds, which is not found in any mixed woods. In spring the buds burst out into that tender indescribable green, like nothing else in the world, and the new-born leaves,suspended from their dark and almost invisible twigs, are for all the world like fronds of giant maidenhair. In the autumn the whole ground is one blaze of rich burnt-sienna, a carpet of leaves laid so industriously that not a speck of the bare brown earth appears; and from this rise the stems smooth and straight, lichen-covered every one, and thus transformed to brilliant emerald. Where the light strikes through the rapidly thinning branches, they have the very glow of the stones themselves. It is an enchanted wood, and at any moment a wizard might peep out from behind one of those magic trunks.

BISHAM CHURCH

The woods alone would be sufficient to give Marlow a high rank among river places. But all this is below the bridge, and above there is much to see. Not far off, on the right bank of the river, is Bisham, a tiny village with its church and abbey, now a dwelling house. The whole of Bisham is well worth lingering over. The cottages stand along the road in straggling fashion, old and new, and some of the gardens are bright with homely, sweet-scented flowers, among which, stocks and sweet-williams seem to be the favourites in the summer. One tumble-down row, rather off the road, is a mass of honeysuckle, androses and ivy. The little church stands so near to the margin of the river that not a dozen yards separate its tower from the flood. A low moss-grown stone parapet edges the churchyard; over this elms dip their crooked boughs in a vain endeavour to touch the ripples as they spring playfully upward, driven by the wind. The little church has a square stone tower, wonderfully softened, so that it looks as if it must fray to powder at a touch. The brick battlements are a later addition, but the gentle river air has breathed on them so that they tone in harmoniously. Some of the windows are transition Norman. For ages the little church has stood there looking out across the water to the green flat meadows, and though it has been rebuilt and altered, there is much of it that is fairly ancient. The Hoby chapel was built about 1600, by the disconsolate widow of Sir Thomas Hoby, Ambassador to France; in it are several fine tombs, and on that of Sir Thomas, his lady, who was learned, as it was the fashion for great ladies to be in her time, wrote long inscriptions in Latin and Greek and English; the last of which ends up with:

"Give me, O God, a husband like unto Thomas,Or else restore me to my husband Thomas!"

"Give me, O God, a husband like unto Thomas,

Or else restore me to my husband Thomas!"

Eight years later she married again, so that she had presumably found a husband "like unto Thomas." The Hoby window in this chapel, with its coat of arms, is especially interesting, and when the morning sun streams through in tones of purple and gold upon the worn stones, the effect is striking.

There are one or two good brasses in the church, and a small monument to two children who are traditionally said to have owned Queen Elizabeth as mother!

HURLEY BACKWATER

From the reign of Edward VI. to 1780 the Hoby family held the abbey, and then it was bought by the ancestors of the present owner. It is a splendid group of masonry, and stands very effectively near the river. The tall tower, the oriel windows, and the red tints against the fine mass of greenery, make a very unusual picture. Bisham at one time belonged to the Knights Templars, who founded here a preceptory. But their Order was dissolved in the reign of Edward II. In 1338 the Earl of Salisbury established here a priory for Augustinian monks. This was twice surrendered, having been re-established after the first time. It is rather curious that the last prior, being permitted by the tenets of the ReformedChurch to marry, became the father of five daughters, each of whom married a bishop; while he himself was Bishop of St. Davids. Poor Anne of Cleves was presented with the abbey by her sometime husband the King, who, however, died before the gift was confirmed. She was allowed to retain it, and from her it passed to the Hobys as aforesaid. The house has therefore a long history, and much of the fabric is very old. One of the oldest parts is the fine entrance gateway, dating from the reign of King Stephen. The great hall is supposed to have been at one time the church of the abbey. As three Earls of Salisbury, the great "King Maker" Warwick, and Edward Plantagenet, unhappy son of an unhappy father, were all buried in the abbey church, there is every reason to suppose that their bones lie beneath the pavement in the hall.

During Queen Mary's reign Princess Elizabeth was a prisoner at Bisham under the charge of Sir Thomas Hoby. No doubt she "took water" frequently, and glided gently down with the stream; for people were accustomed to use their river when there were no roads to speak of. She must often have gazed upon the Quarry Woods in all theirflaming splendour of autumn, but the Marlow she knew is so different from our Marlow we can hardly otherwise picture it. Several alterations were made at the abbey while Elizabeth was there, such as the construction of a dais, and a large window; small points, which show, however, that she was treated with all due respect. And she herself has left it on record that she received kindness and courtesy from her enforced hosts. These alterations were followed subsequently, in her own reign, by the rebuilding of much of the abbey, which was then made as we now see it.

BISHAM ABBEY

It is inevitable that such a historic house should have a tradition or two attached to it; and traditions are not lacking. It is said that the ghost of someone drowned in the river rises at times in the form of a mist, and spreads all across the channel, and woe be to anyone who attempts to penetrate it. Another tale is that the house is haunted by a certain Lady Hoby, who beat her little boy to death because he could not write without blots. She goes about wringing her hands and trying to cleanse them from indelible inkstains. The story has probably some foundation, for a number of copybooks of the age of Elizabeth were discovered behind one of the shutters during somelater alterations, and one of these was deluged in every line with blots. We all know that great severity was exercised by parents with their children at that time; even Lady Jane Grey had to undergo "pinches, nips, and bobs," until she thought herself "in hell," while with her parents, and the story, if not the ghost, may safely be accepted.

Another tradition tells of an elopement. One of the Earls of Salisbury, about to set out for the Holy Land, sent for his daughter, who was a nun at the convent of Little Marlow, to bid him farewell. She came to him at Bisham, and while there was persuaded by one of the squires to elope with him. The pair crossed the water, but were almost immediately captured. The girl was presumably returned to her nunnery, where her escapade would give her something to think of during all the monotonous days that followed, and the man was imprisoned at Bisham. In attempting to make his escape he fell from a high window and was badly injured. It is said that he afterwards took the vows and became a monk.

Temple Mill and House and Lock, which come next to Bisham up the river, recall the possession of the Knights Templars. This and Hurley Lockare the two nearest together of all on the river, and experienced oarsmen frequently catch the second one by making a dash on high days and holidays when there is likely to be a crowd and consequent delay.

Interesting as Bisham is, it is rivalled by Hurley, with its remains of the fine old mansion Lady Place.

In order to reach the lock one passes under a high wooden foot-bridge, "the marrow" to one further up. On the lock island is a large red-brick mill-house, near which stand one or two evergreens; while on an apple tree in the lock-keeper's garden is a fine growth of mistletoe, of which he is justly proud. Mistletoe grows a good deal in the valley of the Thames. It is not as a rule easily seen, owing to the foliage of the trees on which it grows; but in the winter, across the frozen meadows, against the cold white sky, it may be seen in great tufts that look like giant nests.

It is supposed that the seeds of the mistletoe in order to become fruitful must pass through the body of the missel thrush, which is extremely partial to them, and seems to be almost the only bird that will touch them, hence its name; and if, as is conjectured, the seeds cannot germinate without this process, we have the phenomenonof an animal forming the "host" for a vegetable parasite.

Beyond the lock there is a sheltered channel with the quaintest old-world flavour about it, a flavour which grows yearly more and more difficult to find as it melts away before the onward sweep of the advertising age. A strip of green turf is lined by an old brick wall with lichen and moss growing on its coping, so that when the sun catches it, it is like a ribbon of gold. Tall gate piers, crowned by stone balls, frame a bit of the excellently kept velvet lawns of Lady Place. There are many of these old piers and balls, and nearly all are overgrown with roses.

Look to the blowing rose about us—'Lo,Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,At once the silken tassel of my purseTear, and its treasures on the garden throw.'—Fitzgerald's Omar Khayyam.

Look to the blowing rose about us—'Lo,Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,At once the silken tassel of my purseTear, and its treasures on the garden throw.'

Look to the blowing rose about us—'Lo,

Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,

At once the silken tassel of my purse

Tear, and its treasures on the garden throw.'

—Fitzgerald's Omar Khayyam.

The splendid cedars, themselves a guarantee of age that no modern Midas can summon to deck the grounds of his new mansion; the tinkle of a cowbell from the meadow near; and the Decorated windows of Lady Place peering over the wall; all add to the impression made by the whole. The abbey was founded in 1086 for Benedictine monks. It is interesting to note what a very great attractionwater always held for monks; doubtless the necessity for Friday fish was one reason for this; but one likes to think that they also loved the river for its own sake, and that they found in the current the same sort of fascination which it holds for us now. It may be also that it was the constant gliding of the water, an emblem of their own smoothly running lives, that drew them so strongly:

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,O Thames! that other bards may seeAs lovely visions by thy sideAs now, fair river! come to me.O glide, fair stream, for ever so,Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,Till all our minds for ever flowAs thy deep waters now are flowing.How calm! how still! the only sound,The dripping of the oar suspended!The evening darkness gathers roundBy virtue's holiest powers attended.—Wordsworth.

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that other bards may see

As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river! come to me.

O glide, fair stream, for ever so,

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,

Till all our minds for ever flow

As thy deep waters now are flowing.

How calm! how still! the only sound,The dripping of the oar suspended!The evening darkness gathers roundBy virtue's holiest powers attended.

How calm! how still! the only sound,

The dripping of the oar suspended!

The evening darkness gathers round

By virtue's holiest powers attended.

—Wordsworth.

Of this abbey not much remains. The crypt is isolated, standing away from the remainder of the buildings, and anyone may penetrate into it. The old moat is excellently well preserved, and its circuit shows that the abbey premises must have extended over at least five acres of ground. Thechurch, which is now the parish church, is an odd little building. It has a single aisle, and the original work is Norman, though it has been much modernised. It forms part of a courtyard or quadrangle, and faces a large, barn-like structure, which was the refectory; in parts this is also Norman, and in it are the Decorated windows. The materials used in the construction of this refectory are most curious—brick, chalk, flint, any sort of rubble, all mixed together, and very solid. The stable is built in the same way, and it is amazing that such heterogeneous stuff should have stood the test of time. Not far off also is a dove-house of a very ancient pattern. The interior, with its cavernous gloom and the numerous holes in the chalk for the birds to nest in, is well worth looking into. Indeed, the whole of this side of the buildings—away from the river—is worth landing to see. It is all within a very few yards, and once past the modern house we find the little church with its old-fashioned wooden tower, the green with its well-grown elms, and the dove-house and stable, which combine to form a very unusual scene altogether.

Sir Richard Lovelace, created Baron Lovelace by Charles I., built Lady Place on the site of theabbey in 1600. He was a relative of the Cavalier poet of the same name.

In Macaulay's history there is an account of Lady Place, given graphically as he well knew how. He is speaking of a descendant of the founder, and he says:

"His mansion, built by his ancestors out of the spoils of the Spanish galleons from the Indies, rose on the ruins of a house of Our Lady in that beautiful valley, through which the Thames, not yet defiled by the precincts of a great capital, nor rising and falling with the flow and ebb of the sea, rolls under woods of beech round the gentle hills of Berkshire. Beneath the stately saloon, adorned by Italian pencils, was a subterraneous vault in which the bones of ancient monks had sometimes been found."

The third Lord Lovelace plotted for the coming of William of Orange, and in the crypt many a secret meeting was held to arrange the details. It is said that the actual invitation which brought the Dutchman over was signed in this low, dark vault.

Lady Place later belonged to a brother of Admiral Kempenfelt, who went down with theRoyal George.

Certain places are frequently associated with certain seasons of the year, and to my mind at Hurley it is always summer. The smell of the new mown hay on the long island between the lock channel and part of the main stream, the faint, delicate scent of dog-roses, and all the other scents that load the summer air, seem to linger for ever in this sheltered place. The backwater running up on the other side of this island to the weir is a very enticing one. Thirsty plants dip their pretty heads to drink of the water that comes swirling from the weir like frosted glass, and trees of all sorts—ash, elm, horse-chestnut, and the ubiquitous willows and poplars—lean over the water in crooked elbows, giving a sweet shade and a delicious coolness. The weir is a long one, broken by islands into three parts. Another long island is parallel to the first one. Indeed, Hurley is a complicated place, and one that is ever new. The swans certainly appreciate it. Drayton says "Our flood's queen, Thames, with ships and swans is crowned." I don't know about the ships; nothing very large can get above Molesey Lock; but as for the swans they abound, and especially about here.

The swans on the river belong to the Crown,the Vintners' and the Dyers' Companies. The grant of this privilege to the companies goes back so far that it is lost in the mists of antiquity. The Crown is far the largest holder, but as the numbers of swans, of course, vary from year to year, it is difficult to form an estimate of the total. The Vintners, who come next, own perhaps 150. They preserve only those that live below Marsh Lock, with the exception of a few black ones, which, contrary to expectation, have thriven very well, and find a happy hunting ground about Goring and Moulsford. The system of marking, called swan-upping, has been modified of late years, as a protest was made against it on the ground of cruelty. Before that time the Vintners marked their swans with a large V right across the upper mandible, but now they give only two little nicks, one on each side. From this comes the well-known sign of old yards and public-houses, the Swan with Two Necks, a corruption of nicks! The Dyers have a nick on one side only. The origin and variety of swan marks is a curious subject. The process of swan-upping, or as it is often incorrectly called, swan-hopping, gives an occasion for a pleasant excursion, as it occurs about a fortnight before the August Bank-Holiday, in the veryheight of the summer. Only the birds of the current year are done, as the marks generally last for life, and though they are accustomed to see too many people to fear mankind, the handling naturally frightens them. The swans, as a rule, find their own living, grubbing about in the banks and on the river bottom, and they are also occasionally fed from house-boats and pleasure boats, but in winter sometimes they are hard put to it, and provision has to be made by their owners.

A swan exercises on me something of the same fascination that a camel does; though far be it from me to compare the two in grace. They are both full of character, and both preserve a strictly critical attitude toward the human race. In the case of the swan, nature has perhaps dealt unfairly with him, for the curious little black cap, at the junction of bill and head, technically known as the "berry," gives him a fixed expression which he has no power to alter, even if he felt beaming with good humour. As it is, he is condemned to go through life as if he momentarily expected an attack upon his dignity and was prepared to repel it. When the sun is shining and the swan dips his long neck in the water and flings it upon his shoulders, the large, glistening drops, runningtogether on the oily surface, lie like a necklet of diamonds in the hollow of his back.

The irises and bur-reeds line the low banks above the weir, and a line of short black poplars give some shade.

And on by many a level mead,And shadowing bluffs that made the banks,We glided, winding under ranksOf iris and the golden reed.—Tennyson.

And on by many a level mead,And shadowing bluffs that made the banks,We glided, winding under ranksOf iris and the golden reed.

And on by many a level mead,

And shadowing bluffs that made the banks,

We glided, winding under ranks

Of iris and the golden reed.

—Tennyson.

I have said that Hurley is a summer place, and so it is; but there is one spring beauty which those who know it only in summer must for ever miss. On the slopes where the heights on the northern side fold into one another there is a little pillared temple, and about and around it some lavish and generous person has planted crocuses in big battalions, and they lie there in the sun, royal in purple and gold, and quite as rich in tint as those lights shining through the stained glass window at Bisham we saw a while ago.

Above the next stretch of the river stands the great modern palace of Danesfield, which is built of chalk, one would imagine a singularly unlasting material. Though hidden by trees from directly beneath, from a distance it is very noticeable, andthe white walls gleam out beneath the red tiles in a way that cannot be overlooked. It is well thus to have used local material, for local it is, as can be seen by the great chalk cliffs that line the river side; and the idea is daring and original. The interior fittings are worthy of any palace, and no pains and cost has been spared. It is a worthy object to build a house which shall rank with those bygone mansions on which their owners so lovingly lavished their thought and time, and which have also so frequently disappeared. The name arises from the fact of there having been a Danish camp in the neighbourhood, and the place is still pointed out. After this there is rather a flat bit of meadow land, fringed with sedge and many a gay plant, growing gallantly in blue and mauve. We pass two reedy islands opposite a line of little houses called Frogmill, and then we see Medmenham Abbey, which looks more imposing than it is, being at the best a carefully composed ruin. However, sometimes these compositions, if artistically done, are worth having, and Medmenham has memories behind it. It was once a real abbey, founded for Cistercian monks in 1200. But after the Dissolution the buildings fell into ruin. Later they became the headquarters of the daring andimpious club known as the "Hell Fire" Club, of which one of the leading spirits was Sir Francis Dashwood, afterwards Lord Le Despencer, the same who built the church at West Wycombe, only a few miles away as the crow flies. This is a church where the pulpit and reading desk are armchairs; the latter stands on a chest of drawers, which, being pulled out, serve as steps. On the tower of the church an immense ball like a gigantic football is tethered by chains. This can contain twelve people, and the mad lord held meetings here with his friends. The motto of his club wasFay ce que voudras, and the members went as near to devil worship as they dared. Once while they were at Medmenham someone let a huge ape down the chimney, when the revellers, worked up to a frantic pitch of excitement and more than half drunk, thought that his Satanic majesty had paid them a visit in good earnest. From such orgies Medmenham has long been free, and it is now a respectable dwelling house with a nice bit of cloister over which ivy hangs in folds, and to which the word "picturesque" may quite fitly be applied.

There is a ferry over the river at Medmenham, and, not far off, the old Abbey Hotel, in which numbers of artists stay. Up the green lane is acurious old house, once the residence of Sir John Borlase, whom Charles II. used to visit, riding here on horseback, accompanied frequently, so it is said, by Nell Gwynne. Standing by the high road, which here is not half a mile from the river, is a quaint little church with wooden porch and shady evergreens, a very model of what a tiny village church should be.

Human beings are by nature sociable; and to state that a crowd of well-dressed people will be at a certain point of the river at a particular date, is to ensure that everyone else who possibly can will be there too—only better dressed. It would seem to the ordinary ungregarious bachelor that Boulter's Lock, the Sunday after Ascot, would be a place to avoid, for there will be the necessity of waiting for hours on a river—grilling in the sun ifthe day be fine, or shivering if the day be cloudy; for the English climate never lacks the spice of uncertainty, and at this season of the year it is more capricious than usual. The middle of June is proverbially a time of roses, but it is just as likely to be a time for chills, at least so says the pessimist. To the optimist and he who "loves his fellow-men," Boulter's Lock, on this one day of the year, reveals itself to memory as a day of delight and flashing colour; he has only to shut his eyes to recall a scene as brilliant as a flower garden. Here, close to him, lies a long, flat-bottomed punt, with gay cushions on which lean two fair girls, their faces toned to a pink glow by the sun's rays penetrating gently through their rose-pink sunshades. Their large flapping hats are tied under their chins with huge bows of ribbon as pink as their cheeks; their soft, white muslin dresses lie in folds and frills and heaps bewildering to contemplate; they are exactly, exasperatingly, absurdly alike. "How can a woman be such an idiot as to duplicate her charms?" the onlooker exclaims to himself; but he looks again. Dark eyes dancing as merrily as the ripples on the breeze-stirred water; chatter and laugh; and babble as soft and meaningless as the gurgle of the little tributarystream; textures of fabric as delicate as the flowers peeping over the grey stone walls from the lock-keeper's garden above; dainty arms bare to the elbow; Japanese umbrellas jewelled in the sunlight; striped awnings, as gay as Joseph's coat, flapping softly; the long low outlines of craft of every kind, skiff and dingey and canoe, from the smoothly gliding little electric launch to the heavy clinker-built boat on hire for its tenth season; these items make up a scene quite unlike anything else. For half a mile below the lock you could step across a solid bridge of boats over half the river. Some years ago, the homely serge and sailor straw-hat were considered the proper river costume; now, the straw is worn only by men, whose severe flannels show little alteration from year to year, for men are much more conservative in sartorial matters than women. And every tantalising muslin, lace, and flower-decked hat is considered suitable for a woman on the river. The more fantastic and enormous, the more gauzy and lace-trimmed, the better. And, as her grandmother did, the young girl dresses in the thinnest of muslins and lawns, wears an open neck in the day time, and elbow sleeves.

BOULTER'S LOCK, ASCOT SUNDAY

In pushing forward between the open lock-gates into the lock, a slender canoe fits into an almostimpossible space between the electric launch and the punt. A heavily weighted boatload, where four elderly women are rowed by one heated man, falls foul of its neighbour and has to be righted. The chatter is silenced for a moment, but rises again when the craft are fitted, like the pieces in an old fashioned puzzle, inside the green and slimy walls, which throw a deep shadow on one side. Then the gates are shut, and a wash and gurgle of water begins, delightfully cool to hear. A nervous girl gives a little shriek and jumps so that every boat is set a-rocking, as all are touching. Others laugh. It is impossible to upset, for there is no room. The whole gently swaying mass rises on the breast of the rising water up out of the shadow into the sunlight; into the view of the waiting crowds on the tow-path. Colours flash out once more; an excited little dog rushes yapping from stem to stern of his boat, and finally, with a vigorous jump, lands on the lock-keeper's garden, where there is a profusion of sweet old-fashioned flowers, and such roses as grow nowhere but by the river-side. Then, to the accompaniment of the dog's frantic barks, the massive gates creak backward on their hinges, and we ride forward into the wide expanse of the sparkling river.Only a few boats await the opening of the lock here, for, at this time of day, more are going up than coming down. But behind, away below the lock, a chaotic flotilla has once more collected, and may have to wait for hours, for it is rather like the process of ladling the river up in a tablespoon.

BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK

This reach at Maidenhead, is one of the most popular on the river. On each side of the wide stone bridge half a mile below the lock, Taplow and Maidenhead face one another. But though popular and easy of access, being on the Great Western Railway, which runs quick trains at frequent intervals, both stations are a little distance from the river. The name Maidenhead is derived from Maiden-hithe, or wharf, as a large wharf for wood at one time stood near the bridge. The bridge itself, though a modern fabric, is of ancient lineage, for we know that in 1352 a guild was formed for the purpose of keeping it in repair. It may be remembered that bridges at that time were considered works of charity, and competed with masses and alms as a means of doing good posthumously.

Another blissed besines is brigges to make,That there the pepul may not passe [die] after great showres,Dole it is to drawe a deed body oute of a lake,That was fulled in a fount-stoon, and a felow of ours.

Another blissed besines is brigges to make,

That there the pepul may not passe [die] after great showres,

Dole it is to drawe a deed body oute of a lake,

That was fulled in a fount-stoon, and a felow of ours.

And inPiers Plowman:

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