Oatlands Park (between Weybridge and Walton-upon-Thames) was once the
property of the Duke of York, but now the lordly manor-house is a hotel.
The grounds about it are well preserved and very picturesque. They
should look well, for they cover a vast and wasted fortune. There is,
for instance, a grotto which cost forty thousand pounds. It is one of
those wretched and tasteless masses of silly rock-rococo work which were
so much admired at the beginning of the present century, when sham ruins
and sham caverns were preferred to real. There is, also, close by the
grotto, a dogs' burial-ground, in which more than a hundred animals, the
favorites of the late duchess, lie buried. Over each is a tombstone,
inscribed with a rhyming epitaph, written by the titled lady herself, and
which is in sober sadness in every instance doggerel, as befits the
subject. In order to degrade the associations of religion and church
rites as effectually as possible, there is attached to these graves the
semblance of a ruined chapel, the stained-glass window of which was taken
from a church. {97} I confess that I could never see either grotto or
grave-yard without sincerely wishing, out of regard to the memory of both
duke and duchess, that these ridiculous relics of vulgar taste and
affected sentimentalism could be completely obliterated. But, apart from
them, the scenes around are very beautiful; for there are grassy slopes
and pleasant lawns, ancient trees and broad gravel walks, over which, as
the dry leaves fall on the crisp sunny morning, the feet are tempted to
walk on and on, all through the merry golden autumn day.
The neighborhood abounds in memories of olden time. Near Oatlands is a
modernized house, in which Henry the Eighth lived in his youth. It
belonged then to Cardinal Wolsey; now it is owned by Mr. Lindsay,--a
sufficient cause for wits calling it Lindsay-Wolsey, that being also a
"fabric." Within an hour's walk is the palace built by Cardinal Wolsey,
while over the river, and visible from the portico, is the little old
Gothic church of Shepperton, and in the same view, to the right, is the
old Walton Bridge, by Cowie Stakes, supposed to cover the exact spot
where Caesar crossed. This has been denied by many, but I know that the
field adjacent to it abounds in ancient British jars filled with burned
bones, the relics of an ancient battle,--probably that which legend
states was fought on the neighboring Battle Island. Stout-hearted Queen
Bessy has also left her mark on this neighborhood, for within a mile is
the old Saxon-towered church of Walton, in which the royal dame was asked
for her opinion of the sacrament when it was given to her, to which she
replied:--
"Christ was the Word who spake it,
He took the bread and brake it;
And what that Word did make it,
That I believe, and take it."
In memory of this the lines were inscribed on the massy Norman pillar by
which she stood. From the style and cutting it is evident that the
inscription dates from the reign of Elizabeth. And very near Oatlands,
in fact on the grounds, there are two ancient yew-trees, several hundred
yards apart. The story runs that Queen Elizabeth once drew a long bow
and shot an arrow so far that, to commemorate the deed, one of these
trees was planted where she stood, and the other where the shaft fell.
All England is a museum of touching or quaint relics; to me one of its
most interesting cabinets is this of the neighborhood of Weybridge and
Walton-upon-Thames.
I once lived for eight months at Oatlands Park, and learned to know the
neighborhood well. I had many friends among the families in the
vicinity, and, guided by their advice, wandered to every old church and
manor-house, ruin and haunted rock, fairy-oak, tower, palace, or shrine
within a day's ramble. But there was one afternoon walk of four miles,
round by the river, which I seldom missed. It led by a spot on the bank,
and an old willow-tree near the bridge, which spot was greatly haunted by
the Romany, so that, excepting during the hopping-season of autumn, when
they were away in Kent, I seldom failed to see from afar a light rising
smoke, and near it a tent and a van, as the evening shadows blended with
the mist from the river in phantom union.
It is a common part of gypsy life that the father shall be away all day,
lounging about the next village, possibly in the _kitchema_ or ale-house,
or trying to trade a horse, while the wife trudges over the country, from
one farm-house or cottage to another, loaded with baskets, household
utensils, toys, or cheap ornaments, which she endeavors, like a true
Autolyca, with wily arts and wheedling tones, to sell to the rustics.
When it can be managed, this hawking is often an introduction to
fortune-telling, and if these fail the gypsy has recourse to begging.
But it is a weary life, and the poor _dye_ is always glad enough to get
home. During the day the children have been left to look out for
themselves or to the care of the eldest, and have tumbled about the van,
rolled around with the dog, and fought or frolicked as they chose. But
though their parents often have a stock of cheap toys, especially of
penny dolls and the like, which they put up as prizes for games at races
and fairs, I have never seen these children with playthings. The little
girls have no dolls; the boys, indeed, affect whips, as becomes incipient
jockeys, but on the whole they never seemed to me to have the same ideas
as to play as ordinary house-children. The author of "My Indian Garden"
has made the same observation of Hindoo little ones, whose ways are not
as our ways were when we were young. Roman and Egyptian children had
their dolls; and there is something sadly sweet to me in the sight of
these barbarous and naive facsimiles of miniature humanity, which come up
like little spectres out of the dust of ancient days. They are so rude
and queer, these Roman puppets; and yet they were loved once, and had pet
names, and their owl-like faces were as tenderly kissed as their little
mistresses had been by their mothers. So the Romany girl, unlike the
Roman, is generally doll-less and toy-less. But the affection between
mother and child is as warm among these wanderers as with any other
people; and it is a touching sight to see the gypsy who has been absent
all the weary day returning home. And when she is seen from afar off
there is a race among all the little dark-brown things to run to mother
and get kissed, and cluster and scramble around her, and perhaps receive
some little gift which mother's thoughtful love has provided. Knowing
these customs, I was wont to fill my pockets with chestnuts or oranges,
and, distributing them among the little ones, talk with them, and await
the sunset return of their parents. The confidence or love of all
children is delightful; but that of gypsy children resembles the
friendship of young foxes, and the study of their artless-artful ways is
indeed attractive. I can remember that one afternoon six small Romany
boys implored me to give them each a penny. I replied,--
"If I had sixpence, how would you divide it?"
"That would be a penny apiece," said the eldest boy.
"And if threepence?"
"A ha'penny apiece."
"And three ha'pence?"
"A farden all round. And then it couldn't go no furder, unless we bought
tobacco an' diwided it."
"Well, I have some tobacco. But can any of you smoke?"
They were from four to ten years of age, and at the word every one pulled
out the stump of a blackened pipe,--such depraved-looking fragments I
never saw,--and holding them all up, and crowding closely around, like
hungry poultry with uplifted bills, they began to clamor for _tuvalo_, or
tobacco. They were connoisseurs, too, and the elder boy, as he secured
his share, smelled it with intense satisfaction, and said, "That's _rye's
tuvalo_;" that is, "gentleman's tobacco," or best quality.
One evening, as the shadows were darkening the day, I met a little gypsy
boy, dragging along, with incredible labor, a sack full of wood, which
one needed not go far afield to surmise was neither purchased nor begged.
The alarmed and guilty or despairing look which he cast at me was very
touching. Perhaps he thought I was the gentleman upon whose property he
had "found" the wood; or else a magistrate. How he stared when I spoke
to him in Romany, and offered to help him carry it! As we bore it along
I suggested that we had better be careful and avoid the police, which
remark established perfect confidence between us. But as we came to the
tent, what was the amazement of the boy's mother to see him returning
with a gentleman helping him to carry his load! And to hear me say in
Romany, and in a cheerful tone, "Mother, here is some wood we've been
stealing for you."
Gypsies have strong nerves and much cheek, but this was beyond her
endowment; she was appalled at the unearthly strangeness of the whole
proceeding, and when she spoke there was a skeleton rattle in her words
and a quaver of startled ghastliness in her laugh. She had been alarmed
for her boy, and when I appeared she thought I was a swell bringing him
in under arrest; but when I announced myself in Romany as an accomplice,
emotion stifled thought. And I lingered not, and spoke no more, but
walked away into the woods and the darkness. However, the legend went
forth on the roads, even unto Kingston, and was told among the rollicking
Romanys of 'Appy Ampton; for there are always a merry, loafing lot of
them about that festive spot, looking out for excursionists through the
months when the gorse blooms, and kissing is in season--which is always.
And he who seeks them on Sunday may find them camped in Green Lane.
When I wished for a long ramble on the hedge-lined roads--the sweet roads
of old England--and by the green fields, I was wont to take a day's walk
to Netley Abbey. Then I could pause, as I went, before many a quiet,
sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and protected by
trees and hawthorn hedges, and again surrender my soul, while walking, to
tender and vague reveries, in which all definite thoughts swim
overpowered, yet happy, in a sea of voluptuous emotions inspired by
clouds lost in the blue sea of heaven and valleys visioned away into the
purple sky. What opium is to one, what hasheesh may be to another, what
_kheyf_ or mere repose concentrated into actuality is to the Arab, that
is Nature to him who has followed her for long years through poets and
mystics and in works of art, until at last he pierces through dreams and
pictures to reality.
The ruins of Netley Abbey, nine or ten miles from Oatlands Park, are
picturesque and lonely, and well fitted for the dream-artist in shadows
among sunshine. The priory was called Newstead or De Novo Loco in Norman
times, when it was founded by Ruald de Calva, in the day of Richard Coeur
de Lion. The ruins rise gray, white, and undressed with ivy, that they
may contrast the more vividly with the deep emerald of the meadows
around. "The surrounding scenery is composed of rivers and
rivulets,"--for seven streams run by it, according to Aubrey,--"of
foot-bridge and fords, plashy pools and fringed, tangled hollows, trees
in groups or alone, and cattle dotted over the pastures:" an English Cuyp
from many points of view, beautiful and English-home-like from all. Very
near it is the quaint, out-of-the-way, darling little old church of
Pirford, up a hill, nestling among trees, a half-Norman, decorated
beauty, out of the age, but altogether in the heart. As I came near, of
a summer afternoon, the waving of leaves and the buzzing of bees without,
and the hum of the voices of children at school within the adjoining
building, the cool shade and the beautiful view of the ruined Abbey
beyond, made an impression which I can never forget. Among such scenes
one learns why the English love so heartily their rural life, and why
every object peculiar to it has brought forth a picture or a poem. I can
imagine how many a man, who has never known what poetry was at home, has
wept with yearning inexpressible, when sitting among burning sands and
under the palms of the East, for such scenes as these.
But Netley Abbey is close by the river Wey, and the sight of that river
and the thought of the story of the monks of the olden time who dwelt in
the Abbey drive away sentiment as suddenly as a north wind scatters
sea-fogs. For the legend is a merry one, and the reader may have heard
it; but if he has not I will give it in one of the merriest ballads ever
written. By whom I know not,--doubtless many know. I sing, while
walking, songs of olden time.