This legend begins with the story of a rather dull little boy who found
his lessons very trying--and, perhaps, the glistening Thames, which he
could see from his schoolroom window, very attractive--in the days when
Tudor sovereigns reigned in England. His name was Hobby, and his home
was Bisham Abbey, which still stands by the riverside just opposite
Great Marlow. And because the child could not write in his copy-book
without making blots, he was whipped so severely that, as the old tale
goes, he died. But that is only the beginning of the story.
It was his mother, Lady Hobby, who chastised the child. When you see
her portrait, as you still may at Bisham, you cannot believe she meant
to be so cruel. She must have been sorry for her harshness; at any rate
she has been punished for it, for she can find no rest in death. Though
over three hundred years have passed since they placed her in her
grave, her ghost still floats through the panelled chambers of Bisham,
so they say.
It is a queer apparition this. It is that of a stately woman dressed in
coif, weeds and wimple, with grave face and long thin hands, in front
of which a basin, suspended by no visible means, always appears. The
lady is forever trying to wash her hands in the basin, but it always
moves from her before she can achieve her desire. Not until she can
cleanse those delicate hands, can she find repose, they will tell you.
And a curious thing about the ghost is that it appears as a “negative,”
to use a photographer’s term. What in life was white is in the spirit
black; and what was black, now white. The wraith is seen with black
face and hands, black coif and wimple; the basin is black. But the
sable gown is white, the shoes white. White eyes look mournfully from
the dark face.
You may not credit this strange story, for few people living have
seen the wandering lady. Yet undeniable records will tell you that
eighty odd years since, when they were doing some repairs to the old
building, a window shutter was removed in the room in which tradition
asserted the unhappy boy was taught. Pushed in between shutter and
wall, were a number of children’s copy-books of the Elizabethan time.
One of them, yellow and soiled with age, corresponded exactly with
the copy-book of the story. There was not a single line which was not
blotted.
Bisham Abbey is a wonderful old place; its history starts with the
Knights Templars in the reign of King Stephen of turbulent memory.
Later it became an Augustine priory, and later still, when it had
passed from the monks, poor harassed Princess Elizabeth was there,
a prisoner in charge of Sir Thomas Hobby, in those times when no
one could guess that she was to become the great and glorious Queen
Elizabeth.
The old building has seen the Thames flow by to the sea for eight
centuries and more, and still it remains, one of the most attractive
of all the famous houses that have arisen upon the banks of the great
river. It is a short mile across the bridge from Great Marlow, that
restful riverside town on one of the most pleasing reaches of the
Thames. Here the river is at its best, bordered by peaceful shady
lawns, where you may idle away a hot summer afternoon amid refreshing
scenery that only England can show.
Down stream, seven miles past Cookham, you come to busy Maidenhead.
Upstream eight miles and you are at Henley Bridge. Cookham lock they
call the most beautifully situated of all on the river. Wild flowers
grow in profusion on the banks of the tow-path side, and the famous
woods of Cliveden look down upon the gently flowing river.
Yet, if you be wise, sometimes you will leave the fascination of
the river and wander a mile or two inland and see the queer, quiet
little villages that stand away from the river bank; or adventure,
perhaps, from Bourne End up the Wye valley towards High Wycombe and
find picturesque Penn--not the home of the family of the founder of
Pennsylvania, but of one with which it was connected--and see in the
church the memorials to some of the grandchildren of the famous William
Penn.
To find Penn’s grave you must go a little further afield, through
Beaconsfield to Jordans, where in the little Quaker burial ground that
one of the greatest of the founders of the United States lies buried in
a simple grave.
In all this fascinating country you are seldom more than thirty miles
from London, and always within touch of a station from which you can
reach Paddington in about an hour’s journey.
[Illustration: _Bisham Abbey._]
[Illustration: Old and bearded man playing a pipe on a dark but moonlit
night, with revelers dancing in the background.]