COWAY STAKES—WALTON-ON-THAMES—THE RIVER AND THE WATER
COMPANIES—SUNBURY—TEDDINGTON—TWICKENHAM.
There are some very pleasant places on this Middlesex side of the river:
Shepperton Green and Lower Halliford notable among them; Lower Halliford
fringing the river bank most picturesquely and rustically. Between this
and Walton is the place known as “Cowey, or Coway, Stakes,” traditionally
the spot where Julius Cæsar in 54 B.C. crossed the Thames, in his second
invasion of Britain. Cæsar himself, in his _Commentaries_, writing, as
was his manner, in the first person, says: “Cæsar being aware of their
plans, led his army to the Thames, to the boundary of the Catuvellauni.
The river was passable on foot only at one place, and that with
difficulty. When he arrived there he observed a large force of the enemy
drawn up on the opposite bank. The bank also was defended with sharpened
stakes fixed outwards, and similar stakes were placed under water and
concealed by the river. Having learnt these particulars from the captives
and deserters, Cæsar sent forward the cavalry, and immediately ordered
the legions to follow. But the soldiers went at such a pace and in such a
rush, though only their heads were above water, that the enemy could not
withstand the charge of the legions and cavalry, and they left the bank
and took to flight.”
Many of these ancient stakes have been found, during the centuries that
have passed—the last of them about 1838—and they have been for many years
the theme of long antiquarian discussions. Formed of young oak trees, “as
large as a man’s thigh,” each about six feet in length, and shod with
iron, their long existence under water had made them almost as hard as
that iron, and as black as ebony.
It was Camden, writing early in the seventeenth century, who first
identified Coway Stakes as the scene of Cæsar’s crossing, for Bede,
writing in the eighth century and describing the stakes in the river,
mentions no place. They were said by Bede to be shod with lead and to
be “fixed immovably in the bed of the river.” Camden was quite certain
that here he had found the famous passage by Cæsar’s legionaries, and
expressed himself positively: “It is impossible I should be mistaken in
the place.”
[Illustration: SHEPPERTON.]
But later investigators are found to be more than a little inclined to
dispute Camden’s conclusions; and it is certain that whatever may now be
the possibilities of fording the Thames hereabouts, between Walton and
Halliford or Shepperton, and however deep the river may now be elsewhere,
this could not, as Camden supposes, have been the only possible ford. In
Cæsar’s time—it is a truism, of course, to say it—there were no locks or
weirs, and the Thames, instead of being what it is now, really to a great
degree canalised, flowed in a broader, shallower flood along most of
its course, spreading out here and there into wide-stretching marshes,
through which, however difficult the crossing, the actual depth of water
would tend to be small. But in any case, arguments for or against Coway
Stakes must needs be urged with diffidence, for the windings of the
Thames must necessarily have changed much in two thousand years.
There are not now any of the stakes remaining here, but the disposition
of them in the bed of the river has been fully put upon record. They
were situated where the stream makes a very pronounced bend to the
south, a quarter of a mile above Walton Bridge, and were placed in a
diagonal position across it, not lining the banks, as might have been
expected. But whether this disposition of them was original, or due to
one of the many changes of direction the river has undergone, it would
be impossible to say. It seems certain that in the level lands between
Chertsey, Weybridge, and Walton the present course of the Thames is not
identical with that anciently traced, and that the river has cut out for
itself between Shepperton and Walton a way considerably to the north.
There still exists a lake, very long and very narrow, in the grounds
of Oatlands Park, between Weybridge and Walton, which is reputed to be
a part of the olden course of the Thames. It has been pointed out, as
a proof of these changes, that there are in this neighbourhood several
instances of detached portions of parishes, situated, contrary from
expectation, on opposite sides of the river. Thus Chertsey and Walton,
both in Surrey, own respectively fourteen and eight acres in Middlesex.
Laleham, in Middlesex, possesses twenty-two acres in Surrey, and
Shepperton twenty-one acres. Eighteen of these more particularly concern
this discussion, since they are part of the ancient grazing-ground of
Coway Sale. The name “Coway” has been assumed by some, having reference
to the ford, or supposed ford, at Coway Stakes, to be a corruption of
“causeway,” while others find in it, according to the spelling they
adopt, Cowey = Cow Island, or Coway = Cow Way. The supporters of the
last-named form are those who refuse to recognise this place as the true
site of Cæsar’s crossing. They point out—ignoring the diagonal course of
a ford at this point, heading down river, instead of straight across—that
the placing of the stakes more resembled the remains of an ancient weir
or wooden bridge than the defences described by Cæsar, and say, further,
that their being shod with lead or iron is a proof that they formed
part of some deliberately constructed work and not a hastily thrown up
defence. The position of the stakes, four feet apart and in a double
row, with a passage of nine feet between, has given rise to an ingenious
speculation that they formed an aid to fording the river, both for
passengers and cattle, instead of being designed as an obstruction. This,
then, according to that view, was the Cow Way, principally devoted to
the convenience of the cattle belonging to Shepperton, to go and return
between that place and the detached grazing-grounds of Coway Sale on the
Surrey side of the river.
[Illustration: GRAVE OF THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK’S DAUGHTER, SHEPPERTON.]
But that there has been fighting hereabouts is evident enough in the
name of a portion of the grounds of Shepperton Manor House, known from
time immemorial as “War Close.” At the time when Coway Stakes were driven
into the bed of the river, to form a safe passage for the cows, or in
the futile hope of withstanding the advance of the masterful Romans,
the river must have spread like some broad lagoon over the surrounding
meadows, and would have been much more shallow than now. Walton Bridge,
in its great length, much of it devoted to crossing those low-lying
meadows, gives point to this contention.
[Illustration: BRADSHAW’S HOUSE, WALTON-ON-THAMES.]
The village of Walton-on-Thames is at the end of its tether as a
village, and the only interesting things in it are its church, and what
is known as the “Old Manor House.” Dark yews form a fine setting to
the old church, whose tower of flint and rubble, with repairs effected
in brick, survives untouched by the restorer of recent years. The
interior, although greatly suburbanised, discloses some as yet unspoiled
Transitional-Norman portions. Here, in the stonework near the pulpit, is
cut the famous non-committal verse ascribed to Queen Elizabeth, on the
sacramental bread-and-wine:
Christ was the worde and spake it;
He took the bread and brake it;
And what the Worde doth make it,
That I believe and take it.
Here is preserved a scold’s, or gossip’s, bridle, otherwise “the branks,”
an old English instrument of punishment and repression for a scolding or
gossiping woman. On it is, or was, the inscription,
Chester presents Walton with a bridle
To curb women’s tongues that talk too idle.
The instrument is now so rusted that it is difficult, if not impossible,
to trace the words. The date of it, and who this Chester was, are
not known; but legend has long told that he was a gentleman who lost
a valuable estate in the neighbourhood through the malevolence and
irresponsibility of a lying woman.
The bridle, originally of bright steel, was made to pass over the head,
and round it, and is provided with a flat piece of metal, two inches in
length and one in breadth, for insertion in the mouth, the effect being
to press the tongue down and to prevent speech. It is duly provided with
hinges and a padlock.
For many years it hung by a chain in the vestry, and thus became injured
and rusted; but in 1884 it was enclosed in an oaken, glass-fronted
cabinet; so its further preservation is assured.
[Illustration: BRASS TO JOHN SELWYN.]
On a board suspended against the chancel wall are four small brasses of
the Selwyn family, showing John Selwyn and his wife Susan, and their
eleven children. He was keeper of the royal park of Oatlands, and died in
1587. On one of them, Selwyn himself, is represented mounted on a stag
and in the act of plunging a hunting-knife through the animal’s neck.
This traditionally represents an actual occurrence. It seems that when
Queen Elizabeth was once hunting at Oatlands, a stag stood at bay and
made as if to attack her; whereupon Selwyn jumped from his horse on to
the stag’s back, and killed it in the manner shown.
Several elaborate monuments are to be seen here, including that of
Richard Boyle, Viscount Shannon, who died in 1740. The life-size statues
of himself and his wife are by Roubiliac.
The “Old Manor House” has of late years been rescued from its former
condition of slum tenements. It stands off some bylanes, where there
is a good deal of poor cottage property, and was long subdivided into
small dwellings. A long, low building of timber, lath, and plaster, it
dates back to the time of Henry the Eighth, and was then probably the
residence of the keeper, or ranger, of Oatlands Park; and perhaps the
residence one time of that John Selwyn of whose notable deed mention has
just been made. In after-years it was associated with Ashley Park, and
in Cromwell’s time was occupied by Bradshaw, President of the Council,
and one of the signatories of Charles the First’s death-warrant. If one
were to credit the old rustic legends and tales of wonder, this would be
a historic spot indeed; for the old Surrey peasantry firmly believed that
Bradshaw not only lived here, and was a party to the King’s execution,
but that he executed him with his own hands, on the premises, and buried
him under the flooring. English history, it will be perceived, written
from the rustic point of view, should be entertaining.
[Illustration: WALTON-ON-THAMES CHURCH.]
[Illustration: HALLIFORD.]
[Illustration: WATERSPLASH NEAR HALLIFORD.]
Leaving Walton behind, the Thames Valley is seen to have become the
prey of those many water companies which some few years since were all
merged into the Metropolitan Water Board. Between them and the spread of
London, the once beautiful scenery of the reaches of the Thames has in
long stretches been completely spoiled. Not sheer necessity, only bestial
stupidity, has caused this truly lamentable condition of affairs. With
the immense modern growth of the metropolis, it is specially desirable
that the beauty of the river at its gates should have been jealously
safeguarded, but it has been given over to those true spoilers, the
waterworks engineer and the speculative builder; and the interesting
and beautiful old-world villages and forgotten corners that survive do
but increase the regret felt for those others that have been wantonly
extinguished. The Surrey side of the river between Walton and Molesey has
been made monotonously formal with the embankments of great reservoirs;
and it is only when Molesey Lock is reached that their depressing
society is shaken off. On the Middlesex-side, that part of Sunbury
where the bizarre semi-Byzantine modern church of the place stands is
the only unspoiled spot until Hampton Court comes in sight, and between
the two we have perhaps the very worst exhibition of those outrages of
which the water companies have been guilty. There, on either side of
the road, a long, unlovely line of engine-houses and pumping-stations
stretches; but hideous though it may be from the road, it is worse when
seen from the river. There is always an entirely gratuitous ugliness
in a water company’s engine-houses, and these examples are not by any
means exceptions; being built in a kind of yellow-white brick, with a
long series of chimneys and water-towers that have already been proved
insufficiently tall and have each in consequence been lengthened with
what look like exaggerated twin stove-pipes. It is a distressing and
unlovely paradox that the buildings and precincts of waterworks are
invariably dry and husky, gritty and coaly places, and these bring no
variation to that rule. The roads are blackened with coal-dust, the
chimneys belch black smoke, and the poor little strips of grounds that
run beside the river, with lawns, and some few anæmic trees, seem parched
up. The Thames Ditton and Surbiton front of the river is in the same
manner defiled with engine-houses and intakes, with coal-wharves and
filter-beds, and with nearly half a mile of ugly retaining-wall. The
especial pity of all these things is that they were not at all necessary
where they are. They would have been just as efficient if placed in some
position out of sight, away from the river bank, and could so have been
placed, with a small expenditure for additional piping, instead of being
the eyesore they are.
[Illustration: SUNBURY.]
The village of Thames Ditton still keeps its rustic church, with curious
old font, and the Swan by the waterside stands very much as it did
when Theodore Hook wrote enthusiastic verses about it; but Surbiton,
and Kingston, Hampton Court, Teddington, and Twickenham—what shall we
make of these, now that electric tramways have girded them about with
steel? Only by the actual riverside is Nature left very much to herself,
and there, where the water roars over the weir of Teddington, you do
find the river unspoiled. But it is only necessary to walk a few steps
back from the river, into Teddington village that was, and is, alas! no
longer—for a sadness to take possession of you. There you see not only
a surburbanised village, but even perceive the original suburbanisation
(an ugly word for an ugly process) of about 1870 to be now down upon its
luck, in the spectacle of the villas of that date offered numerously to
be let, with few takers. What is the reason of this? you ask. Electric
tramways. They are the reason. Also, if you do but explore farther
inland, you shall find more reasons, in the discovery that Teddington
is now quite a busy town, and therefore offers no longer that charm of
comparative seclusion it possessed when those villas of the seventies
were built.
But there are yet other reasons, chief among them the very bulky and
imposing one of the modern parish church of St. Alban, which rises
like some great braggart bully, and utterly dwarfs the poor old parish
church opposite, now degraded to the condition of a mortuary chapel,
or the like, and doubtless to be demolished so soon as ever public
opinion is found to be in an indifferent mood. It is not a beautiful old
church, being indeed an Early Georgian affair of red brick, but it is
representative of a period, and, with the Peg Woffington almshouses near
by, is all that remains of old Teddington.
The neighbourhood of the great new church, built handsomely in stone,
in a Frenchified variant of that First Pointed style we are accustomed
to name “Early English,” is sufficient to frighten away any would-be
resident, for it is as large as many a cathedral, and will be larger yet,
when foolish people are found to subscribe toward the completion of its
tower. If all this stood for religion instead of merely for religiosity—a
very different thing—there would be nothing to say; but when we perceive
the clergy, all over the country, striving for funds towards heaping
up of stone and brick and mortar, all intended towards the end of
aggrandising their own discredited order, and of again bringing about the
imprisonment of men’s consciences, we can only imagine that the devil
laughs and the Saviour grieves. Meanwhile, the great unfinished building
dominates the place, and its long unbroken roof helps to spoil the view
up-river, nearly two miles away.
If we may call Teddington a town, then, by comparison, Twickenham,
adjoining it, is a metropolis. All this Middlesex side of the river
is, in fact, spoiled, but the river itself, and the lawns and parks
fringing it, are, happily, little affected, and none, wandering along
the towing-paths, would suspect the existence of those great populations
on the other side of quite a narrow belt of trees. The only inkling of
them is when the wind sets from the streets and brings the strains of a
piano-organ, the cries of the hawkers, or the squeaking of tramcar-wheels
against curves, yelling like damned souls in torment.
[Illustration: A BUSY DAY, MOLESEY LOCK.]
The older part of Twickenham centres about the church, one of those pagan
eighteenth-century boxes of red and yellow and grey brick that are so
familiar along these outer fringes of London. The old church sank into
ruin in 1713, but the tower of it remains.
In the churchwardens’ accounts of some two hundred years ago we gain some
diverting glimpses of an older Twickenham. Thus, in 1698, we find, “Item:
Paid old Tomlins for fetching home the church-gates, being thrown into ye
Thames in ye night by drunkards, 2_s._ 6_d._”; and “Item: To Mr. Guisbey,
for curing Doll Bannister’s nose, 3_s._”
The old and slummy lanes that here lead down to the waterside are
bordered with houses that date back to the time of those entries.
In the church is a monument to Pope, with an epitaph written by himself,
“For one who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey”: the last scornful
effort of his bitter spirit. The stone in the floor that marks his actual
resting-place is covered over, and many therefore seek his grave in vain.
I have, in fact, myself thus vainly sought it; questing in the first
instance among the tombs in the churchyard, to the puzzlement of a group
of working-men engaged upon a job there.
“What you looking for, guv’nor?” asked one.
“I want to find Pope’s grave.”
“Don’t know the name,” said he. “’Ere, Bill”—raising his voice to one
of his mates a little way off—“d’ye know where a bloke named Pope is
berried?”
O! horror.
An epitaph upon Kitty Clive, the actress, who died in 1758, may be seen
here, among those to other notabilities.
From the crowded streets of Twickenham let us escape by means of
Twickenham Ferry. Crossing the river at this point, Twickenham is seen
at its best; for here the gardens of the three or four great mansions
that yet remain entirely mask the ravages of late years. But even so,
those who have known the scene from of old cannot look upon it altogether
without regrets for the noble cedars of the estate known as “Mount
Lebanon,” among the very finest—perhaps _the_ very finest—in the land,
wantonly cut down some few years since.
[Illustration: TEDDINGTON WEIR.]