Famous above all English rivers is the Thames--"Old Father Thames," as
the Londoners used to call it in days when its broad stream was their
most familiar high-road. To-day the Londoner uses the motor-bus
instead of a Thames wherry; but still the great river rolls through the
great city, and on its tide a vast stream of trade flows to and from
the capital.
To write the story of the Thames would more than fill this little book,
so that we can do no more than glance at a few of the famous places on
this famous stream.
Springing in the Cotswolds, the infant Thames, first known as the Isis,
runs thirty miles eastwards to gain the meadows around Oxford. Here
the river spreads into a beautiful sheet of water at the foot of
Christchurch Meadow, and glides gently past "the City of the Dreaming
Spires."
In the summer term this stretch of the river presents a gay and busy
scene. The rowing-men are out in racing boats, skiffs, canoes, punts,
and almost every kind of boat that swims. Along the Christchurch bank
are moored the college barges, great gaily-painted structures, whence
the rowing-men put off, and where crowds of spectators gather on great
race days.
The chief boat-races at Oxford are rowed in the middle of the summer
term--the May Eights. Then the colleges struggle with each other for
the honour of being "Head of the River," the title held by the winning
eight. The boats do not race side by side, for the river is not wide
enough for that; they race in a long line, with an equal distance
between each pair of boats. When the starting-gun fires, each crew
pulls with all its might to catch the crew ahead. If one boat overlaps
another and touches it, a "bump" is made, and the bumped boat has lost
its place. Next day--for the races are held day after day for a
week--the winning boat goes up one place, and tries to catch the next
boat, and so on, until the races are over. Then the boat which has
taken or kept the head of the line is hailed as "Head of the River."
Here is an account of a bump:
"The Eights: Brilliant blue sky above, glinting blue water beneath.
Down across Christchurch meadow troops a butterfly crowd, flaunting
brilliant parasols and chattering gaily to the 'flannelled fools' who
form the escort. Despite the laughter, it is a solemn occasion, for
the college boat that is Head of the River may be going to be bumped
this afternoon, and if so, the bump will surely take place in front of
the barges. The only question is, before which barge will it happen?
When the exciting moment draws near, chatter ceases, and tense
stillness holds the crowd in thrall. The relentless pursuers creep on
steadily, narrowing the gap between themselves and the first boat, and
finally bump it exactly opposite its own barge! A moment's pause. The
completeness of the triumph is too impressive to be grasped at once;
then pandemonium--pistol-shots, rattles, hoots, yells, shrieks of joy,
wildly waving parasols, and groans."
From the river some of the most striking and beautiful pictures of
Oxford may be gained. As the stream winds and turns, the pinnacles,
spires, and domes of this most lovely city group themselves in
ever-changing combinations, and draw the eye until Oxford is lost to
view behind the lofty elms and the alders which fringe the stream.
[Illustration: BY AN ENGLISH RIVER]
Below Oxford the river runs quietly along between rich meadows which in
spring and early summer are carpeted with lovely wild-flowers, past
quaint old houses and riverside inns, under straggling and picturesque
old bridges, and ripples over fords where heavy cart-horses splash
knee-deep through the clear shining stream. Here and there are
pleasant villages on the bank, each with its old church, whose
graveyard is shaded by great yews and entered by a quaint lych-gate.
Of the larger towns on the Thames, Reading is among the most important.
But we shall not speak of the busy Reading of to-day, with its
seed-gardens and biscuit factories, but of long-ago Reading, when its
great abbey was flourishing, and its Abbot one of the chief men in
England.
Once when Henry VIII. was hunting in Windsor Forest, he lost his way,
and arrived at the Abbey of Reading about dinner-time. He concealed
his rank, and announced that he was one of the King's guard, and, in
this character, was invited to the Abbot's table. A sirloin of beef
was set on the table, and the hungry King made such play with his knife
and fork that the Abbot could not but observe it.
"Ah," said the Abbot, "I would give a hundred pounds could I but feed
on beef so heartily as you do. But my stomach is so weak that I can
scarce digest a small rabbit or a chicken."
Bluff King Hal laughed and pledged his host in wine, thanked him for
the good dinner, then went without giving any hint who he was.
A few weeks later some of the King's men came to the abbey, seized the
Abbot, and carried him off to the Tower. Here he was shut up and fed
on bread and water, and between this wretched food and his fears of the
King's displeasure the poor Abbot had a very hard time.
Then one day a fine sirloin of beef was brought into his cell, and the
famished priest leapt to the table and ate like a hungry farmer. In
sprang Henry from a private place, where he had been watching his
prisoner eat.
"Now, Sir Abbot," cried the King, "down with your hundred pounds, for
of a surety I have found your appetite for you." Whereupon the Abbot
paid up at once and went home, lighter in purse, but merry at heart to
find that the King sought his money and not his head.