MAGNA CHARTA
[Illustration]
Magna Charta Island is something of a shock at first sight; it is so
exceptionally well cared for and so pretty. One pictures a tangle of
wild trees, a mass of rushes, osiers perhaps, and general grimness.
The osiers are confined to a fraction of the island; on the remainder
is a prettily-built house of a fair size, with the very best sort of
river-lawn, on which grow various fine and regular trees. Many are the
evergreens; and the bosky holm oak, the dignified stone pine, and the
flourishing walnut, seen in conjunction with the beautifully kept turf
and bright flower-beds, are altogether unlike one's conception of the
place.
It is true that, though the island has the name of it, it is now
generally supposed that the actual signing of our great charter of
liberties took place on the mainland. John had delayed, and played
false, and postponed the issue for long, but he knew now that all was
up, and he was cornered. A truce was declared, and from Windsor he
agreed to meet his barons and "concede to them the laws and liberties
which they asked." The fifteenth of June was fixed for the day, and
Runney Mead, or Runnymede, for the place. With the barons were almost
the whole of the English nobility; with John, certain ecclesiastical
powers, namely, the Archbishops of Canterbury and Dublin, and seven
bishops, as well as some earls and barons. It is quite obvious that the
barons could have had no idea of the vast consequences of their act.
They would have been astonished could they have foreseen that it would
become the basis of the English constitution. They merely wanted to
bind down a particular king who had outraged their liberties.
One can hardly imagine a better place for the assembling of a great
body of armed men than these meadows by the river. The land is as flat
as a platform, and sheltered to the south by the heights of Cooper's
Hill, which rise like the tiers in an amphitheatre. The Long Mead, with
the exception of the road now running across it, must have looked very
much then as it does now. Runney Mead is more altered, because it is
shut in by hedges. We know not if the day were fine or overcast when
the great charter was signed; but when the deed was done John, in a
rage, retired to Windsor. The barons remained on the meads for about
ten days, during which the place must have been like a fair.
It is very hot on this part of the river on a sunny day. The trees
growing on the banks are all on the north side, and consequently give
little shade. They border Ankerwyke Park, and grow so close to the
water that many of their roots are in it. The swallows dart to and
fro, and clouds of gnats dance like thistledown in the air. Near the
banks grow many flowers. The spotted knotweed or persicaria, with its
bright flesh-coloured flowers, is sometimes in water, sometimes on
the land; the common forget-me-not can be seen peeping up with its
bright blue eyes; the pink willow herb flourishes; and the yellow iris
and the purple loosestrife are also to be seen. And when there is no
wind the scent of the meadow-sweet and the dog-roses becomes almost
overpowering.
Ankerwyke was once a priory. It was appropriated by Henry VIII., who is
said to have carried on the courtship of Anne Boleyn under the mighty
chestnuts for which it was even then famous:
The tyrant Harry felt love's softening flame,
And sighing breathed his Anna Boleyn's name.
A bit of doggerel just about worthy of the occasion!
A more interesting association, though one that leads us rather far
from the river, is Milton's residence at Horton. He lived here with
his parents for five years after leaving Cambridge, and no doubt his
rambles over country which would not then be hedged in and cut up as
it is now, often led him in the direction of the river. It was this
scenery, noted at those deeply impressionable years, that he could
still see when earthly sight was gone.
_Lycidas_ and _Comus_ were both written in the next four or five years,
and in
The willows and the hazel copses green
we have a touch of real nature breaking through the conventional
allusions to vines and wild thyme; also:
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
Throw hither all your quaint, enamell'd eyes
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears.
--_Lycidas._
By the rushy-fringed bank
Where grows the willow and the osier dank.
* * * * *
Thus I set my printless feet
O'er the cowslip's velvet head
That bends not as I tread.
--_Comus._
Not very far below Ankerwyke, the river Coln runs into the Thames
near Bell Weir Lock, and a little bit above Staines is London
Stone, standing in a meadow close by the water. It marked the former
jurisdiction of the Lord Mayor of London over the river, but these
rights are now vested in the Thames Conservators. Staines does not
make the most of itself, or sufficiently endeavour to veil those
unsightlinesses incidental to a town. The large gasometers opposite
London Stone are not the only blemishes. Standing on the bridge and
looking up-stream there are many ugly, yellow-brick, manufacturing
buildings to be seen; while the screen of willows does not hide piles
of untidy stones, rusty old iron and other uglinesses. Even the very
passable island in the centre does not atone. Down stream things are
a little better, though the want of architectural beauty in the new
church by the river and the "plastered-on" pinnacles of the parish
church are both eyesores.
From Staines, however, one may pass rapidly to a fascinating corner at
Penton Hook.