_across_ the River, became a barrier to any passage up and down the
stream. Bridge-building was not at a very advanced stage, and, of
necessity, the arches were small and narrow. This effectively stopped
traffic passing up from the seaward side. On the other hand, the small
arches meant a very great current, and this, with any considerable
tide, rendered the “shooting” of the bridge by smaller boats an
extremely dangerous affair: thus traffic from the landward side came to
a standstill at the bridge.
This meant that ships, bringing goods up the River from the sea, must
stop at the bridge and discharge their cargoes: also that goods, coming
from inland to go to foreign parts, must of necessity be transhipped
at London. It was inevitable, therefore, that once the bridge was in
position a commercial centre must arise on the spot, and almost certain
that in time a great port would grow into being. So that we may say
quite truly that _the Thames founded London_.
CHAPTER TWO
_How the City grew_ (_Roman Days_)
Who built the first bridge? We cannot say for certain; but it is fairly
safe for us to assume that the Romans shortly after their arrival in
Llyndin set to work to make a strong wooden military bridge to link up
the town with the important road from Dover. Thousands of Roman coins
have been recovered from the bed of the Thames at this spot, and we
may quite well suppose that the Roman people dropped these through the
cracks as they crossed the roughly constructed bridge.
This bridge established London once and for all. Previously there had
been the two ferries—that of Thorney (Westminster) and that of Llyndin
Hill, each with its own growing settlement. Either of these rivals
might have developed into the foremost city of the valley. But the
building of the bridge definitely settled the question and caused the
diversion of Watling Street to a course across the bridge, through
the settlement, out by way of what was afterwards Newgate, and on to
Tyburn, where the old way was rejoined.
Having built the bridge, they set to work to make of London a city,
as they understood it. In all probability it was quite a flourishing
place when they found it. But the Romans had their own thoughts about
building, their own ideas of what a city should be. First, they built
a citadel. The original British stockade stood on the western hummock
of the twin hill, so the Romans chose the eastern height for their
defences. This citadel, or fortress, was a large and powerful one, with
massive walls which extended from where Cannon Street Station now is to
where Mincing Lane runs. Inside it the Roman soldiers lived in safety.
Gradually, however, the fortress ceased to be necessary, and a fine
town spread out beyond its walls, stretching as far eastwards and
westwards as Nature permitted; that is, to the marshes on the east and
to the Fleet ravine on the west. In this space were laid out fine
streets and splendid villas and public buildings. Along the banks of
the River were built quays and river walls; and trade increased by
leaps and bounds.
Nor was this all. The Romans, as you have probably read, made
magnificent roads across England, and London was practically the hub
of the series, which radiated in all directions. The old British road
through Kent became the Prætorian Way (afterwards the diverted Watling
Street), and passed through the city to the north and west. Another,
afterwards called Ermyn Street, led off to Norfolk and Suffolk. Yet
another important road passed out into Essex, the garden of England in
those days.
“How do we know all these things?” you ask. Partly by what Roman
writers tell us, and partly by all the different things which have been
brought to light during recent excavations. When men have been digging
the foundations of various modern buildings in different quarters of
London, they have discovered the remains of some of these splendid
buildings—all of them more or less ruined (for a reason which we shall
see later), but a few in good condition. Fine mosaic pavements have
been laid bare in one or two places—Leadenhall Street for one; and all
sorts of articles—funeral urns, keys, statues, ornaments, domestic
utensils, lamps, etc.—have been brought to light, many of which you can
still see if you take the trouble to visit the Guildhall Museum and the
London Museum. In a court off the Strand may still be seen an excellent
specimen of a Roman bath.
[Illustration:
ROMAN LONDON]
But perhaps the most interesting of all the Roman remains are the
two or three fragments of the great wall, which was not built till
somewhere between the years 350 and 365 A.D. At this time the Romans
had been in occupation for several hundred years, and the city had
spread quite a distance beyond the old citadel walls. The new wall
was a splendid one, twenty feet high and about twelve feet thick,
stretching for just about three miles. It ran along the river front
from the Fleet River to the corner where the Tower stands, inland to
Bishopsgate and Aldersgate, then across to Newgate, where it turned
south again, and came to the River not far from Blackfriars.
Several fine sections of the ancient structure can still be seen in
position. There is a large piece under the General Post Office yard,
another fine piece in some wine cellars close to Fenchurch Street
Station, a fair piece on Tower Hill, and smaller remnants in Old Bailey
and St. Giles’ Churchyard, Cripplegate.
[Illustration: BASTION OF ROMAN WALL, CRIPPLEGATE CHURCHYARD.]
What do these fragments teach us? That things were not all they should
be in London. Instead of being built with the usual care of Roman
masonry, with properly quarried and squared stones, this wall was made
up of a medley of materials. Mixed in with the proper blocks were odd
pieces of buildings, statues, columns from the temples, and memorials
from the burying grounds. Probably the folk of London, feeling that the
power of Rome was waning, were stricken with panic, and so set to work
hurriedly and with such materials as were to hand to put together this
great defence.
Nor were they unwise in their preparations, for danger soon began to
threaten. From time to time there swooped down on the eastern coasts
strange ships filled with fierce warriors—tall, fair-haired men,
who took what they could lay their hands on, and killed and burned
unsparingly. So long as the Roman soldiers were there to protect the
land and its people, nothing more happened than these small raids. The
strangers kept to the coasts and seldom attempted to penetrate up the
river which led to London.
But these coast raids only heralded the great storm which was
approaching, for the daring sea-robbers had set covetous eyes on the
fair fields of Britain.
CHAPTER THREE
_How the City grew_ (_Saxon Days_)
In the year 410 the Romans were compelled to leave Britain. Troubles
had become so great in Rome itself that it was necessary to abandon
all the outlying colonies to their fate. From that moment began a
century and a half of pitiful history for our country. There was now
no properly drilled army to ward off attacks; and the raids of the
“sea-robbers” increased in number and intensity. Saxons, Angles, and
Jutes, they came in vast numbers, gradually working their way inland
from the coast.
And what happened to Londinium, as the Romans called our city? We do
not know, for there is a great gap in our history; probably it perished
of starvation. We know that little by little the strangers increased
their grip—the Jutes in Kent and Hampshire (and later in Surrey), the
Saxons in Kent, Essex, and Sussex; and that as they did so London was
gradually surrounded.
Now London was a comparatively large place, with a considerable
population, even after the Romans had gone; and the slow tightening of
the Saxon grip must have meant starvation, for everything London wanted
for its use came from a distance, owing to the impossibility of growing
anything in the surrounding marshy districts. And in the absence of any
reliable account we can only assume that in consequence the inhabitants
little by little deserted the city, and made their way westwards; that
the quays were deserted, the ships rotted at their moorings, the finely
constructed streets were befouled with grass and briars, the splendid
villas fell to pieces, the great wall in places crumbled to ruins.
So that when eventually the Saxons did reach London, after years of
struggle and fierce engagements, their victory was a hollow one. And
there is much to support this assumption, for we find that in their
chronicles the Saxons make practically no mention of the first city
of the land, which they most assuredly would have done had it been
anything other than derelict. Nor did they stay at London when they
arrived. Probably such a place of desolation was of no use to them;
they were not interested in ruined cities; they wanted open ground with
growing crops. So they passed on, and London probably stood silent and
dead for years, the empty skeleton of a city, while Time and Nature
completed the ruin which savage assaulters might otherwise have carried
out. Thus we may conjecture ended the first of London’s three lives.
When, after a time, things settled down in Britain, a new London
began to rise on the site of the old city. Gradually the folk, mainly
the East Saxons, settled on the outskirts of the deserted city, and,
little by little, they made their way within the old walls; numbers of
the old fugitives crept back to join them; merchants came and patched
up the broken, grass-grown quays; houses were built; and life began
anew. Steadily the progress continued. At first the houses were rough
wattle-and-mud affairs, set down in any fashion on the old sites, but
gradually proper rows of small, timbered houses rose on all sides,
with numbers of little churches dotted here and there.
Then at the end of the eighth century the old trouble, invasion, began
again. This time it was the Vikings (or Danes), the adventurous spirits
of the fiords of Norway and the coasts of Denmark, men who risked the
terrors of the hungry North Sea that they might plunder the monasteries
and farms of the north and east of England. They, too, found our
country a fair place, after their own cold, forbidding coasts; and the
raids increased in frequency.
In the year 832 they were at the mouth of the Thames, landing in
Sheppey; and in 839 came their first attempt to sail up the Thames.
They were beaten off this time, but they had learned of a proper entry
to which they might return later. In 851 came their great attempt. With
three hundred and fifty of their long ships they came, sailed right up
the River to London Bridge, stormed and plundered the city. But their
triumph was short-lived, for their army was well beaten at Ockley in
Surrey, as it made its way southward down the Stane Street.
It seemed as if England and London might be tranquil once more; but
the Vikings came in still greater numbers, and began to winter in our
land instead of returning as had been their custom. The record of
the next twenty years is one of constant harrying, with great armies
marching throughout the countryside—plundering, killing, burning, with
apparently no object.
When Alfred came to the throne, London was practically a Danish city;
but he soon set to work and drove them out. And, though England
suffered long and often from these foes, from that time onwards, the
fortress being rebuilt, London never again fell to the invaders. When,
eventually, Canute did enter London in 1017, after a considerable but
entirely unsuccessful siege, it was at the invitation of the citizens,
who accepted him as their King.
Under this wise King followed an era of prosperity for the growing
city. Danish merchants settled within its walls; the wharves were busy
once again; foreign traders sailed up the River to Billingsgate, their
boats laden with wine, cloth, and spices from the East; and so rapidly
London became once more a great commercial centre. Indeed, such was
its size and importance that it paid one-fifth of the whole tax which
Canute levied on the kingdom.
From this time onward London progressed steadily; and so, too, did
that other city, Westminster, which had sprung into being at another
crossing, a few miles higher up the Thames—one more city made by the
River, as we shall see later on.
CHAPTER FOUR
_How the City grew_ (_Norman Days_)
The year 1066 was yet another fateful year for the people of England
and the citizens of London. When William of Normandy defeated Harold at
Senlac, near Hastings, many of the English fled to London, prepared to
join the citizens in a stout defence of their great city; but no such
defence was necessary.
[Illustration: THE CONQUEROR’S MARCH ON LONDON]
William skirted the dense forest of Andredeswealde, and, striking the
main road at Canterbury, progressed to Southwark, which he destroyed.
Now, good soldier and wise man that he was, William saw that a definite
attack on London would be a difficult matter, and would profit him
nothing. So he set to work to do what others had done before him—to cut
off the city from its supplies. Marching westwards, he made his way to
the crossing at Wallingford, and there reached the north bank of the
River. Striking north-east again, he came soon to Watling Street once
more, and thus cut off all the northern trade. London was in this way
cut off from practically the bulk of its supplies; and the citizens
were glad to make terms before worse things happened.
Probably the surrender occurred sooner than it might otherwise have
done, by reason of the exceedingly mixed nature of the population.
London counted among its citizens, as we can tell by reference to
the documents of the time, merchants from many different parts of
France—Caen and Rouen in particular—and from Flanders and Germany.
William kept loyally to the promises which he had made in the treaty,
maintaining the rights of the city, and seeing that the thirty or
forty thousand citizens had the proper protection he guaranteed. True,
he built the great threatening Tower of London, about which we shall
read in another chapter, but it is very probable that even in that the
citizens saw only a strengthening of the old bastions built in former
days for the guarding of the city.
Practically all our knowledge of London life in Norman days comes to us
from the writings of one FitzStephen, a faithful clerk in the service
of Thomas Becket. FitzStephen, who was present at the Archbishop’s
murder, wrote a life of his master, and prefaced it with a short
account of the city. From his description we learn much of interest.
We gather that, besides the great Cathedral, there were thirteen large
churches and one hundred and twenty-six smaller parish churches; that
the walls protected the city on all sides save the river front, where
they had been pulled down to make room for wharves and stores. Says
FitzStephen: “Those engaged in the several kinds of business, sellers
of various things, contractors for various works, are to be found every
morning in their different districts and shops. Besides there is in
London, on the river bank, among the wines in ships, and in cellars
sold by the vintners, a public food shop; there meats may be found
every day, according to the season, fried and boiled, great and small
fish, coarsest meats for the poor, more dainty for the rich.” He also
has much to tell us about the sports, which included archery, leaping,
wrestling, and football. “In Easter holidays they fight battles on
the water. A shield is hung upon a pole in mid-stream, a boat is made
ready, and in the forepart thereof standeth a youth, who chargeth the
shield with a lance. If so be that he breaketh the lance against the
shield, he hath performed a worthy deed; but if he doth not break his
lance, down he falleth into the water.... To this city, from every
nation under heaven, do merchants delight to bring their goods by
sea.... The only pests of London are the immoderate quaffing of fools
and the frequency of fires.”
CHAPTER FIVE
_The River’s First Bridge_
From our point of view, engaged as we are in the study of London’s
River and its influence on the city, perhaps the most interesting thing
that happened in Norman days was the building of the first stone London
Bridge.
Other bridges there had been from remote times, and these had taken
their part in the moulding of the history of London, but they had
suffered seriously from flood, fire, and warfare. In the year 1090,
for instance, a tremendous storm had burst on the city, and while the
wind blew down six hundred houses and several churches, the flood
had entirely demolished the bridge. The citizens had built another
in its place; but that, too, had narrowly escaped destruction when
there occurred one of those dreadful fires which FitzStephen laments.
The years 1135-6 again had brought calamity, for yet another fire
had practically consumed the entire structure. It had been remade,
however, and had lasted till 1163, when it had been found to be in such
a very bad condition that an entirely new bridge was a necessity.
[Illustration: OLD LONDON BRIDGE.]
The new bridge was the conception of one Peter, the priest of a small
church, St. Mary Colechurch, in the Poultry. This clergyman was a
member of a religious body whose special interest was the building
of bridges, in those times regarded as an act of piety. Skilled in
this particular craft, he dreamed of a bridge for London such as his
brother craftsmen were building in the great cities of France; and he
set to work to amass the necessary funds. King, courtiers, common
folk, all responded to his call, and at last, in 1176, he was able to
commence. Unfortunately, he died before the completion of his project,
for it took thirty-three years to build; and another brother, Isenbert,
carried on after him.
A strange bridge it was, too, when finished; but good enough to last
six and a half centuries. It was in reality a street built across the
River, 926 feet in length, 40 feet wide, and some 60 feet above the
level of high water. Nineteen pointed arches, varying in width from 10
to 32 feet, upheld its weight over massive piers which measured from 23
to 36 feet in thickness. So massive were these piers that probably only
about a third of the whole length of the Bridge was waterway. This,
of course, meant that the practice of “shooting” the arches in a boat
was a perilous adventure, for with such narrow openings the current
was tremendous. So dangerous was it that it was usual for timid folk
to disembark just above the Bridge, walk round the end, and re-embark
below, rather than take the risk of being dashed against the
stone-work. Which wisdom was embodied in a proverb of the time—“London
Bridge was made for wise men to go over and fools to go under.”
[Illustration: AN ARCH OF OLD LONDON BRIDGE: QUEEN ELEANOR BEING STONED
IN 1263.]
Strangely enough, old London Bridge forestalled the Tower Bridge by
having in its centre a drawbridge, which could be raised to allow
vessels to sail through, much as the bascules of the modern bridge can
be lifted to allow the passage of the great ships of to-day. There were
on each side of the roadway ordinary houses, the upper stories of which
were used for dwellings, while the ground floors acted as shops. In the
middle of the Bridge, over the tenth and largest pier, stood a small
chapel dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury, the youngest of England’s
saints.
But, even when a stone bridge was erected, troubles were by no means
over. Four years after the completion, in July, 1212, came another
disastrous fire, and practically all the houses, which, unlike the
Bridge itself, were built of timber, were destroyed. In the year 1282
it was the turn of the River to play havoc. As we said just now, only
about a third of the length was waterway. This condition of things
(avoided in all modern bridges) meant a tremendous pressure of the
current, both at ebb and flow, and an enormous pressure at flood time.
When, in the year mentioned, there came great ice-floods, five arches
were carried away, and “London Bridge was broken down, my fair lady.”
From that time onwards there was a considerable series of accidents
right down to the time of the Great Fire of London, concerning which we
shall read in a later chapter.
[Illustration: CHAPEL OF ST. THOMAS BECKET.]
Old London Bridge, during its life, saw many strange happenings. In
1263, for instance, a great crowd gathered, wherever the citizens could
find a coign of vantage, for the Queen, Eleanor of Provence and wife
of Henry III., was passing that way on her journey from the Tower to
Windsor. But this was no triumphal passage, for the Queen was strongly
opposed to the Barons, who were still working for a final settlement
of Magna Charta. Enraged at her action, the people of London waited
till her barge approached the Bridge, and then they hurled heavy stones
down upon it and assailed the Queen with rough words; so that she was
compelled with her attendants to return to the Tower, rather than face
the enraged mob.
The year 1390 saw yet another queer event. Probably most of you
understand what is meant by a tournament. Well, at this time, there
was much rivalry between the English and Scottish knights, and a tilt
was proposed between two champions, Lord Wells of England and Earl
Lindsay of Scotland. The Englishman, granted choice of ground, chose
by some strange whim London Bridge for the scene of action rather than
some well-known tournament ground. On the appointed day the Bridge
was thronged with folk who had come to witness this unusual contest
in the narrow street. Great was the excitement as the knights charged
towards each other. Three times did they meet in the shock of battle,
and at the third the Englishman fell vanquished from his charger, to be
attended immediately by the gallant Scottish knight.
[Illustration: LONDON BRIDGE IN MODERN TIMES.]
The Bridge, as the only approach to the city from the south, was the
scene of many wonderful pageants and processions, as our victorious
Kings came back from their wars with France, or returned to England
with their brides from overseas. Such a magnificent spectacle was the
crossing in state of Henry V. after the great victory of Agincourt
in the year 1415. The battle, as most of you know, took place in
October of that year, and at the end of November the King passed over
the Bridge at the head of his most distinguished prisoners and his
victorious soldiers, amid the tumultuous rejoicing of London’s jubilant
citizens.
Yet another strange scene was enacted when Wat Tyler, at the head of
his tens of thousands, passed over howling and threatening, after being
temporarily held back by the gates which stood at the south end of the
Bridge.
So the old Bridge lasted on, living through momentous days, till, in
the year 1832, it was removed to give place to the new London Bridge
which had been erected sixty yards to the westwards.
CHAPTER SIX
_How the City grew_ (_in the Middle Ages_)
London in that period which we speak of as the Middle Ages was indeed
a remarkable city. Dotted about all over it, north and south, west and
east, were great monasteries and nunneries and churches, for in those
days the Church was a tremendous power in the land; while huddled
together within its confines were shops, houses, stores, palaces,
all set down in a bewildering confusion. Of palaces there was indeed
a profusion; in fact, London might well have been called a City of
Palaces. But they were not arranged in long lines along the banks
of canals, as were those of Venice, nor round fine stately squares,
as in Florence, Genoa, and other famous cities of the Continent.
London’s palaces nestled in the city’s narrow, muddy lanes, between
the warehouses of the merchants and the hovels of the poor. They
paid little or no attention to external beauty, but within they were
splendid structures.
Now, what did this mean? That the common people of London constantly
came into contact with the great ones of the land. The apprentice, sent
on an errand by his master, might at any moment be held up as Warwick
the King-maker, let us say, emerged from his gateway, followed by a
train of several hundred retainers all decked out in his livery; or the
Queen and her ladies might pass in gay procession to view a tournament
in the fields just north of the Chepe. In that way the citizens learned
right from their earliest day that London was not the only place in
England, that there were other folk in the land, and great ones too,
who were not London merchants and craftsmen.
This constant reminder that they were simply part and parcel of the
great realm of England did this for the people of London: it made them
keen on politics, always ready to take sides in any national strife. On
the other hand, it gave them great pride. The citizens soon discovered
that, though they were not the only folk in the land, they counted for
much, for whatever side or cause they supported always won in the end.
This, of course, more firmly cemented the position of London as the
foremost spot in the kingdom.
Very beautiful indeed were some of the palaces, or inns, as they were
quite commonly called. They were in no sense of the word fortresses;
their gates opened straight on to the narrow, muddy lanes without
either ditch or portcullis. Inside there was usually a wide courtyard,
surrounded by the various buildings. Unfortunately the Great Fire and
other calamities have not spared us much whereby we can recall such
palaces to mind. Staple Inn, whose magnificent timbered front is still
one of London’s most precious relics, is of a later date, but possesses
many of the medieval characters. Crosby Hall, in Bishopsgate Street,
was a fine specimen. This was erected in the fifteenth century by a
grocer and Lord Mayor, Sir John Crosby, a man of great wealth; and
for some time it was the residence of Richard III. For many years it
remained to show us the exceeding beauty of a medieval dwelling; but,
alas, that too has gone the way of all the others! A portion of it, the
great Hall, has been re-erected in Chelsea.
[Illustration: BAYNARD’S CASTLE BEFORE THE GREAT FIRE.]
Otherwise most of these palaces remain only as a name. Baynard’s
Castle, one of the most famous of all, which stood close to the western
end of the river-wall, lasted for 600 years from the Norman Conquest to
the time of the Great Fire, but it is only remembered in the name of a
wharf and a ward of the city. Coldharbour Palace, which stood in Thames
Street with picturesque gables overhanging the River, passed from a
great place in history down to oblivion.
So with all the rest of these elaborate, historic palaces, about which
we can read in the pages of Stow, that delightful chronicler of London
and her ways; they either perished in the flames or were pulled down to
make way for hideous commercial buildings.
London in the Middle Ages passed through a period of great prosperity;
but, at the same time, it suffered terribly through pestilence, famine,
rebellions, and so on. The year 1349 saw a dreadful calamity in the
shape of the “Black Death”—a kind of plague which came over from
Asia. The narrow, dirty lanes, with their stinking, open ditches, the
unsatisfactory water-supply, all caused the dread disease to spread
rapidly; and a very large part of London’s citizens perished.
Moreover, famine followed in the path of the pestilence which stalked
through the land. So great was the toll of human life throughout
England that there were but few left to work on the land; and London,
which depended for practically all its supplies on what was sent from
afar, suffered severely. Still, despite all these troubles, the Middle
Ages must be regarded as part of the “good old times,” when England
was “merry England” indeed. True, the citizens had to work hard, and
during long hours, but they found plenty of time for pleasure. Those of
you who have read anything of Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” will know
something of the brightness of life in those times, of the holidays,
the pageants and processions, the tournaments, the fairs, the general
merrymaking.
All of which, of course, was due to good trade. The city which the
River had made was growing in strength. London now made practically
everything it needed, and within its walls were representatives of
practically every calling. As Sir Walter Besant says in his fine book,
“London”: “There were mills to grind the corn, breweries for making
the beer; the linen was spun within the walls, and the cloth made and
dressed; the brass pots, tin pots, iron utensils, and wooden platters
and basins, were all made in the city; the armour, with its various
pieces, was hammered out and fashioned in the streets; all kinds of
clothes, from the leathern jerkin of the poorest to the embroidered
robes of a princess, were made here....
“There was no noisier city in the whole world; the roar and the racket
of it could be heard afar off, even at the risings of the Surrey hills
or the slope of Highgate. From every lane rang out, without ceasing,
the tuneful note of the hammer and the anvil; the carpenters, not
without noise, drove in their nails, and the coopers hooped their
casks; the blacksmith’s fire roared; the harsh grating of the founders
set the teeth on edge of those who passed that way; along the river
bank, from the Tower to Paul’s Stairs, those who loaded and those who
unloaded, those who carried the bales to the warehouses, those who
hoisted them up; the ships which came to port and the ships which
sailed away, did all with fierce talking, shouting, quarrelling, and
racket.”
As we picture the prosperity of those medieval days there comes into
our minds that winding silver stream which made such prosperity
possible, and we seem to see the River Thames crowded with ships from
foreign parts, many of them bringing wine from France, Spain, and other
lands, for wine was one of the principal imports of the Middle Ages,
and filling up the great holds of their empty vessels with England’s
superior wool; others from Italy, laden with fine weapons and jewels,
with spices, drugs, and silks, and all wanting our wool. A few of those
ships in the Pool were laden with _coal_, for in the Middle Ages this
new fuel—sea-coal, as it was called to distinguish it from the ordinary
wood charcoal—made its appearance in London. Nor did London take to
it at first. In the reign of Edward I. the citizens sent a petition,
praying the King to forbid the use of this “nuisance which corrupteth
the air with its stink and smoke, to the great detriment of the health
of the people.”
But the advantages of the sea-coal rapidly outweighed the disadvantages
with the citizens, and the various proclamations issued by sovereigns
came to nought. Before long several officials were appointed to act as
inspectors of the new article of commerce as it came into the wharves.
The famous Dick Whittington and various other prominent citizens of
London made large fortunes from their coal-boats.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_The Tower of London_
London has many treasures to show us, if we take the trouble to look
for them, but it has no relic of the past so perfect as its Tower—a
place which every Briton, especially every Londoner, ought to see and
try to understand.
If only the Tower’s silent old stones could suddenly gain the power
of speech, what strange tales they would have to tell of the things
which have occurred during their centuries of history—tales of things
glorious and tales of things unspeakably tragic. Though the latter
would easily outweigh the former in number, I am afraid; for this grim
stronghold is a monument to evil rather than to good.
The Tower has often been spoken of as the _key_ to London, and there is
truth in the saying, for its position is certainly an excellent one.
When William of Normandy descended on England with his great company of
knights and their retainers, he professed to have every consideration
for the people of London, and certainly he treated the citizens quite
fairly according to the terms of the treaty. But, at the same time, he
apparently did not feel any too sure of them, and so he called in the
monk, Gundulf, to erect a fortress, which to all appearances was merely
a strengthening of the fortifications already there, but which in
reality was intended to serve as a constant reminder of the power and
authority of the conquering king.
The spot chosen was the angle at the eastern corner, just where the
wall turns sharply inland from the River, and no position round London
could have been better chosen. In the first place it guarded London
from the river approach, ready to hold off any enemy venturesome
enough to sail up the Thames to attack the city. But also, and this
undoubtedly was what was in the mind of the Conqueror, it frowned down
on the city.
A formidable Norman Keep was erected, with walls 15 feet thick, so
strongly built that they stand to-day practically as they stood 900
years ago, save that stone-faced windows were put in a couple of
centuries ago to take the place of the narrow slits or loopholes which
served for light and ventilation in a fortress of this sort.
[Illustration: GROUND PLAN OF THE TOWER.]
To understand the Tower of London properly (and we really want some
idea of it before any visit, otherwise it is merely a confusion of
towers and open spaces without any meaning) we must realize that it
consists of three separate lines of defences, all erected at different
times. The innermost, the Keep or White Tower, we have touched upon.
Beyond that, and separated from it by an open space known as the
Inner Ward, is the first wall, with its twelve towers, among them the
Beauchamp Tower, the Bell Tower, the Bloody Tower, and the Wakefield
Tower. Then, beyond that again, and separated by another open space
known as the Outer Ward, is yet another wall; and still beyond is
the Moat, outside everything. So that any attacking army, having
successfully negotiated the Moat, would find itself with the outer wall
to scale and break, and within that another inner wall, 46 feet high.
The garrison, driven back from these two, could even then retire to the
innermost keep, with its walls 15 feet thick, and there hold out for a
great length of time against the fiercest attacks. So that, you will
readily see, the Tower was a fortress of tremendous strength in days
before the use of heavy artillery.
The outer defences were added to William’s White Tower from time to
time by various monarchs. The first or inner wall, 8 feet thick, begun
in the Conqueror’s days, was added to and strengthened by Stephen,
Henry II., and John. The outer wall and the Moat were completed by
Henry II.; and the Tower thus took its present shape.
Most of our Sovereigns, from the Conqueror’s time right down to the
Restoration, used the Tower of London. Kings and Queens who were
powerful used it as a prison for their enemies; those who were weak and
feared the people used it as a fortress for themselves. This latter
use of the Tower was particularly instanced in the reign of Stephen—an
illuminating chapter in the story of London.
Stephen, following the death of Henry I., was elected King by the
Great Council, and duly crowned in London; but the barons soon saw
that he was unfitted for the task of ruling, and they took sides with
the Empress Matilda, hoping thereby to get nearer the independence
they desired. Stephen for a time held his own with the aid of a number
of trusty barons, but in 1139 he offended the Church by his rough
treatment of the Bishops of Lincoln and Salisbury, and his supporters
fell away. Consequently he was compelled in the following year to seek
safety in the Tower, close to his loyal followers, the citizens of
London.
Now the constable of the Tower in those days was one Geoffrey de
Mandeville, about as unscrupulous and cruel a rascal as could be
imagined. Stephen, to ensure his support, made him Earl of Essex, and
for a time all went well. But when, following Stephen’s defeat and
capture in 1141, the Empress Matilda moved to London to be crowned,
Geoffrey de Mandeville had not the slightest compunction in taking
sides with her, for which he was rewarded by the gift of castles,
revenues, and the office of Sheriff of Essex. But Matilda offended
the citizens of London to such an extent that they drove her from
the city and attacked Mandeville in the Tower. Whereupon Mandeville,
without any hesitation, transferred his allegiance to Maud of Boulogne,
Stephen’s wife, who was rallying his scattered forces—which allegiance
was purchased by making Mandeville the Sheriff of Hertfordshire,
Middlesex, and London, as well. Nothing, however, could serve to make
this treacherous man act straightly, and when later Stephen found him
planning yet another revolt in favour of Matilda, he attacked him
suddenly, took him prisoner, and removed him from all public affairs.
This chapter in English history is far from showing the English nobles
in a good light, but it is exceedingly interesting as revealing the
extent to which London was beginning to count in the kingdom.
To-day we enter from the city side by what is known as the Middle
Tower—a renovated and modernized gateway, with a big, stone-carved
Royal Arms above its arch. The name “Middle” strikes us as curious,
seeing that it is the first protection on the landward side, until we
remember or learn that originally there was another Tower, the Lion
Tower, nearer the city (approximately where the refreshment room now
stands) and separated from the Middle Tower by a drawbridge. But the
Lion Tower disappeared many many years ago, and only two of the three
outer defences remain, the Middle Tower and the Byward Tower, the
latter reached by a permanent bridge over the Moat.
Once through the Byward Gateway and we are between the inner and outer
defences. Leaving on our left the Bell Tower, a strong, irregular,
octagonal tower, which gets its name from the turret whence curfew
bell rings each night, we walk along parallel to the River, past the
frowning gateway of the Bloody Tower on our left, with its low arch
which originally gave the only entrance to the Inner Ward, and on our
right, and exactly opposite, the Traitor’s Gate, the riverside passage
through the outer walls. Skirting the Wakefield Tower, we pass through
a comparatively modern opening, and so come upon the amazing Norman
Keep of William the Conqueror.
This Keep is not quite square, though it appears to be, and no one of
its four sides corresponds to any other. Its greatest measurements are
from north to south 116 feet, and from east to west 96 feet. Inside,
three cross walls, from 6 to 8 feet thick, divide each floor into three
separate apartments of unequal sizes. It is a building complete in
itself, with everything required for a fortress, a Royal dwelling, and
a prison. Probably, as you walk about the cold, gloomy chambers, you
will say to yourselves that you can understand the fortress and the
prison parts, but that you could never imagine it as a dwelling. But
you must remember that with coverings on the floor and with the bare
walls hung with beautiful tapestries, as was the custom in early days,
and with furniture in position, the apartments must have presented a
much more comfortable appearance.
The first story, or main floor, was the place where abode the
garrison—the men-at-arms and their officers; and above on the other two
floors were the State apartments—St. John’s Chapel and the Banqueting
Hall on the second story, and the great Council Chamber of the
Sovereign on the third floor. Beneath were great dungeons, terrible
places without light or ventilation, having in those days no entrance
from the level ground, but reached only by that central staircase which
rose from them to the roof.
In these days the Keep is largely used as an armoury; and we can gain a
fine idea of the different kinds of armour worn in different periods,
and of the weapons used and of the cruel implements of torture. It
also contains several good models of the Tower at different times, and
a short study of these will do much to get rid of the confusion which
most folk feel as they hurry from tower to tower without any general
idea of the place.
Leaving the ancient Keep, we cross the only wide open space of
the fortress, a paved quadrangle which keeps its antique and now
inappropriate name of Tower Green, where in bygone days some of the
Tower’s most famous prisoners have paraded in solitude on the grass.
Here, marked by a tablet, is the site of the scaffold where died Lady
Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Katherine Howard, and other famous prisoners of
State. It is a quiet, moody spot, where the black ravens of the Tower,
as they stand sentinel beneath the sycamore trees, at times seem the
only things in keeping with the sadness of the place.
To our right is the little Church of St. Peter ad Vinculam, which will
be shown to us by one of the quaintly garbed “Beef-eaters” (if one
can be spared from other duties), the famous Yeomen of the Guard who
still wear the uniform designed in Henry the Eighth’s days. Concerning
this little sanctuary Lord Macaulay wrote: “There is no sadder spot on
earth.... Death is there associated with whatever is darkest in human
nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of implacable
enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of
friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted
fame. Thither have been carried through successive ages, by the rude
hands of gaolers, without one mourner following, the bleeding relics of
men who had been the captains of armies, the leaders of parties, the
oracles of senates, and the ornaments of courts.”
Close together in a small space before the Altar, raised slightly
above the level of the floor, lie the mortal remains of two Queens,
Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, Margaret of Salisbury, last of the
proud Plantagenets, Lord and Lady Rochford, the Dukes of Somerset,
Northumberland, Monmouth, Suffolk, and Norfolk, the Earl of Essex, Lady
Jane Grey, Lord Guilford Dudley, and Sir Thomas Overbury.
As we pass on and come to the Beauchamp Tower, and later to the Bloody
Tower, we see the tiny prisons where these unfortunates, and many
others, languished in confinement, waiting their tragic end, whiling
away the weary hours by carving quaint inscriptions on the stone walls;
and, in the latter, we are shown the tiny apartment where perished the
little Princes at the instigation of their uncle, Richard III.
From our point of view there remains just one more thing to consider,
and that is the Tower’s connection with the River. Probably few of us,
as we try to think back through the centuries, realize how important
the Thames was even as a highway. We know from our reading that
London’s streets were narrow, crooked, and of very little use for a
big amount of traffic; yet we do not see in our mind’s eye the great
waterway which everybody, rich and poor, used in those days, alike
for business and pleasure. And, of course, the Tower contributed very
largely to this water traffic, for the King, his nobles, and all who
had business at Westminster, travelled constantly to and fro in the
great painted barges which made the River a gayer and brighter place
than it is in our days. For the purpose of such travellers there was
provided the Queen’s Steps at the Tower Wharf, in order to avoid the
use of the sinister Traitor’s Gate—that low, frowning archway, which
gave entrance from the River, and through which very many famous
persons, innocent and guilty alike, passed to their doom, brought
thither by water at the behest of the Sovereign.
[Illustration: TRAITOR’S GATE.]
According to John Stow, who wrote in Elizabeth’s reign, the Tower
was then “a citadel to defend or command the city; a royal palace
for assemblies or treaties; a prison of state for the most dangerous
offenders; the only place of coinage for all England at this time; the
armoury for warlike provision; the treasury of the ornaments and jewels
of the Crown; and general conserver of most records of the King’s
courts of justice at Westminster.” All that is changed now. The Tower
has long since ceased to be a Royal residence. As a defence of the city
it would not last more than a few minutes against modern artillery.
Save for the period of the great war, when it held the bodies of
numerous spies and traitors and saw the execution of several, it has
for many years given up its claim to be a prison. The records which
filled the little Chapel of St. John have now been moved to the Record
Office, and the making of money goes on at the Mint just across the
road. The Crown Jewels still find a home here, in the Wakefield Tower,
the prison where Henry VI. came to his violent end. Yet, despite all
these changes, the fortress is still the Tower of London—perhaps the
city’s most fascinating relic.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_How Fire destroyed what the River had made_
Leaving the Tower by the Byward Gate, and passing along Great Tower
Street and Eastcheap, we come to the spot
“Where London’s column pointing to the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts
its head and lies.”
This is, of course, the Monument, which for many years indicated to
all and sundry that the Great Fire of 1666 was the work of the Roman
Catholics. Till the year 1831 the inscription, added in 1681 at the
time of the Titus Oates affair, perpetuated the lie in stone, but in
that year it was removed by the City Council. Now the gilt urn with
its flames, which we can see well if we ascend the 345 steps to the
iron cage at the top, merely commemorates the Fire itself, without any
reference to its cause, as in the original structure. From the top
of the Monument we can get perhaps the very finest of all views of
London and its River.
[Illustration: THE MONUMENT.]
But there is one thing which should preface our account of the Great
Fire, and that is an account of the Great Plague which visited and
afflicted London in the previous year. Of course, the Fire was in one
sense a terrible disaster for London, yet the destruction which it
wrought was in reality a great blessing to the plague-ridden city.
The Plague, by no means the first to visit London, came over from the
Continent, where for years it had been decimating the large cities. It
broke out with terrible power in the summer of the year 1665—a dry,
scorching summer which made the flushing of the open street drains an
impossible thing, and gave every help to the dread pestilence. If we
want to read a thrilling description of London at this time we have
only to turn to the “Journal of the Plague Year,” by Defoe, the author
of “Robinson Crusoe.” This was not actually a journal, for Defoe was
only four years old in 1665, but it was a faithful account based on
first-hand information. In its simply written pages (to quote from
Sir Walter Besant) “we see the horror of the empty streets; we hear
the cries and lamentations of those who are seized and those who are
bereaved. The cart comes slowly along the streets with the man ringing
a bell and crying, ‘Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!’ We think
of the great holes into which the dead were thrown in heaps and covered
with a little earth; we think of the grass growing in the streets;
the churches deserted; the roads black with fugitives hurrying from
the abode of Death; we hear the frantic mirth of revellers snatching
to-night a doubtful rapture, for to-morrow they die. The City is filled
with despair.” As we can well imagine, the King and his courtiers fled
from Whitehall and the Tower away into the country; the Law Courts were
shifted up river to Oxford. Naturally all business stopped, and trade
was at a standstill. Ships in hundreds lay idle in the Pool, waiting
for the cargoes which came not, because the wharves and warehouses
were deserted; laden ships that sailed up the Thames speedily turned
about and made for the Continental ports. So it went on, the visitation
increasing in fury, till in September there were nearly 900 fell each
day. Then it abated slightly, but continued through the winter, on into
the following summer, and in the end more than 97,000 people perished
out of a population of 460,000.
Then, on September 2, came that other catastrophe, the Great Fire.
Starting in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane, near the Monument, it was
driven westwards by a strong east wind.
The London of Stuart days gave the Fire every possible help. Not much
survives to-day to show us what things were like, but the quaint,
timber-fronted houses of Staple Inn (Holborn) and No. 17, Fleet Street,
and the pictures painted at the time, give us a fair idea of the
inflammable nature of the buildings; and when we remember that these
wooden houses, old, dry, and coated with pitch, were in some streets so
close to those opposite that it was possible to shake hands from the
overhanging upper stories, we are not surprised at the rapidity with
which the Fire spread.
The diaries of two gentlemen—Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn, the former
one of the King’s Ministers, the latter a wealthy and learned gentleman
of the Court—bring home to us plainly the terror of the seven days’
visitation. To begin with, very few took any special notice of the
outbreak: fires were too common to cause great consternation. Even
Pepys himself tells us that he returned to bed; but when the morning
came and it was still burning, he was disturbed. Says he: “By and by
Jane tells me that she hears that above 800 houses have been burned
down to-night by the fire we saw, and that it is now burning down all
Fish Street, by London Bridge. So I made myself ready presently, and
walked to the Tower; and there got up upon one of the high places; and
there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on fire, and
an infinite great fire on this and the other side of the end of the
bridge.”
London Bridge, as you will remember from a former chapter, was very
narrow, and the houses projected out over the River, held in place
by enormous timber struts; and these, with the wooden frames of the
three-storied houses, gave the fire a good hold. Moreover the burning
buildings, falling on the Bridge, blocked the way to any who would
have fought the flames. After about a third of the buildings had been
destroyed the fire was stopped by the pulling down of houses and the
open space; but not before it had done great damage to the stone
structure itself. The heat was so intense that arches and piers which
had remained firm for centuries now began to show signs of falling to
pieces, and it was found necessary to spend £1,500, an enormous sum in
those days, on repairs before any rebuilding could be attempted.
Day after day the Fire continued. Says Evelyn: “It burned both in
breadth and length, the churches, public halls, Exchange, hospitals,
monuments, and ornaments, leaping after a prodigious manner from
house to house and street to street, at great distances one from the
other....
“Here we saw the Thames covered with goods floating, all the barges
and boats laden with what some had time and courage to save, as, on
the other, the carts, etc., carrying out to the fields, which for many
miles were strewed with movables of all sorts, and tents erected to
shelter both people and what goods they could get away....
“(Sept. 7) At my return I was infinitely concerned to find that goodly
Church (cathedral), St. Paul’s, now a sad ruin. It was astonishing to
see what immense stones the heat had in a manner calcined, so that
all the ornaments, columns, friezes, capitals, and projectures of
massie Portland stone flew off, even to the very roof, where a sheet
of lead covering a great space (no less than six acres by measure)
was totally melted; the ruins of the vaulted roof falling broke into
St. Faith’s, which being filled with the magazines of books belonging
to the Stationers, and carried thither for safety, they were all
consumed, burning for a week following.... Thus lay in ashes that
most venerable Church, one of the most ancient pieces of early
piety in the Christian world, besides near 100 more. The exquisitely
wrought Mercers’ Chapel, the sumptuous Exchange, the august fabric of
Christchurch, all the rest of the Companies’ Halls, splendid buildings,
arches, entries, all in dust....
[Illustration: OLD ST. PAUL’S (A.D. 1500).]
“The people who now walked about the ruins appeared like men in some
dismal desert or rather in some great city laid waste by a cruel
enemy....The by-lanes and narrower streets were quite filled up with
rubbish, nor could one have possibly known where he was, but by the
ruins of some Church or Hall, that had some remarkable tower or
pinnacle remaining....”
Just as the Plague was by no means the first plague which had visited
the city, so there had been other serious outbreaks of fire, but those
two visitations were by far the worst in the history of London. We can
gather some idea of the scene of desolation which resulted when we read
that the ruins covered an area of 436 acres—387 acres, or five-sixths
of the entire city within the walls and 73 acres without; that the Fire
wiped out four city gates, one cathedral, eighty-nine parish churches,
the Royal Exchange, Sion College, and all sorts of hospitals, schools,
etc.
Yet gradually, not within three or four years, as is commonly stated
in history books, but slowly, as the ruined citizens found money for
the purpose, there rose from the débris another London—a London with
broader, cleaner streets, with larger and better-built houses of stone
and brick; with fine public buildings and a new Cathedral—a London more
like the city which we know. So _modern_ London began its life.
The River did not make a new London as it had made the old city. Shops,
markets, quays, public buildings, did not spring up naturally in places
where the trade of the time demanded them, as they had done in the old
days, otherwise much would have changed. Instead, the new city very
largely rebuilt itself on the foundations of the old, quite regardless
of comfort or utility.
Its supremacy as a Port was never in doubt. With the tremendous break
in London’s commerce, caused first by the Plague and then by the
devastation of the Fire, it would have seemed possible for the shipping
to decrease permanently; but it never did. So firmly was London Port
established in the past that it lived on strongly into modern times,
despite many excellent reasons why it should lose its great place.
CHAPTER NINE
_The Riverside and its Palaces_
To-day, when we stand upon Waterloo Bridge and let our gaze rest upon
the Embankment, as it sweeps round in the large arc of a circle from
Blackfriars past Charing Cross to Westminster, it is hard indeed to
picture the time when these massive buildings—hotels, public buildings,
suites of offices, etc.—were not there, when the green grass grew
right down to the water’s edge on the left _strand_ or bank of the
River, when a walk from the one city to the other was a walk through
country lanes and fields. It is hard indeed to brush away all the ugly,
grey reminders of the present, and see a little of the past in its
beauty—for beautiful the River undoubtedly was in Plantagenet, Tudor,
and Stuart times.
We have spoken of the growth of the city, and what the River meant
to it; of the wharves and warehouses which extended from the Tower
to the Fleet River. That was the commercial London of those days.
Westwards from the Fleet, along the side of the Thames, spread the more
picturesque signs of London’s prosperity—the dwellings of some of the
wealthy and influential.
[Illustration: THE FLEET RIVER AT BLACKFRIARS (A.D. 1760).]
From the western end of the city—Ludgate and Newgate—spread out
westwards the suburbs, part of the city, though not actually within
its walls, until an outer limit was reached at Temple Bar, situated at
the western extremity of one of London’s most famous thoroughfares,
Fleet Street, named after the little river which flowed down where
Farringdon and New Bridge Streets are, and which emptied itself, and
still empties itself, in the shape of a main drain, into the Thames
beneath Blackfriars Bridge.
Between Fleet Street and the River stood the Convent of the White
Friars, and that most famous of places the Temple.
In the Middle Ages the Church was far more intimately concerned with
the everyday life of the people than it is to-day, for the simple
reason that the clergy attended to the care of the sick and aged, to
the teaching of the young, and other charitable works. Now it must be
understood that there were in this country two classes of clergy—the
monks, who were known as “regular clergy” (who lived by a regulus
or rule), and the ordinary clergy, much as we have them to-day, in
charge of our cathedrals, parish churches, etc., these last being
known as “secular clergy.” For the upkeep of the Church folk paid
what were known as “tithes.” To begin with, this “tithe,” or tax, was
handed over to the bishop, who divided it out into four parts—one for
the building itself, one for the poor, one for the priest, and one
for himself. Gradually, however, the “regulars” obtained control of
affairs, receiving the tithes, and, instead of giving the full quarters
to the “seculars,” they simply paid them what they thought fit, and
appropriated the remainder for themselves. This led to two things:
the monasteries became enormously wealthy, and the seculars became
exceedingly poor and dissatisfied; so that there was constant strife
between the two branches. Many nobles, ignorant of the true condition
of affairs, and wishing the excellent charitable work of the Church to
be continued, made great gifts to the Church. Unfortunately these very
great gifts were sometimes apt to do the very opposite to what their
donors intended. Instead of the monks devoting themselves more and
more earnestly to the care of the needy, they began to think more of
their own comfort and position. They erected for themselves extensive
and comfortable dwellings, with their own breweries, mills, and farms,
and they lived on the fat of the land. They indulged themselves until
their luxury became a byword with the common people. Then arose two
great teachers, St. Francis of Assisi and St. Dominic, who were led
to protest against the abuses. They founded new Orders of religious
men—called the Friars—who went from place to place with no money and
only such clothes as covered them. These men believed in and taught the
blessedness of poverty.
Many of them came over from the Continent and settled in various parts
of the city. If you pick up a map of London, even one of to-day, you
will see such names as Blackfriars, Whitefriars, Crutched Friars,
Austin Friars—showing where they made their homes. Some, the Black
Friars, took up a position and eventually built for themselves a fine
monastery and church just outside the city walls at the mouth of
the Fleet River. Others, the White Friars or Carmelite Monks, made
themselves secure just to the west of the Fleet.
Whitefriars was one of London’s sanctuaries; within its precincts
wrong-doers were safe from the arm of the Law. Now, in certain periods
of our history, such things as sanctuaries were good; they frequently
prevented innocent men and women suffering at the hands of tyrants and
unscrupulous enemies. So that the right of sanctuary was always most
jealously guarded. But, as time went on, this led to abuses, and when
the monasteries were closed by Henry VIII., the Lord Mayor of London
asked the King to abolish the sanctuary rights of Blackfriars; but he
would not do so. The consequence was that Blackfriars and Whitefriars,
particularly the latter, became sinks of iniquity. In the latter, which
was nicknamed Alsatia, congregated criminals of all sorts—thieves,
coiners, forgers, debtors, cut-throats, burglars—as we can read in
Scott’s novel, “The Fortunes of Nigel.” For years it held its evil
associations, but it became so bad that in 1697 there was passed a
Bill abolishing for ever the sanctuary rights of Whitefriars.
West of Whitefriars is the Temple, which, with its quiet old
courtyards, its beautiful church, and its restful gardens stretching
down to the Embankment, is one of London’s most fascinating places.
It gets its name from its founders, the Knights Templars—a great Order
of men who lived in the time of the Crusades, and whose white mantles
with a red cross have been famous ever since. These knights, who took
vows to remain unmarried and poor, set themselves the great task of
guarding the pilgrims’ roads to the Holy Land.
In 1184 the Red Cross Knights settled on the banks of the River Thames,
and made their home there in what was called the New Temple. For 130
years they abode there, gradually increasing in wealth and power, till
in the end their very strength defeated them. Princes and nobles who
had given them great gifts of money for their worthy work saw that
money used, not for charitable purposes, but to keep up the pomp and
luxury of the place, and soon various folk in high places coveted the
Templars’ wealth and power, and determined to defeat them.
So well did these folk work that in 1313 the Order was broken up, and
the property came into the King’s hands. A few years later the Temple
was leased by the Crown to those men who were studying the Law in
London, and in their hands it has been ever since, becoming their own
property in the reign of King James I.
Originally the Temple was divided into three parts—the Inner Temple,
the Outer Temple, and the Middle Temple. The Outer Temple, which stood
west of Temple Bar, and therefore outside the city, was pulled down
years ago, and now only the two remain.
Here in their chambers congregate the barristers who conduct the cases
in the Law Courts just across the road; and here are still to be found
the students, all of whom must spend a certain time in the Temple (or
in one of the other Inns of Court—Gray’s Inn or Lincoln’s Inn) before
being allowed to practise as a barrister.
[Illustration: OLD TEMPLE BAR, FLEET STREET (NOW AT THEOBALD’S PARK).]
The Temple Church, which belongs to both Inns of Court, is one of the
few pieces of Norman architecture which survive to us in London. It
is round in shape, now a rare thing. On the floor, and in many other
places, may be seen the Templars’ emblem—the red cross on a white
ground with the Paschal Lamb in the centre. Figures of departed knights
keep watch over this strange church, their legs crossed to signify (so
it is said) that they had fought in one or other of the Crusades.
[Illustration:
The Strand from the ... Castle Hill. Ealing. York House. Durham House.
Bedford House.]
[Illustration:
... Thames in the XVI^{cent} Temple Church. Somerset House. Arundel
House. Essex House. Whitefriars Stairs.]
The Temple Gardens, which still run down to the Embankment, were one
time famous for their roses, and, according to Shakespeare, were the
scene of that famous argument which led to the bitter struggle known as
the War of the Roses. You probably remember the famous passage, ending
with the lines—
“And here I prophesy—this brawl to-day, Grown to this faction in the
Temple Garden, Shall send between the red rose and the white A thousand
souls to death and deadly night.”
_First Part of King Henry VI._, Act II. Sc. 4.
Westwards from the Temple as far as Westminster stretched a practically
unbroken line of palaces, each standing in beautiful grounds which
sloped down in terraces to the water’s edge. There was Somerset House,
which for long was a Royal residence. Lord Protector Somerset began
the building of it in 1549, pulling down a large part of St. Paul’s
cloisters and also the churches of St. John’s, Clerkenwell, and St.
Mary’s le Strand to provide the materials for his builders; but long
before its completion Somerset was executed for treason, and the
property went to the Crown.
Here Elizabeth lived occasionally while her sister Mary was reigning.
The old palace was pulled down in 1756, and the present fine building
erected on the site. This modern structure, with its fine river front,
so well combines strength and elegance that it seems a pity it does not
stand clear of other buildings.
The rest of the palaces, westwards, survive for the most part only as
names. Where now rises the great mass of the Savoy Hotel once stood
the ancient Palace of the Savoy, rising, like some of the city houses,
straight out of the River, with a splendid water-gate in the centre.
It was the oldest of the Strand palaces, being built by Peter of
Savoy as early as 1245. After various ownerships, it passed into the
hands of John of Gaunt, and was his when it was plundered and almost
entirely burnt down by the followers of Wat Tyler in 1381. From that
time onwards it had a chequered existence, being in turn prison and
hospital, till at last in 1805 it was swept away when the approach to
Waterloo Bridge was made. There is still in the street leading down to
the Embankment the tiny Chapel Royal of the Savoy, but it has been too
often restored to have much more interest than a name.
Where now comes the Cecil Hotel stood originally the famous palace or
inn of the Cecils, the Earls of Salisbury. York House, the town palace
of the Archbishops of York, stood where now is Charing Cross Station.
This at one time belonged to the famous Steenie, Duke of Buckingham and
favourite of James I. Buckingham pulled down the old house in order
that another and more glorious might rise in its place; but this was
never done. Only the water-gate was built, and this lovely relic still
stands in the Embankment Gardens, and from its position, some distance
behind the river-wall, shows us how skilful engineers have saved quite
a wide strip of the foreshore.
In all probability each of these Strand palaces had its water-gate,
from which the nobles and their ladies set out in their gay barges
when about to attend the Court at Westminster or go shopping in London.
[Illustration: THE WATER-GATE OF YORK HOUSE.]
Just beyond York House came Hungerford House, which has given its
name to the railway bridge crossing from the station; and then came
Northumberland House, which was the last of the great historic
riverside palaces to be demolished, being pulled down in comparatively
modern times to make way for Northumberland Avenue. Other famous
palaces are remembered in the names of Durham Street and Scotland Yard.
When in 1529 Wolsey fell from his high estate, Henry VIII., his
unscrupulous master, at once took possession of his palace at
Whitehall, and made it the principal Royal residence. To give it
suitable surroundings he formed (for his own sport and pleasure)
the park which we now call St. James’s Park. When later he
dissolved the monasteries he seized a small hospital, known as St.
James-in-the-Fields, standing on the far side of the estate, and
converted it into a hunting lodge. This afterwards became the famous
Palace of St. James’s.
Of Whitehall Palace all that now remains is the Banqueting Hall (now
used to house the exhibits of the United Service Institution), built
in the reign of James I. by the famous architect Inigo Jones; the rest
perished by fire soon after the revolution of 1688. For some time
afterwards St. James’s Palace was the only Royal residence in London,
but the Sovereigns soon provided themselves with the famous Kensington
and Buckingham Palaces.
[Illustration: THE BANQUETING HALL, WHITEHALL PALACE.]
CHAPTER TEN
_Royal Westminster—The Abbey_
The story of Westminster is nearly as old as that of London itself.
In our first chapter we spoke of the position of London being fixed to
a large extent by the Kent road passing from Dover to the Midlands.
That road, heading from Rochester, originally passed over—and still
passes over—the Darent at Dartford, the Cray at Crayford, the
Ravensbourne at Deptford; and then made its way, not to the crossing
at Billingsgate, but to a still older ford or ferry which existed in
very early days at the spot where Westminster now stands. If you look
at the map of London, you will see that the Edgware Road, passing in a
south-easterly direction from St. Albans, comes down, with but a slight
curve, as if to meet this north-westerly Kent road. That they did so
meet there is but little doubt, and this meeting gave us the Royal City
of Westminster.
[Illustration: THE RIVER AT THORNEY ISLAND.]
In pre-Roman days Lambeth and Westminster, Belgravia and Chelsea, were
simply reedy marshes. Out of them rose a number of gravelly islands
of various sizes, and one of these, larger and more solid than the
rest—Thorney or Bramble Island—became in due course the site of the
city which for centuries was second only to London itself; for though
the building of the Bridge and the rapid growth of the Port meant the
diversion of the Kentish Watling Street to a new route through London,
the Thorney Island settlement grew just as steadily as that of the
bluff lower down the stream, till eventually it held England’s most
celebrated Abbey and Royal Palace, and its Houses of Parliament.
As so often happened in early days, the settlement developed round
a religious house. Probably it originated in a British fortress.
Certainly it comprised a considerable Roman station and market. But all
that lies in the misty past. The legend remains that in the year 604
Sebert, King of the East Saxons, there founded a minster of the west
(St. Peter’s) to rival the minster of the east (St. Paul’s) which was
being erected within the City of London; and indeed we are still shown
in the Abbey the tomb of this traditional founder.
When we come to the reign of Edward the Confessor we begin to get to
actual definite things. Edward, as we know from our history books, was
a very religious man, almost as much a monk as a King; and he took
special delight in rebuilding ruined churches. While he was in exile in
Normandy he made a vow to St. Peter that he would go on pilgrimage to
Rome if ever he came into his kingdom. When, in the passage of time, he
became King, and proposed to carry out his vows, his counsellors would
not hear of such a journey; and, in the end, the Pope of Rome released
him from his vow on condition that he agreed to build an Abbey to the
glory of St. Peter.
This Edward did. His own particular friend, Edwin, presided over the
small monastery of Thorney, so Edward determined to make this the site
of his new Abbey. Pulling down the old place, he devoted a tenth part
of his income to the raising of the new “Collegiate Church of St. Peter
of Westminster.” Commenced in the year 1049, it became the King’s
life-work, and was consecrated only eight days before his death.
In order that he might see the builders at work on his favourite
project, he built himself a palace between the Abbey and the River, and
for fifteen years he watched the rising into being of such an Abbey as
England had never known. He endowed it lavishly with estates, and gave
it the right of sanctuary, whereby all men should be safe within its
walls.
Of course, the fine structure we see as we stand in the open space
known as Broad Sanctuary is not the Confessor’s building. Of that, all
that now remains is the Chapel of the Pyx, the great schoolroom of
Westminster School, which was the old monks’ dormitory, and portions
of the walls of the south cloister. The rest has been added from time
to time by the various Sovereigns. Henry III., in 1245, pulled down
large portions of the old structure, and erected a beautiful chapel
to contain the remains of the Abbey’s founder, and this chapel we can
visit to-day. In it lies the sainted Confessor, borne thither on the
shoulders of the Plantagenet nobles whose humbler tombs surround the
shrine; also his Queen, Eleanor; Edward III., and that Queen who saved
the lives of the burghers of Calais; also the luckless Richard II.
[Illustration: Henry VII.’s Chapel, Westminster Abbey.]
Other Sovereigns also took a share; but it was left to Henry VII. to
give us the body of the Abbey mainly in the shape we know. At enormous
expense he erected the famous Perpendicular chapel, called by his
name—one of the most beautiful and magnificent chapels in the whole
world.
When we stand in the subdued light in this exquisite building, and
examine the beautifully fretted stone-work of its amazing roof—a “dream
in stone,” its “walls wrought into universal ornament,” the richly
carved, dark-oak stalls of the Knights of the Bath with the banners
of their Order drooping overhead—we find it hard to recall that this
miserly man was one of the least popular of England’s Kings.
In this spot lie, in addition to the remains of Henry himself, those of
most of our later Kings and Queens. Here side by side the sisters Mary
and Elizabeth “are at one; the daughter of Catherine of Aragon and the
daughter of Anne Boleyn repose in peace at last.” Here, too, rests that
tragic figure of history, Mary Queen of Scots; and James I., Charles
I., William III., Queen Anne, and George II.
For numbers of us one of the most interesting parts of the Abbey will
always be “Poets’ Corner,” in the south transept. Here rest all that
remains of many of our mightiest wielders of the pen, from Chaucer, the
father of English poetry, down to Tennyson and Browning. Many of the
names on the monuments which cluster so closely together are forgotten
now, just as their works are never read; but the tablets to the memory
of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Dryden, Dickens, Tennyson, and Browning,
will always serve to remind us of the mighty dead. The north transept
is devoted largely to the monuments to our great statesmen and our
great warriors.
[Illustration: WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]
In the Choir we come upon the Coronation Chairs. The Confessor in
building his church had in mind that the Abbey should be the place of
coronation of England’s Sovereigns; and down through the centuries
this custom has been observed. Indeed, certain parts of the regalia
worn by the King or Queen on Coronation Day are actually the identical
articles presented to the Abbey by Edward himself. The old and battered
chair is that of Edward I., the “hammer of the Scots,” who lies buried
with his fellow Plantagenets in the Confessor’s Chapel. Just under
the seat of the chair is the famous “stone of destiny,” brought from
Scone by Edward, to mark the completeness of the defeat. Its removal to
Westminster sorely troubled our northern neighbours, for they believed
that the Supreme Power travelled with that stone. Since those days
every English Sovereign has been crowned in this chair. Its companion
was made for Mary, wife of William III.
In the Nave lies one of the most frequently visited of all the
tombs—the last resting-place of the Unknown Warrior, who, brought over
from France and buried with all the grandeur and solemnity of a Royal
funeral, typifies for us the thousands of brave lads who made the great
sacrifice—who died that we might live.
What most of us forget is that the place which we call Westminster
Abbey was only the Chapel belonging to the Abbey, the place where the
monks worshipped. In addition there was a whole collection of buildings
where the monks ate, slept, studied, worked, etc. Of these most have
been swept away. If we pass out through the door of the South Aisle we
can see the ancient cloisters where the monks washed themselves, took
their exercise and such little recreation as they were allowed, and
where they buried their brothers. There was also the Abbot’s House,
which afterwards became the Deanery, and there was the Chapter House,
a building which fortunately has been preserved to us almost in its
original condition. This was the place where the business of the Abbey
was conducted, where the monks came together each day after Matins in
order that the tasks of the day might be allotted and God’s blessing
asked, where afterwards offenders were tried and penances imposed. Till
the end of the reign of Henry VIII. the House of Commons met in this
chamber when the monks were not using it; and afterwards it was set
aside as an office for the keeping of records. When in 1540 came the
dissolution of the Abbey, the Chapter House became Royal property, and
that is why we now see a policeman in charge of it instead of one of
the Abbey vergers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Royal Westminster—The Houses of Parliament_
When in the eleventh century Edward the Confessor built the palace from
which to survey the erection of his beloved Abbey, he little dreamed
that upon the very spot would meet the Parliament of an Empire greater
even than Rome; nor did he realize that through several centuries
Westminster Palace would be the favourite home of the Kings and Queens
of England.
William Rufus added to the Confessor’s edifice, and also partially
built the walls of the Great Hall, which is the sole thing that
remains of the ancient fabric. Other Kings enlarged the palace from
time to time. Stephen erected the Chapel of St. Stephen, in which met
the Commons from the time of Edward VI. till the year 1834, when a
terrible fire wiped out practically the whole of the ancient Palace of
Westminster.
[Illustration: THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.]
To-day, when we stand on Westminster Bridge or Lambeth Bridge, and
survey the huge building which provides London with one of its greatest
landmarks, we are looking at a new Palace: from the River not a stone
of the old structure is visible. A magnificent Palace it is too! Its
towers, one at each end, rise high into the air, one of them 320 feet
high, the other 20 feet more; and its buildings cover a matter of 8
acres. From Westminster Bridge we see the whole of the river front,
900 feet long, with the famous “terrace” in front, where in summer the
Members of Parliament stroll and take tea with their friends.
Westminster Hall, which fortunately survived the disastrous fire of
1834, is on the side farthest from the River: it runs parallel with the
House of Commons, and projects from the main building just opposite the
end of the Henry VII. Chapel in the Abbey.
If we enter the Parliament buildings we shall very possibly do so by
the famous hall known as St. Stephen’s Hall—built on the site of the
ancient House of Commons. Westminster Hall then lies to our left, as
we enter, down a flight of steps.
Let us descend for a few moments, for the Hall is perhaps the finest
of its kind in all our land. Its vast emptiness silences the words
which rise to our lips: we feel instinctively that this is a place
of wonderful memories. Our eyes travel along the mighty, carved-oak
roof which spans the great width of the building, and we can scarcely
believe that this roof was built so long ago as the time of Richard
II., or even earlier, and that it is still the actual timbers we see in
places.
What stories could these ancient stones beneath our feet tell us,
had they but the power! What tales of joy and what tales of terrible
tragedy! Here were held many of the festivities which followed the
coronation ceremonies in the Abbey. Henry III. here showed to the
citizens his bride, Eleanor of Provence, when “there were assembled
such a multitude of the nobility of both sexes, such numbers of the
religious, and such a variety of stage-players, that the City of
London could scarcely contain them.... Whatever the world pours forth
of pleasure and glory was there specially displayed.” And yet a few
years later saw that same Henry taking part in a vastly different
spectacle—when, in the presence of a gathering equally distinguished,
he was compelled to watch the Archbishop of Canterbury as he threw to
the stone floor of the Hall a lighted torch, with these words: “Thus be
extinguished and stink and smoke in hell all those who dare to violate
the charters of the Kingdom.”
A plate let into the floor tells us that on that spot stood Wentworth,
Earl of Strafford, strong Minister of a weak King, when he was tried
for his life; while upon the stairs which we have descended is another
tablet to mark the spot whence that weak King himself, Charles I.,
heard his death sentence. Here, too, were tried William Wallace, Thomas
More, and Warren Hastings, while just outside in Old Palace Yard the
half-demented Guido Fawkes and the proud, scholarly Sir Walter Raleigh
met their deaths.
Returning to St. Stephen’s Hall, which is lined with the statues
of the great statesmen who were famous in the older chamber, and
passing up another flight of steps, we find ourselves in the octagonal
Central Hall, or, as it is more usually called, the Lobby. Here we are
practically in the middle of the great pile of buildings. To our right,
as we enter, stretches the House of Lords and all the apartments that
pertain to it—the Audience Chamber, the Royal Robing Room, the Peers’
Robing Room, the House of Lords Library—ending in the stately square
tower, known as the Victoria Tower. To our left lies the House of
Commons and all its committee, dining, smoking, reading-rooms, etc.,
ending in the famous “Big Ben” tower. “Big Ben” is, of course, known
to everybody. Countless thousands have heard his 13½ tons of metal
boom out the hour of the day, and have set their watches right by the
14-foot minute-hands of the four clock-faces, which each measure 23
feet across.
The House of Lords itself is a fine building, 90 feet long and 45
feet wide, its walls and ceiling beautifully decorated with paintings
representing famous scenes from our history. At one end is the King’s
gorgeous throne, and beside it, slightly lower, those of the Queen and
the Prince of Wales. Just in front is the famous “Woolsack,” an ugly
red seat, stuffed with wool, as a reminder of the days when wool was
the chief source of the nation’s wealth. On this, when the House is in
session, sits the Lord Chancellor of England, who presides over the
assembly.
The House of Commons is not quite so ornate: here the benches are
upholstered in a quiet green. At the far end is the Speaker’s Chair.
The Speaker, as you probably know, is the chairman of the House of
Commons, the member who has been chosen by his fellows to control the
debates and keep order in the House. In front of the Speaker’s Chair is
a table, at which sit three men in wigs and gowns, the Clerks of the
House. On the table lies the Mace—the heavy staff which is the emblem
of authority.
CHAPTER TWELVE
_The Riverside of To-day_
The Riverside of to-day is noticeable for many things, but for nothing
more so than the very great difference between the two banks. On the
one hand we have a magnificent Embankment sweeping round through almost
the entire length of the River’s passage through London, with large and
important buildings surmounting the thoroughfare; while on the other
hand we have nothing but a huddled collection of commercial buildings,
right on the water’s edge—unimposing, dingy, and dismal, save in the
one spot where the new County Hall breaks the ugly monotony and gives
promise of better things in future for the Surrey shore.
The Embankment on the Middlesex side may perhaps be said to be one of
the outcomes of the Great Fire, for, though its construction was not
undertaken till 1870, it was one of the main improvements suggested
by Sir Christopher Wren in his scheme for the rebuilding of London.
The Victoria Embankment, which sweeps round from Blackfriars to
Westminster, is a mile and a quarter long. Its river face consists of a
great granite wall, 8 feet in thickness, with tunnels inside it for the
carrying of sewers, water-mains, gas-pipes, etc., all of which can be
reached without interfering with that splendid wide road beneath which
the Underground Railway runs. There is a continuation of the Embankment
on the south side from Westminster to Vauxhall, known as the Albert
Embankment, while on the north it runs, with some interruptions, as far
as Chelsea.
One of the most interesting sights of the Embankment is Cleopatra’s
Needle—a tall stone obelisk, which stands by the water’s edge. This
stone, one of the oldest monuments in the world, stood originally
in the ancient city of On, in Egypt, and formed part of an enormous
temple to the sun-god. Later it was shifted with a similar stone to
Alexandria, there to take a place in the Cæsarium—the temple erected in
honour of the Roman Emperors. Centuries passed: the Cæsarium fell into
ruins, and Cleopatra’s obelisk lay forgotten in the sand. Eventually
it was offered to this country by the Khedive of Egypt, but the task
of transporting it was so difficult that nothing was done till 1877-8,
when Sir Erasmus Wilson undertook the enormous cost of the removal. It
has nothing to do with Cleopatra.
Of the bridges over the River we have already dealt with the most
famous—the remarkable old London Bridge which stood for so many
centuries and only came to an end in 1832. Westminster Bridge, built in
1750, was the first rival to the ancient structure, and though it was
but a poor affair it made the City Council very dissatisfied with their
possession. Nor was this surprising, for the old bridge had got into a
very bad state, so that in 1756 the City Fathers decided to demolish
all the buildings on the bridge, and to make a parapet and proper
footwalks.
Up to the time of King George II. there was at Westminster merely a
jetty or landing-stage used in connection with the ferry that was used
in place of the ancient ford; but during this King’s reign Westminster,
and, shortly afterwards, Blackfriars Bridge, came into being. Battersea
and Vauxhall, Waterloo (built two years after the battle), Southwark,
Chelsea, and Lambeth followed in fairly rapid succession. Of these,
Westminster, Blackfriars, Battersea, Vauxhall, and Southwark have
already been rebuilt.
Old Vauxhall Bridge was the first cast-iron bridge ever built;
Wandsworth was the first lattice bridge; Waterloo Bridge the first ever
made with a perfectly level roadway. Hungerford Bridge, which stretched
where now that atrociously ugly iron structure, the Charing Cross
Railway bridge, defiles the River, was originally designed by Brunel,
the eminent engineer, to span the gorge over the Avon at Clifton,
but it was eventually placed in position across the Thames. When the
atrocity was built the suspension bridge was taken back to Clifton,
where it now hangs like a spider’s web over the mighty gap in the hills.
[Illustration: ST. PAUL’S FROM THE SOUTH END OF SOUTHWARK BRIDGE.]
Until the close of the nineteenth century London Bridge enjoyed the
distinction of being the lowest bridge on the River’s course; but in
1894 the wonderful Tower Bridge was opened. This mighty structure,
which was commenced in 1886, cost no less than £830,000. In its
construction 235,000 cubic feet of granite and other stone, 20,000 tons
of cement, 10,000 yards of concrete, 31,000,000 bricks, and 14,000 tons
of steel were used. In its centre are two bascules, each weighing 1,200
tons, which swing upwards to allow big ships to pass into the Pool.
Although these enormous bascules, the largest in the world, weigh so
much, they work by hydraulic force as smoothly and easily as a door
opens and shuts.
Of the buildings on the south side of the River practically none
are worthy of notice save the Shot Tower—where lead-shot is made by
dropping the molten metal from the top of the shaft—the new County
Hall, and St. Thomas’s Hospital at Westminster. The County Hall is a
splendid structure, one of the finest of its kind in the whole world.
It possesses miles of corridors, hundreds of rooms, and what is more,
a magnificent water frontage. The architect is Mr. Ralph Knott. St.
Thomas’s Hospital, which stands close to it, is one of a number of
excellent hospitals in various parts of London. When in 1539 the
monasteries were closed, London was left without anything in the way
of hospitals, or alms-houses, or schools; for the care of the sick,
the infirm, and the young had always been the work of the monks and
the nuns. In consequence, London suffered terribly. Matters became so
extremely serious that the City Fathers approached the King with a
view to the return of some of these institutions. Their petition was
granted, and King Henry gave back St. Bartholomew’s, Christ’s Hospital,
and the Bethlehem Hospital. Later King Edward VI. allowed the people
to purchase St. Thomas’s Hospital—the hospital of the old Abbey of
Bermondsey. When in 1871 the South-Eastern Railway Company purchased
the ground on which the old structure stood, a new and more convenient
building was erected on the Albert Embankment opposite the Houses of
Parliament.
As we stand once more on Westminster Bridge and see the two great
places, one on each side, where our lawmakers sit—those of the Nation
and those of the great City—our glance falls on the dirty water of
old Father Thames slipping by; and we think to ourselves that great
statesmen may spring to fame and then die and leave England the poorer,
governments good and bad may rise and fall, changes of all sorts may
happen within these two stately buildings, the very stones may crumble
to dust, but still the River flows on—silent, irresistible.
BOOK III
THE UPPER RIVER
[Illustration: THE CASTLE KEEP, OXFORD.]
THE UPPER RIVER
CHAPTER ONE
_Stripling Thames_
Just where the Thames starts has always been a matter of argument, for
several places have laid claim to the honour of holding the source of
this great national possession.
About three miles south-west of Cirencester, and quite close to that
ancient and famous highway the Ackman Street (or Bath fosseway),
there is a meadow known as Trewsbury Mead, lying in a low part of the
western Cotswolds, just where Wiltshire and Gloucestershire meet; and
in this is situated what is commonly known as “Thames Head”—a spring
which in winter bubbles forth from a hollow, but which in summer is so
completely dried by the action of the Thames Head Pump, which drains
the water from this and all other springs in the neighbourhood, that
the cradle of the infant Thames is usually bone-dry for a couple of
miles or more of its course. This spot is usually recognized as the
beginning of the River.
[Illustration: THAMES HEAD.]
If, however, we consider that the source of a river is the point at
greatest distance from the mouth we shall have to look elsewhere;
for the famous “Seven Streams” at the foot of Leckhampton Hill, from
which comes the brook later known as the River Churn, can claim the
distinction of being a few more miles from the North Sea; and this
distinction has frequently been recognized as sufficient to grant the
claim to be the true commencement.
But the Churn has always been the Churn (indeed, the Romans named the
neighbouring settlement from the stream—Churn-chester or Cirencester);
and no one has ever thought of calling it the Thames. Whereas the
stream beginning in Trewsbury Mead has from time immemorial been known
as the Thames (Isis is only an alternative name, not greatly used in
early days); and so the verdict of history seems to be on its side,
whatever geography may have to say.
Nevertheless it matters little which can most successfully support
its claim. What does matter is that Churn, and Isis, and Leach, and
Ray, and Windrush, and the various other feeders, give of their waters
in sufficient quantity to ensure a considerable river later on. From
the point of view of their usefulness both the main stream and the
tributaries are negligible till we come to Lechlade, for only there
does navigation and consequently trade begin. But if the stream is not
very useful, it is exceedingly pretty, with quaint rustic bridges
spanning its narrow channel, and fine old-world mills and mansions and
cottages and numbers of ancient churches on its banks.
[Illustration:
Lechlade from the First Lock.]
The first place of any size is the little town of Cricklade, which can
even boast of two churches. Here the little brooks of infant Thames
(or Isis) and Churn join forces, and yield quite a flowing stream. At
Lechlade the rivulet is joined by the Colne, and its real life as a
river commences. From now on to London there is a towing-path beside
the river practically the whole of the way, for navigation by barges
thus early becomes possible.
From Lechlade onwards to Old Windsor, a matter of about a hundred
miles, the upper Thames has on its right bank the county of Berkshire,
with its beautiful Vale of the White Horse, remembered, of course,
by all readers of “Tom Brown’s Schooldays.” On the left bank is
Oxfordshire as far as Henley, and Buckinghamshire afterwards.
In and out the “stripling Thames” winds its way, clear as crystal as
it slips past green meadows and little copses. There is very little to
note as we pass between Lechlade and Oxford, a matter of forty miles or
so. Owing to the clay bed, not a town of any sort finds a place on or
near the banks. Such villages as there are stand few and far between.
Just past Lechlade there is Kelmscott, where William Morris dwelt for
some time in the Manor House; and the village will always be famous
for that. There in the old-world place he wrote the fine poems and
tales which later he printed in some of the most beautiful books ever
made, and there he thought out his beautiful designs for wall-papers,
carpets, curtains, etc. He was a wonderful man, was William Morris, a
day-dreamer who was not content with his dreams until they had taken
actual shape.
[Illustration: KELMSCOTT MANOR.]
On we go past New Bridge, which is one of the oldest, if not the very
oldest, of the many bridges which cross the River. Close at hand the
Windrush joins forces, and the River swells and grows wider as it
sweeps off to the north. Away on the hill on the Berkshire side is
a little village known as Cumnor, which is not of any importance in
itself, but which is interesting because there once stood the famous
Cumnor Hall, where the beautiful Amy Robsart met with her untimely
death, as possibly some of you have read in Sir Walter Scott’s novel
“Kenilworth.” Receiving the Evenlode, the River bends south again,
and a little later we pass Godstow Lock, not far from which are the
ruins of Godstow Nunnery, where Fair Rosamund lived and was afterwards
buried. Between Godstow and Oxford is a huge, flat piece of meadowland,
known as Port Meadow: this during the War formed one of our most
important flying-grounds.
Henceforward the upper Thames is interrupted at fairly frequent
intervals by those man-made contrivances known as _locks_—ingenious
affairs which in recent years have taken the place of or rather
supplemented the old-fashioned weirs. For any river which boasts of
serious water traffic the chief difficulty, especially in summer-time,
has always been that of holding back sufficient water to enable the
boats to keep afloat. Naturally with a sloping bed the water runs
rapidly seawards, and if the supply is not plentiful the river soon
tends to become shallow or even dry. In very early days man noticed
this, and, copying the beaver, he erected dams or weirs to hold
back the water, and keep it at a reasonable depth. And down through
the centuries until comparatively recent years these dams or weirs
sufficed. As man progressed he fashioned his weirs with a number of
“paddles” which lifted up and down to allow a boat to pass through.
When the craft was moving downstream just one or two paddles were
raised, and the boat shot through the narrow opening on the crest of
the rapids thus formed; but when the boat was making its way upstream
more paddles were raised so that the rush of water was not so great,
and the boat was with difficulty hauled through the opening in face of
the strong current. This very picturesque but primitive method lasted
until comparatively recent years. Now the old paddle-locks have gone
the way of all ancient and delightful things, and in their places we
have the thoroughly effective “pound-locks”—affairs with double gates
and a pool or dock in between—which in reality convert the river into
a long series of water-terraces or steps, dropping lower and lower the
nearer we approach the mouth.
CHAPTER TWO
_Oxford_
One hundred and twelve miles above London Bridge there is the second
most celebrated city on the banks of the Thames—Oxford, the “city of
spires,” as it has been called. By no means a big place, it is famous
as the home of our oldest University.
Seen from a distance, Oxford is a place of great beauty, especially
when the meadows round about are flooded. Then it seems to rise from
the water like some English Venice. Nor does the beauty grow less as
we approach closer, or when we view the city from some other point.
Always we see the delicate spires of the Cathedral and the churches,
the beautiful towers of the various colleges, the great dome of the
Radcliffe Camera, all of them nestling among glorious gardens and fine
old trees.
The question at once comes into our minds, Why is it that there is a
famous city here? Why should such a place as this, right out in the
country, away from what might be called the main arteries of the life
of England, be one of the most important seats of learning?
To understand this we must go back a long way, and we must ask
ourselves the question, Why was there ever anything—even a village—here
at all? If we think a little we shall see that in the early days, when
there were not very many good roads, and when there were still fewer
bridges, the most important spots along a river were the places where
people could cross: that is to say, the fords. To these spots came
the merchants with their waggons and their trains of pack-horses, the
generals with their armies, the drovers with their cattle, the pilgrims
with their staves. All and sundry, journeying from place to place, made
for the fords, while the long stretches of river bank between these
places were never visited and seldom heard of.
Now, what made a ford? Shallow water, you say. Yes, that is true. But
shallow water was not enough. It was necessary besides that the bed of
the stream should be firm and hard, so that those who wished might
find a safe crossing. And places where such a bottom could be found
were few and far between along the course of the Thames. Practically
everywhere it was soft clay in which the feet of the men and the
animals and the wheels of the waggons sank deep if they tried to get
from bank to bank.
But, just at the point where the Thames bends southwards, just before
the Cherwell flows into it, there is a stretch of gravel which in years
gone by made an excellent ford and provided a suitable spot on which
some sort of a settlement might grow.
How old that settlement is no one knows. Legend tells us that a Mercian
saint by the name of Frideswide, together with a dozen companions,
founded a nunnery here somewhere about the year 700. Certainly the
village is mentioned under the name of Oxenford (that is, the ford of
the oxen) in the Saxon Chronicle, a book of ancient history written
about a thousand years ago; and we know that Edward the Elder took
possession of it, and, building a castle and walls, made a royal
residence. So that it is a place of great antiquity.
Another question that comes into our minds is this, When did Oxford
become the great home of learning which it has so long been? Here
again the truth is difficult to ascertain. Legend tells us that King
Alfred founded the schools, but that is rather more than doubtful. We
do know that during the twelfth century there was a great growth in
learning. Right throughout Europe great schools sprang into existence,
one of the most important being that in Paris. Thither went numbers of
Englishmen to learn, and they, returning to their own land, founded
schools in different parts, usually in connection with the monasteries
and the cathedrals. Such a school was one which grew into being at St.
Frideswide’s monastery at Oxford. Also King Henry I. (Beauclerc—the
fine scholar—as he was called) built a palace at Oxford, and there he
gathered together many learned men, and from that time people gradually
began to flock to Oxford for education. They tramped weary miles
through the forest, across the hills and dales, and so came to the
little town, only to find it crowded out with countless others as poor
as themselves; but they were not disheartened. There being no proper
places for teaching, they gathered with their masters, also equally
poor, wherever they could find a quiet spot, in a porch, or a loft, or
a stable; and so the torch was handed on. Gradually lecture-rooms, or
schools as they were called, and lodging-houses or halls, were built,
and life became more bearable. Then in 1229 came an accident which yet
further established Oxford in its position. This accident took the form
of a riot in the streets of Paris, during the course of which several
scholars of Paris University were killed by the city archers. Serious
trouble between the University folk and the Provost of Paris came of
this; and, in the end, there was a very great migration of students
from Paris to Oxford; and, a few years after, England could boast of
Oxford as a famous centre of learning.
But it was not till the reign of Henry III. that a real college, as we
understand it, came into being. Then, in the year 1264, one Walter
de Merton gathered together in one house a number of students, and
there they lived and were taught; and thus Merton, the oldest of the
colleges, began. Others soon followed—Balliol, watched over by the
royal Dervorguilla; University College, founded by William of Durham,
who was one to come over after the Paris town and gown quarrel; New
College; and so on, college after college, until now, as we wander
about the streets of this charming old city, it seems almost as if
every other building is a college. And magnificent buildings they
are too, with their glorious towers and gateways, their beautiful
stained-glass windows, their panelled walls. To wander round the city
of Oxford is to step back seemingly into a forgotten age, so worn and
ancient-looking are these piles of masonry. Modern clothes seem utterly
out of place in such an antique spot.
[Illustration:
MAGDALEN TOWER _from the_ BRIDGE.]
Different folk, of course, will regard different colleges as holding
pride of place; but, I am sure, all will agree that one of the finest
is Magdalen College, a beautiful building standing amid cool, green
meadows. Very fine indeed is the great tower, built in 1492, from the
top of which every May morning the College choir sings a glad hymn of
praise; and very fine too are the cloisters below, and the lovely leafy
walks in whose shade many famous men have walked in their youthful days.
If we grant to Magdalen its claim to be the most beautiful of the
colleges, we must undoubtedly recognize Christ Church as the most
magnificent. We shall see something of the splendour of Cardinal
Wolsey’s ideas with regard to building when we talk about his palace
at Hampton Court, and we need feel no surprise at the grandeur of
Christ Church. Unfortunately, Wolsey’s ideas were never carried out:
his fall from favour put an end to the work when but three sides of the
Great Quadrangle had been completed; and then for just on a century
the fabric stood in its unfinished state—a monument to o’erleaping
ambition. Nevertheless it was completed, and though it is not all that
Wolsey intended it to be, it is still one of the glories of the city.
Built round about the old Cathedral, it stands upon the site of the
ancient St. Frideswide’s priory.
The famous “Tom Tower” which stands in the centre of the front of the
building was not a part of the original idea: it was added in 1682
by Dr. Fell, according to the design of Sir Christopher Wren, the
architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral. “Tom Tower” is so called because of
its great bell, brought from Osney Abbey. “Great Tom,” which weighs no
less than six tons, peals forth each night at nine o’clock a hundred
and one strokes, and by the time of the last stroke all the College
gates are supposed to be shut and all the undergraduates safely within
the College buildings.
The most wonderful possession of Christ Church is its glorious “Early
English” hall, in which the members of the College dine daily: 115 feet
long, 40 feet broad, and 50 feet high, it is unrivalled in all England,
with perhaps the exception of Westminster Hall. Here at the tables have
sat many of England’s most famous men—courtiers, writers, politicians,
soldiers, artists—and the portraits of a number of them, painted by
famous painters, look down from the ancient walls.
But these are only two of the colleges. At every turn some other
architectural beauty, some dream in stone, discloses itself, for the
colleges are dotted about all over the centre of the town, and at every
other corner there is some spot of great interest. To describe them all
briefly would more than fill the pages of this book.
Nor are colleges the only delightful buildings in this city of
beautiful places. There is the famous Sheldonian Theatre, built from
Wren’s plans: this follows the model of an ancient Roman theatre,
and will seat four thousand people. There is the celebrated Bodleian
Library, founded as early as 1602, and containing a rich collection of
rare Eastern and Greek and Latin books and manuscripts. The Bodleian,
like the British Museum, has the right to call for a copy of every book
published in the United Kingdom.
But Oxford has known a life other than that of a university town:
it has been in its time a military centre of some importance. As we
sweep round northwards in the train from London, just before we enter
the city, the great square tower of the Castle stands out, one of the
most prominent objects in the town. And it is really one of the most
interesting too, though few find time to visit it. So absorbed are most
folk in the churches and chapels, the libraries and college halls, with
their exquisite carvings and ornamentations and their lovely gardens,
that they forget this frowning relic of the Conqueror’s day—the most
lasting monument of the city. Built in 1071 by Robert d’Oilly, boon
companion of the Conqueror, it has stood the test of time through all
these centuries. Like Windsor, that other Norman stronghold, it has
seen little enough of actual fighting: in Oxford the pen has nearly
always been mightier than the sword.
One brief episode of war it had when Stephen shut up his cousin, the
Empress Maud, within its walls in the autumn of 1142. Then Oxford
tasted siege if not assault, and the castle was locked up for three
months. However, the River and the weather contrived to save Maud,
for, just as provisions were giving out and surrender was only a
matter of days, there came a severe frost and the waters were thickly
covered. Then it was that the Empress with but two or three white-clad
attendants escaped across the ice and made her way to Wallingford,
while her opponents closely guarded the roads and bridges.
Nor in our consideration of the glories of this beloved old city must
we forget the River—for no one in the place forgets it. Perhaps we
should not speak of _the_ River, for Oxford is the fortunate possessor
of two, standing as it does in the fork created by the flowing together
of the Thames and the Cherwell. The Thames, as we have already
seen, flows thither from the west, while the Cherwell makes its way
southwards from Edgehill; and, though we are accustomed to think of
the Thames as the main stream, the geologists, whose business it is to
make a close study of the earth’s surface, tell us that the Cherwell
is in reality the more important of the two; that down its valley in
the far-away past flowed a great river which with the Kennet was the
ancestor of the present-day River; that the tributary Thames has grown
so much that it has been able to capture and take over as its own
the valley of the Cherwell from Oxford onwards to Reading. But that,
of course, is a story of the very dim past, long before the days of
history.
The Cherwell is a very pretty little stream, shaded by overhanging
willows and other trees, so that it is usually the haunt of pleasure,
the place where the undergraduate takes his own or somebody else’s
sister for an afternoon’s excursion, or where he makes his craft fast
in the shade in order that he may enjoy an afternoon’s quiet reading.
A walk through the meadows on its banks is, indeed, something very
pleasant, with the stream on one side of us and that most beautiful of
colleges, Magdalen, on the other. Here as we proceed down the famous
avenue of pollard willows, winding between two branches of the stream,
we can hear almost continuously the singing of innumerable birds, for
the Oxford gardens and meadows form a veritable sanctuary in which live
feathered friends of every sort.