ABINGDON TO STREATLEY.
Abingdon--The Abbey--St. Nicholas' Church--The Market
Cross--The Ancient Stone Cross--St. Helen's Church--Christ's
Hospital--Culham--First View of Wittenham Clump--Clifton
Hampden--The "Barley Mow"--A River-side Solitude--Day's Lock--Union
of the Thames and the Isis--Dorchester--The Abbey Church--Sinodun
Hill--Shillingford Bridge--Bensington--The Church--Crowmarsh
Giffard--Wallingford--Mongewell--Newton Murren--Moulsford--The
"Beetle and Wedge"--Cleeve Lock--Streatley.
Unless they be absolutely black and squalid, all old country towns
have a charm of their own. They may possess historical or personal
associations of the supremest interest, like Lichfield; they may
hold a central place in some dire story of battle and siege, like
Colchester; their renown may be architectural, as at Salisbury; or that
of a vice-metropolis, as at York. Others there are, and they are in
the majority, which have for all attraction quaint streets of gabled
houses, and rural environs gay with birds and flowers, and ancient
timbered parks watered by quivering streams. The town of Abingdon
unites most of these attributes, save that it has seen little of war,
and that it is unassociated with any commanding personality. It is
handsomer and more shapely than most of the riverside towns in the
Thames Valley; and although it is little more than a big village in
the centre of a moderately prosperous agricultural district, it is
entitled to take upon itself some of the airs and graces due to the
possession of distinctions for which many larger places sigh in vain,
since it has been a municipal and parliamentary borough since the days
of Mary Tudor. A town seated upon a river is nearly always seen to best
advantage from the water, and the view of Abingdon immediately after
the bridge is shot is very pretty and reposeful. The bridge itself,
although not remarkably graceful, is yet exceedingly picturesque. Of
great antiquity, it is greyish-brown of hue, and profusely mossed from
water-line to coping. Several of the arches are dry, and serve only
to carry on the road above, with its irregular rows of oddly-gabled
cottages. To the left all is level meadow, backed by belts of woodland;
to the right lies the town, the tall, handsome spire of St. Helen's
Church, with its flying buttresses, rising high above the red-tiled
roofs of the waterside buildings. Abingdon is a land of chestnut-trees.
Along the waterside, on the eyots, in the quiet gardens of the old
red-brick houses, there are chestnuts. To the stranger chestnuts and
grey-stone villas are, indeed, the two most notable characteristics
of this pretty little town. In the late spring and early summer the
place seems to be surrounded with the peculiarly lovely blossom of a
tree which, whatever the season may be, is always pleasing to look
upon. The chestnut in England has in modern times been treated with
less courtesy than it deserves. It is a better tree in many ways than
the elm, which is usually placed only a step or two below the oak. It
may not be so graceful, but it is beautiful notwithstanding, and far
less treacherous. In such esteem, indeed, was it held by our ancestors
that many of their beautiful half-timbered houses, which a careless
posterity supposes to have been invariably built of oak, were largely
constructed of chestnut, while many an old house is full of admirably
carved and polished chestnut furniture.
[Illustration: ABINGDON, FROM THE RIVER.]
All that there is of interest in Abingdon centres round the bridge--the
two ancient churches, the ruins of the abbey, and the market-cross.
So many rich and flourishing towns grew up, in the far monastic days,
around the great abbeys that it is a not unfair presumption that before
the Dissolution Abingdon enjoyed comparatively greater importance and
prosperity than it does now. It is still a flourishing place, and
although its streets are quiet they present no signs of decay. It is
true that it did not become a borough until after the Dissolution;
but since the charter was granted by Queen Mary, it may have been
intended as some solatium for what the townspeople had lost. That they
really did lose much is clear. Abingdon was a mitred abbey, and very
ancient, having, all legend says, been founded in the seventh century.
At the Conquest the abbot held great landed possessions in his trust,
and the house was no doubt rich in the portable wealth for which
the monasteries were renowned--vessels of gold and silver, censers
encrusted with gems, jewelled crosses, and vestments embroidered with
cloth of gold. As the abbey grew in riches and independence the monks
seem to have taken very little trouble to keep on good terms with
the townspeople or with the country-side. Quarrels were constantly
brewing, provoked, no doubt, by each side alternately; but the town
was stronger than the abbot and his chapter and all the brethren,
and about the time of Edward III.'s accession the men of Abingdon
and Oxford united to read the monks a lesson they were not likely
to forget. A great riot occurred, in which the Mayor of Oxford and
the more muscular students of the University lent their aid, with
the result that a large portion of the abbey buildings was burned.
The town was gradually becoming independent of the large revenues
disbursed by the abbot, for it conducted a very remunerative commerce
in cloth, and, indeed, an old chronicler tells us, "stood by clothing."
Nevertheless, when, in 1538, the abbey went the way of all the other
monasteries, Abingdon necessarily received a heavy blow. The remains
of the monastic buildings, although not extensive, are picturesque and
exceedingly interesting. The abbey precincts probably sloped to the
water's edge, since the gateway, which is still in fair preservation,
is close to the river, near the market-place. It has been shorn of much
of its ornamentation, and now possesses no very remarkable features,
either of architecture or of decoration; but it has been carefully
conserved, and remains whole and sound. The most attractive portion
of the abbey buildings still existing is used as a brewery, and this,
like the gateway, has been religiously shielded from other injury than
Time inflicts. This portion consists of the abbot's apartments and the
crypt beneath. The abbatial parlours have been converted into lofts,
while the crypt has returned to what may not improbably have been
its original uses--the storage of great casks of the ale for which
Abingdon is well famed in its own neighbourhood. The crypt is entered
beside a backwater, where grow more of the abounding chestnuts; but
to reach the lofts, where once the abbots of Abingdon transacted such
secular affairs as the regulation of accounts and the inditing of
business letters, one has to ascend a short flight of time-worn steps.
The doorways have pointed arches, and the windows likewise, in the
main, preserve their ancient appearance. In one of the lofts are the
remains of a handsome fireplace, which has been assigned to so remote a
period as the reign of Henry III. The gigantic chimney served by this
fireplace presents a remarkable and picturesque appearance as seen
from the road. To those of an antiquarian turn of mind these monastic
remains are very interesting; and they deserve to be better known.
At the corner of the Market-place, adjoining the Abbey Gateway, is the
church of St. Nicholas, which, although far less interesting than St.
Helen's, nearer the river, yet contains much that is worth seeing and
describing. Architecturally it is not remarkable, save for a Norman
doorway and an unusual little turret which surmounts the tower, and
forms the roof of a minstrels' gallery of great antiquity. Here is the
tomb of John Blacknall and his wife, who left many bequests to the
town, one of which is still enjoyed by forty-seven poor persons, who
receive each a loaf of bread at their benefactors' tomb every Sunday.
The monument to this united pair is of great height, and records that,
by a rare coincidence, they both died on the same day--the 21st of
August, 1625. The epitaph insists upon this touching unity even in
death in the undignified language common to inscriptions of the kind:--
"Here death's stroke even did not part this pair;
But by this stroke they more united were.
And what they left behind you plainly see--
One only daughter and their charity.
What though the first by death's command did leave us,
The second, we are sure, will ne'er deceive us."
[Illustration: ABINGDON BRIDGE.]
Among the ancient treasures of the church are a carved font, an ancient
lantern in the porch, and the remains of a painted window, with an
illegible inscription. Opposite this church, at the side of the
Market-place, is the Market Cross, designed by Inigo Jones, erected in
1667, and far too extensively restored in 1853. It is really, like so
many similar buildings, a covered market, with space for a considerable
number of persons to congregate. The fine timber roof, which has
happily not been interfered with, is supported upon stone pillars. This
building occupies the site of one of our most famous stone crosses,
which the town owed--as it, no doubt, owed much else--to one of the
religious foundations. One of the fraternities connected with the
Church of St. Helen was called the Brethren of the Holy Rood, and of
this godly community no less a personage than Thomas Chaucer, son of
the father of English poetry, was a governor. The Brethren of the Holy
Rood erected this cross at their own expense, and it has always been
believed that Thomas Chaucer had some hand in designing it. Leland,
the antiquary, did not overstate the matter when he described it as
a "right goodly cross of stone, with fair degrees and imagerie." It
had a decorated base, and two tiers of canopies containing statuettes,
while upon the top was a carved tabernacle. The treaty with the Scots
in 1641 was celebrated by the singing of the 106th Psalm at the foot of
the cross by a gathering of two thousand people. Three years later it
was demolished by Waller's army, as being a "superstitious edifice."
So much admired were the graceful proportions of Abingdon Cross that
it was taken as the model for that which Sir William Hollis erected
at Coventry. If Chaucer's son really had any part in designing it, we
do not know; but it is at least pleasing to fancy that he had. The
existing market cross is a not unpleasing piece of work; but many a
masterpiece of Inigo might be spared could we but have restored to us
the graceful sculptured rood built by the Confraternity of the Holy
Cross.
The Church of St. Helen, with its precincts, is by far the most
interesting part of Old Abingdon. St. Helen's is an exceedingly
handsome, well-proportioned church, such as one rarely finds in so
small a town. There has been some internal restoration, and the tower,
from which springs the slender arrow-like spire, was renovated at a
very large expense in 1885; but, at least in the interior, little
violence appears to have been done, judging from the undisturbed
condition of the tombs and mural monuments. The church is of
unusual size, and its generous proportions speak well for the pious
large-heartedness of the founders. The timbered roofs are admirable,
carved boldly and simply, and still quite sound. In the chancel the
roof is more elaborately carved, and the timbers of the north aisle
retain faint blurred traces of once brilliant religious paintings. The
church possesses the unusual number of five aisles, named respectively
the Jesus aisle, Our Lady's aisle, St. Helen's aisle, St. Catherine's
aisle (in which most of the Abingdon worthies are buried), and the
aisle of the Brotherhood of the Holy Cross. There are said to be only
two or three other five-aisled churches in the kingdom. There are two
or three good old tombs to bygone Abingdon worthies, and upon one
of them the inveterate punning propensities of our ancestors, where
inscriptions of any kind were concerned, is oddly exemplified. This
is the tomb of "Richard Curtaine, gent., a principall member of this
Corpâ," whose epitaph reads:--
"Our Curtaine in this lower press
Rests folded up in natur's dress."
The real Abingdon shrine, however, is the resting-place, against the
chancel, of John Roysse, who founded the Grammar School. This "pious
ancestor" died in 1571, yet there is usually a wreath of flowers lying
upon his breast. It is an altar-tomb, with a reclining full-length
effigy and a partially-defaced inscription. Good Master Roysse was
one of the many charitable benefactors who seem to have flourished
in the genial soil of Abingdon. The Grammar School was founded in
his lifetime; but in his will he left at least two other charities.
He was clearly not the stamp of man who has a mind to be forgotten
after death. The upper stone of his tomb, he ordained, was to be the
"great stone" in the summer arbour of his garden in London, and the
twelve old widows who were to receive each a loaf, "good, sweet, and
seasonable," kneeling round his stone every Sunday, were to say,
upon receiving their doles, "The blessed Trinity upon John Roysse's
soul have mercy." This once picturesque ceremony, shorn of its olden
formalities, has, since 1872, been performed in the hall of Christ's
Hospital. To play upon numbers and words was one of the conceits of
the time, and so it was ordered that, since the Grammar School was
established at once in the 63rd year of its founder's age, and in the
63rd year of the century, the foundation should educate 63 boys "in
sæcula sæculorum." A small room shut away from the church, and called
the Exchequer Chamber, is used as the muniment room of the famous
"Hospital of Christ," concerning which much hereafter. Yet another
interesting tomb--interesting because it exhibits the monumental
sculpture of a century ago in all the fulness of its bathos. Mrs.
Elizabeth Hawkins, whom it commemorates, died in 1780, and ordered
that a sum of £400 should be expended upon a fitting memorial. The
money was duly laid out, the lucky recipient thereof being one Mr.
Hickey; and now, after a hundred years, the only people who can look
with satisfaction upon the transaction must be they to whom Hickey
bequeathed his money. The sorrowing stone cherub in the foreground
looks very much as though he had just undergone nursery correction.
More attractive is a good and very curious bit of wood carving affixed
to the front of the organ. The date is unknown, but its antiquity is
probably not great. It obviously represents King David, who, with a
gilded crown upon his head, plays upon a dazzlingly gilded harp. Near
the door of the vestry hangs the elaborate genealogical tree of one
W. Lee, who was five times Mayor of Abingdon, and lived to see 197
descendants. It is dated 1637. In the vestry is a copy of Foxe's "Book
of Martyrs," together with a number of Bibles and books of homilies,
all having still attached to them the ancient chains by which they were
formerly secured. The church registers go back to an unusually early
period.
Upon the south-western side of St. Helen's churchyard are the
picturesque arcaded buildings which form the more ancient portion of
the "Hospital of Christ"--a long low range of half-timbering extending
to the river front, where it is joined by a more modern wing of stone.
Age has blackened the timber and barge-boardings, and in the sunshine
the contrast between the chequer-work of the old and the grey stone
of the newer buildings is exceedingly charming. The porch is quite
romantic, and such as one rarely sees save in a water-colour. It is
supported upon stout oaken piers, the heads roughly but effectively
carved; at the partially-open sides is more carved work. It has a
steep roof with wide projecting eaves and a diamond-paned lattice
in the gable. Almost immediately behind rises, from an irregular
red-tiled roof, the graceful carved cupola which lights the entrance
hall. When the wide door of stout oak, over which one could climb
at need, stands open, the passer-by gets a delightful glimpse of a
panelled hall, into which the sun streams not too glaringly through
the cupola and the little lattices, imprinting quaint arabesques upon
the floor and the black polished wainscot, and making life lovely for
the six-and-thirty aged men and women maintained by the charity first
instituted by the pious Brethren of the Holy Rood. Over the porch are
some curious paintings illustrative mainly of works of mercy. One
of them is a view of old Abingdon Cross; and another a portrait of
Edward VI., in whose reign the hospital was refounded. These buildings
are strongly remindful of the better-known Leycester Hospital at
Warwick, but they are not nearly so lofty. This antique porch is on
sunny days the favourite spot "where want and age sit smiling at the
gate." The interior of the hall is very quaint, and contains some
sturdy furniture, suitable for the support of a giant in complete
plate-armour. A large table of oak with carved legs was presented, as
an inscription upon the frame of the picture hanging over it records,
by "Frauncis Little, one of ye governors of this hospital" in 1607. In
the Exchequer Chamber in the church is preserved a manuscript history
of the hospital, written by good Master Little, with the title, "A
Monument of Christian Munificence." Here is another portrait of Edward
VI., and a curious picture of the building of Abingdon Bridge. It is
of great age, dedicated, it would seem, to "Jefforye Barbur and John
Howchion." When the brethren of St. Cross first became a corporate
body is now doubtful. Francis Little in his history says that the
foundation existed in 1388, and there is reason for supposing that it
had come into being long before. At the Dissolution the confraternity
was abolished, but it was revived by Edward VI., and endowed with
three-fourths of the old foundation. The Charter enjoins upon the
Governors that they are to keep in repair the four bridges over the
Thames and the Ock, to provide food and lodging for fourteen poor
persons, and to devote the surplus of their funds to other charitable
uses. These funds have grown to such a bulk that thirty-six poor people
are now maintained, while Abingdon Grammar School has been rebuilt,
and a public park given to the town out of the surplus. Surely, roses
should blossom upon the graves of those who founded and re-founded
"the Hospital of Christ at Abingdon." Near to this dreamy old-world
churchyard is Ock Street, one of the longest and finest streets to be
found in an English country-town. It is broad as a boulevard, and is
literally crowded with old Jacobean and Georgian houses, some of them
so large as to be fairly called mansions.
[Illustration: CULHAM CHURCH.]
The Berkshire shore is lined with pleasant houses for half a mile or so
below Abingdon Bridge. The towing-path is here upon the Oxford bank,
and skirts rich meadows picturesquely studded with large shade-trees.
Away to the left lie heavy masses of woodland, such as engirdle the
whole of the Thames Valley; on the facing bank are the straggling
environs of Abingdon, having, when seen from this point, somewhat of
the foreign aspect so often worn by these little waterside towns.
But in less than a mile we are amid scenes that are very English.
The meadows at first are flat, which, the rather than a blemish, I
esteem to be a beauty. The perfection of sylvan and pastoral river
scenery, as distinguished from the bold and rocky loveliness of some
of our wilder English streams, demands flattish banks, the better
to throw into relief the undulating fields and shimmering woodlands
which so often close in a homely scene having for relief merely some
grey church tower almost hidden among the lofty elms, and the mellowed
ruddiness of a farmhouse gable. A little below Abingdon the tiny Ock
enters the stream, and so ends its independent existence. Any time
from eight to ten in the morning--for, oddly enough, boating-men are
rarely up with the lark--camping-out parties may be seen engaged in
the serious business of breakfasting, or in the lighter but less
exhilarating task of washing-up the cups and saucers, and generally
"making tidy" before the day's leisurely pull. As a rule, however, the
river is deserted during the whole of the forenoon, even in the height
of the season, as, indeed, the towing-path always is, whether it be
late or early--at least, upon this portion of the stream. The river
banks, from the bridge at Abingdon to Culham Lock, are very charming
in summer, to those who are content with ordinary scenery, and do not
expect a famous view on entering every reach. Nearing Culham, the river
bends very sharply to the right, and just at the curve a white wooden
bridge crosses a beautiful little back-water, brilliantly pied with
water-lilies, and thickly bordered with graceful aquatic grasses. Then
come fields of standing corn, the sturdy ears sheltering the frail
crimson poppies--wheat and tares intermingled. From some hidden spot in
the centre of the field comes the loud, harsh cry of the corn-crake,
that bird so often heard and so seldom seen. Sometimes the crop is the
drooping oats or the "bold and bearded barley;" but whatever be the
grain, there is the fat, solemn rook, who reluctantly wheels away from
his farinaceous banquet, to hide for a few minutes in the long row of
elms in the adjoining field. Close to Culham the stream divides, a
broad rushy channel flowing past Sutton Courtney, with its venerable
Edwardian Manor House and the well-known weirs, while a straight,
narrow, and not very picturesque cut, makes direct for the Lock. In
passing there is a very pretty glimpse of Culham Church, which stands
out effectively from a background of trees, and looks in the distance
the ideal of an old parish church. A nearer view reveals that most of
the building is very modern, and that even the square tower dates only
from the days of William and Mary. Culham is a pretty and interesting
little place, and still happily preserves its village green.
A few yards below Culham Lock the river assumes its old proportions,
the water from the deep millpool at Sutton, where there are fishes
indeed, now forming the old main channel with the cut as a mere
contributary. Hereabouts there are usually one or two camping parties,
the proximity of a lock-keeper's cottage being a convenience which
none can appreciate so well as a tired oarsman. Although the immediate
banks continue flat, the country around grows more rugged, the meadows
and cornfields become billowy, and sloping gently up long miles ahead,
although apparently no farther distant than the next parish, is seen
Wittenham Clump, with its smooth grassy sides and little grove of
trees atop. Hence away to Shillingford it is rarely out of sight, for
the river winds so sinuously through the valley over which the Clump
watches that between Clifton Hampden and Day's Lock it describes a
perfect semicircle. The Clump forms a majestic background to many a
stretch of varied timber and parti-coloured fields. Something like a
mile below Appleford Bridge commences another unlovely necessary cut--a
kind of graduated penance in preparation for the severer _supplice_ of
Clifton Lock. He who elects to see the river-land from the towing-path
has a decided advantage over the oarsman, where these cuts and locks
are concerned. This particular cut is more tolerable than some of
those which the exigencies of navigation have rendered necessary.
The Berkshire shore has a fringe of plantations and mossy creepered
banks, which compensate somewhat for the nakedness of the Oxford bank
at this point. At the end of this straight channel is Clifton Lock.
The keeper's cottage is in summer a lovely picture, for it stands in a
little garden ablaze with brilliant flowers of the old-fashioned stock
viewed with disfavour by the scientific gardener; while the cottage
walls are covered with creepers yellow and russet. Just clear of the
Lock the main stream re-enters the channel, and a bend in the river's
course reveals the heights of Clifton Hampden and the beauteous vale
beneath. The long, red-brick bridge of six pointed arches, which has
only of late years superseded the ferry, is in itself a picturesque
object. The surrounding country is flat, and so is most of the village;
but the bold hill which rises with a sharp slope from the water is
crowned by the church and the vicarage. From the summit to the edge of
the stream the bluff is densely timbered, and thick belts of woodland
line the Oxford bank for some distance below the bridge. The delightful
little village relies upon Nature for all its charms, for it has no
history. Nor can it be said that the church is very interesting,
save as a favourable example of Sir Gilbert Scott's early skill as
a restorer. Sir Gilbert's work here was done in 1844, when he was
comparatively a young man. The old work is really ancient, for Clifton
Church was originally a chapelry served from Dorchester Abbey. The
reredos is in mosaic; but the most remarkable thing in the church is an
altar-tomb to the late Mr. G. H. Gibbs, at whose cost the building was
restored. The recumbent marble figure is a portrait. The churchyard is
kept with unusual neatness, and numbers of the graves are covered with
flowers. Its altitude is such that it affords delightful views up the
river towards Abingdon, and down towards Day's Lock and Sinodun Hill.
The serpentine course of the river is very striking as seen from this
height; and even here, with the naked eye, Wittenham and Sinodun seem
to bar the stream.
[Illustration: CLIFTON HAMPDEN CHURCH.]
At Clifton Hampden, in the season, there is usually a house-boat or
two moored among the masses of water-lilies which profusely strew
the stream near the bridge, and a more charming spot, away from such
"fashionable" places as Goring, Henley, or Maidenhead, could hardly
be selected as the anchorage of these leviathans of the upper Thames.
The neighbourhood abounds in rural walks, and in subjects both for the
pencil of the artist and the pen of the man of letters. One of the most
charming "bits" at Clifton has neither been sketched nor described
quite so often as it deserves to have been. The "Barley Mow" is
assuredly the oddest and quaintest of inns on the river. It lies on the
Berkshire bank, in a little roadside corner all to itself. What its age
may be it would be difficult to tell; but its high, overhanging roof
is thatched and its walls are half-timbered. The diminutive casements,
about the size of the door of a rabbit-hutch, admit just enough of
light to heighten the interior effect. Broad masses of light are out
of place within such venerable walls. The brick-floored kitchen--or
maybe it is the parlour--is delightfully snug; the walls panelled
darkly all round; the honest raftered ceiling so low as to do away with
the necessity ever to stand upon the naked wooden settles to reach
things; the fireplace extending across one whole side of the room, the
oddest imaginable cross between an old-fashioned ingle-nook open grate
and a modern kitchen range; the chimney-piece garnished with many a
brightly-burnished pot and pan. No demure Phyllis makes her appearance;
but the cider--we are in a great cider country--is nectar. At the back
of the inn is just such a queer little garden as Dickens loved to write
about. All the flowers were our great-grandmother's, and, indeed,
modern daintinesses would sadly mar the antiquated aspect of this
typical roadside inn of a day that is long past.
At Clifton Bridge the towing-path crosses to the Berkshire shore, and
for the next two miles the scenery is, perhaps, the prettiest, with
the exception of Clifton itself, between Abingdon and Wallingford. The
Oxford bank is clothed luxuriantly with trees, out of which now and
again peeps, half unperceived, the canvas shelter of a camping party.
These occasional encampments are almost the only sign of life, so far
as the banks of the river are concerned. Between Clifton and Day's Lock
the country is remarkably solitary. The waterside meadows are nearly
all empty; but here and there a herd of cattle browses leisurely, or,
if it be high noon, shelters itself from the heat and the tormenting
flies under the lee of the thick hedgerows. Pedestrians are never
seen. That it is good to row upon a beautiful river, but undesirable
to walk by the side of it, appears to be the popular idea; but despite
the physical exhilaration and the æsthetic delight of the rhythmical
swing of oars, the river can be seen best from the towing-path, and
if the love of walking-tours had not very largely died out we might
expect to see the banks of the upper Thames as much frequented as its
waters. It is often possible to pass between Clifton and Day's Lock
without meeting either man or boat, which seems a little odd, since
that reach is in high favour during the season. To the walker upon
the towing-path this silence and vacancy become oppressive, and the
sudden splash of a water-rat striking out from among the rushes is
quite startling. The Berkshire shore is flattish here; but there are
swelling uplands beyond, and the Wrekin-shaped Sinodun Hill looms quite
close upon the left. Presently there stands out from among the trees
on the Oxford bank an old church with a very long nave and tall tower,
with an unusual high-pitched red roof, topped by a vane. That is the
famous Abbey Church of Dorchester, the solitary remnant of the ancient
grandeur of the olden capital of Wessex. A little farther is Day's
Lock, with the ferry between Little Wittenham and Dorchester, where,
even in a season of drought, the water is unusually full and brimming,
the result, perhaps, of the wedding near by of the little Thame with
the more classic and magnificent Thames, or Isis, as the poets have
preferred to call it. This conceit owes its origin almost entirely to
such comparatively modern poets as Warton and Drayton, though Spenser,
in the "Faërie Queen," seems to have originated the legend in somewhat
of a backhanded way:--
"The lovely bridegroom came,
The noble Thamis, with all his goodly traine,
But before him there went, as best became,
His auncient parents, namely, th' auncient Thame;
But much more aged was his wife than he,
The Ouze, whom men doe Isis rightly name.
Full weak and crooked creature seemed shee,
And almost blind through Eld, that scarce her way could see."
[Illustration: DORCHESTER, FROM LITTLE WITTENHAM.]
Nearly opposite Dorchester there is an eyot adorned by a remarkably
fine chestnut, while between Clifton and Day's Lock are others which
bear little save the humble, useful osier. At Day's the towing-path
crosses into Oxfordshire. Dorchester, which makes a very picturesque
appearance from the river, since it stands upon a greater elevation
than the country through which we have passed, is about half a mile
from the Lock. The field-path, which runs for some distance through a
most unpoetical turnip patch, skirts the famous Dyke Hills, the Roman
fortifications upon which sheep most peacefully browse. The fortified
camp of which these earthworks formed part is supposed to have been
guarded on one side by the Thames, on the other by the Thame, and must,
consequently, have been of enormous strength. Dorchester, which fell
from its splendour and ceased to be a capital more than a thousand
years ago, is a quaint little village, in which the antiquarian
voyager can spend some hours of crowded interest. Its three or four
old streets are full of strange twists and oddly-gabled houses, and
the number of old-fashioned inns is remarkable, it being remembered
that the population of the place but slightly exceeds a thousand. There
was surely never a more complete fall from a high estate than that
suffered by Dorchester. Not only was it the capital of Wessex, but it
was the seat of the great bishopric eventually removed to Lincoln; and
the Venerable Bede records that Dorcinca was full of richly-garnished
churches. Twelve centuries and a half ago Cynegils, King of Wessex, was
baptised there, as of right in his capital, by the sainted Birinus.
The bishopric, after being removed to Sidnacester, was restored to
Dorchester, and it was not until after the conquest that Lincoln was
finally selected as the home of the Bishop-stool. The Abbey Church
is the glory of the place, since it is not only exceedingly fine in
itself, but is the sole survival of the dim ages in which Dorchester
was a cathedral city, and the capital of one of the Heptarchical
kingdoms. The Church of Dorchester Abbey was undoubtedly built upon
the site of the Saxon Cathedral, of which some fragments, such as the
north wall of the nave, and an arch or two, probably formed part. As
it stands now, the church is a patchwork of styles, from the Norman to
the Tudor. It is of great size, the length from east to west being 183
feet, and the area over 10,000 square feet. Dorchester churchyard has
sometimes been considered handsome; but it is too ragged to be fairly
so described. Near the south door is an ancient churchyard cross, the
shaft of which is very much dilapidated, but the head has been well
restored. The porch to the south door is Tudor work in stone, with a
good timbered roof. The interior of the church is not unremindful, at a
general glance, of St. Albans Abbey, since the nave is entirely blocked
by the tower. Restoration was commenced by Sir Gilbert Scott; but there
is so much to be done, and the cost of doing it is so considerable,
that the work will probably not be finished for years to come. At the
bottom of the north aisle is a large collection of sculptured stones,
which, no doubt, before the Dissolution, formed part of the monastic
buildings. They were mainly obtained from an old house in the village,
which would seem to have been largely built with materials taken
from the Abbey, and it is intended to build them into the fabric as
opportunity offers. The western end of the building is somewhat gloomy,
a defect which might without difficulty be removed by the uncovering of
the handsome west window, which has long been bricked up. Dorchester
has one of the very few leaden fonts of Norman workmanship which now
remain to us: there is another at Long Wittenham, on the opposite side
of the river. Round the bowl are cut, in high relief, the figures of
the eleven apostles, Judas being, of course, inadmissible. What, had
not the tower intervened, would have been the western end of the nave,
forms an ante-church, which is used for the minor services. A pillar
in this chapel has some quaint carvings near the base. One of the most
ancient portions of the church seems to be the Lady Chapel, at the
eastern extremity of the south aisle adjoining the chancel. The altar
here was erected in memory of Bishop Wilberforce, of Winchester. There
are four altar-tombs in the Lady Chapel, the survivors of probably a
much larger number. Two are to ladies; the others represent Crusaders.
The feet of each rest upon a lioncel. Close to these tombs is the brass
of Richard Bewforest, to whose piety posterity owes the preservation of
this Abbey Church. In 1554 Master Bewforest purchased the church from
the hands of the despoilers, paying therefor £140, which, although a
goodly sum for his day, was assuredly not extravagant. Here, too, is an
unornamented brass to an undistinguished person, named Thomas Day, with
the following odd epitaph, dated 1693:--
"Sweet Death he came in Hast
& said his glass is run;
Thou art ye man i say,
See what thy God has done."
[Illustration: SINODUN HILL AND DAY'S LOCK.]
In the chancel there have been many fine and elaborately ornamented
brasses, but only a few remain in their integrity. One of the most
perfect thus records another Bewforest:--"Here lyeth Sir Richard
Bewfforeste: I pray thee give his sowl good rest." This Richard was
not a knight, but an ecclesiastic, as the brass, upon which he is
represented with cope and crozier, proves; and the prefix was given
him according to an ancient custom, of which we have an example in
the person of Sir Oliver Martext, the priest in _As You Like It_. On
the north side of the chancel is the wonderful "Jesse Window," which
has been so often described that it has become one of the best known
of our ecclesiastical antiquities. The ornamentation of the window
takes the form of a pictorial pedigree in stone, the tree having its
root in the body of Jesse, each progenitor of the line of David being
represented by a small stone figure; but the effigies of Christ and
His mother have disappeared. Upon the glass of the window are somewhat
rude representations of the chief members of the line of Jesse. This
very remarkable window is in good preservation, notwithstanding that
it is now at least five centuries old. A word must be said of the fine
timbered roofs of the Abbey. That of the nave, supported upon most
graceful clustered columns, is really magnificent, while the groined
roof of the Lady Chapel possesses a lightness and grace which such work
often lacks. There are still many brasses, together with an enormous
number of flat stones in the church, but the majority of the brasses
and incised stones have been damaged, apparently with wilful intent.
Here and there an elaborate matrix sadly suggests the treasures we have
lost. Against the lych-gate at the western end of the churchyard is one
of the largest and most luxuriant chestnuts to be noticed even in a
neighbourhood full of large chestnut trees. The gate and the tree, with
the great grey church for background, fashion themselves into a lovely
picture. Beyond the church and the quaint old houses there is nothing
of interest in Dorchester save the building now occupied as a national
school, which was formerly the grammar school. The interior, full of
great timber beams and joists, is very picturesque. It is believed to
have been the refectory of the Abbey, and an antiquity of some seven
centuries is assigned to it.
Opposite Dorchester is Sinodun Hill, which has been growing gradually
nearer for several miles during our leisurely progress down-stream.
If it be good climbing weather--that is to say, not too hot--Sinodun
should not be passed heedlessly by. The climb is a stiffish one, but
once the shelter gained of the little clump of trees atop, there is
ample compensation for an exercise such as Englishmen are not usually
afraid of. From this eminence the country lies displayed as though upon
a map. The shining river twists and curvets like a snake in agony; upon
its timbered banks repose tiny villages, distinguishable in the mass
of foliage only by the vanes upon the steeples and the thin quivering
lines of smoke which melt into nothingness just above the tree-tops;
roads and railways look straight and uncompromising indeed beside the
sinuous stream. The country is multi-coloured--the fields green and
brown and yellow, with here and there a great square of black woodland.
The sun seems to shine upon some and to leave others in shadow,
while over all there move flecks of trembling light. The view in the
direction we are travelling is closed by swelling downs destitute of
all colour but the dim grey of distance.
Down below us, near the weir, industrious anglers are barbelling or
spinning for jack, for hence almost to Shillingford are fine fishing
grounds. Here the river bends somewhat towards Dorchester, and it is
long ere we pass out of sight of the Abbey. Upon the Berkshire shore
are uplands, broad, swelling, and cultivated to the utmost rood. These
rolling uplands never look better than in haymaking or harvest time,
when the cocks and sheaves are yellowing in the sunlight. The regular,
almost square, boundaries of the fields suggest a green and yellow
chessboard, and at seedtime the mathematical furrows are as straight
as though cut by a machine. The nicety of vision, and the accuracy of
touch with which a ploughman cuts a furrow are astonishing in one who
usually has instinct and eye alone to guide him. After all there is
something intellectual in the following of the plough, and the peculiar
qualities required of the ploughman are such that it is not altogether
surprising that both science and letters have drawn notable recruits
from the furrowed field. Almost until we reach the next ferry, a couple
of miles below Day's Lock, Dorchester still straggles along parallel
to the river, and the last glimpse of its red roofs from a bend in the
stream is exceedingly picturesque. The towing-path ceases abruptly
at the ferryman's quaint little cottage, and the _venue_ for the
pedestrian changes for a time into Berkshire. The stream just here is
very charming to the lover of rivers, for although both shores continue
flat they are dotted with clumps of woodland, and the water's edge is
gaily caparisoned with verdure. The towing-path for a short distance
grows almost wild for so highly civilised a country as that through
which the Thames flows, and the pedestrian wades to the knees through
rank brambly grass. A few more minutes and we reach Shillingford
Bridge, with its four grey arches. At the Berkshire end of the bridge
is that pretty rural inn the "Swan," a favourite abiding place of
boating parties which include ladies. The little lawn is dotted with
gay costumes of coolest tints and softest texture, for a lazy afternoon
hour or two is not ungrateful upon the banks of Thames in the dog-days.
On the Oxford bank is a cluster of tiny cottages, each in an ample
garden full of those brilliant old-fashioned flowers which the cottager
loves so well. The diminutive latticed windows are garnished, too,
with geraniums and fuchsias; honeysuckle climbs to the not very lofty
gables, and the little trellis-work porches are aglow with the cool
foliage and delicate tints of clematis. The road is thickly bordered
with elm and beech, and beyond, shining brilliantly in the afternoon
sun, are long red ranges of barns and cow-sheds, darkly-roofed and
golden-walled ricks of last year's hay, side by side with the brand-new
thatch of the yellow stack that has just left the thatcher's hand. From
the bridge itself there is a pleasant view up and down the river over
what our grandfathers would have called a "fine champaign country,"
flat and pastoral on the Oxford shore, but swelling into bold wooded
undulations on the opposite bank--such a stretch of varied scenery as
most becomingly wears the sober darkling tints of autumn. When the wind
swirls the brown sapless leaves into the turbid river, and the bare
stubbles echo to the crack of the breechloader, Nature hereabouts has
that distinct autumnal charm which is never more delightful than in a
sylvan and pastoral landscape.
[Illustration: SHILLINGFORD BRIDGE.]
From Shillingford to Bensington the towing-path is again in
Oxfordshire. The river banks become more frequented, and the complete
angler abounds; for most renowned baskets are constantly obtained from
this pretty stretch of water. The eyots are luxuriant with osiers, and
in the osier harvest punt after punt lies heavily laden with the lithe,
flexible sticks which the men cut and tie into bundles with astonishing
deftness and rapidity. Many of these little osier-covered islands are
surrounded with white and yellow water-lilies, which seem to have an
affection for such a situation. The square tower of Bensington Church
has a venerable appearance; but the really ancient church has been
restored into newness. Consequently, nothing remains of any great
interest; but, most happily, the reforming zeal of the re-builders
stopped short of interfering with the handsome chancel-arch. On the
south wall of the nave is an inscription which, from its very oddity,
deserves to be recorded:--
M. S.
To the pious memory
of Ralph Quelch and Jane his wife
who slept } together in 1 { bed by ye space of 40 yeares.
now sleepe} { grave till Ct. shall awaken them.
He } fell asleep Ano. Dni. { 1629 } being aged { 63 } yeares.
She } { 1619 } { 59 }
For ye fruit of their { labours } they left { ye new inn twice built at
their own charge.
{ bodies } { one only son and two
daughters.
Their son being liberally bred in ye University of Oxon thought
himself bound to erect this small monument
of { their } piety towards { God
{ his } { them
Ano. Dni. 16....
Epitaphs in this form are by no means uncommon; but it would be
difficult to find one of quainter conception. Even the surname of the
worthy proprietors of the "New Inn" has a Dickens-like grotesqueness.
Bensington is interesting to lovers of English literature as having
belonged to the Chaucers, from whom it descended to the De la Poles.
Bensington Lock is below the village, and oarsmen pulling up to Oxford
have learned to beware of the dangerous cross-current at the weir.
Near the lock the tow-path crosses again to the Berkshire shore. Hence
away to Wallingford the country becomes much more picturesque. The
Oxford bank is most profusely wooded; groves of willows and alders
edge the stream; while farther ashore glades of elm and chestnut
perfume the air. Overshadowed by trees, whose branches intertwine,
is a pretty red-brick boat-house, into which as we pass disappears
a gaily-freighted boat, seeming to pass from brilliant sunshine and
rippling river into the dark recesses of some dusky cavern. Then the
woodland opens out, the scenery becomes park-like, and through the
clumps of oak which stud the foreground we get glimpses of Howberry
Park, a more than usually handsome Elizabethan house, the successor of
a hardly more picturesque Jacobean building destroyed a century ago by
the flames which await every country-house, be it soon or be it late.
Howberry Park, once the seat of the Blackstones, lies in the parish
of Crowmarsh Giffard, almost opposite the town of Wallingford. The
vestry-door of Crowmarsh Church is riddled with bullets--reminders,
it is said, of the last siege of Wallingford, at which time this door
hung in the west entrance to the church. The first view of Wallingford
is not very prepossessing. Against the bridge rises the tall and
unutterably inelegant spire of St. Peter's Church, the hideous product
of a mind unhappily diverted from law to ecclesiology.
[Illustration: ST. PETER'S CHURCH AND WALLINGFORD BRIDGE.]
Wallingford possesses interesting memories, although its visible
antiquities are not numerous. The town was of consequence in Roman
times, and a line of splendidly-preserved earthworks, thrown up by
Latin-tongued warriors, is to be seen in a field near the railway
station. The Castle of Wallingford underwent sieges innumerable,
since its comparative nearness to London rendered its possession of
importance to each side in the dynastic wars of the Middle Ages. It
was held for the Empress Maud; it resisted stoutly in the behalf of
that clever scoundrel, John Lackland; it was garrisoned for Charles
I., but was compelled to surrender, and the Parliament made short work
of its keeps and battlements. The fortress was not entirely destroyed,
and the mutilated remains are carefully preserved in the gardens of
the present Wallingford Castle. In the museum at the Castle there is
an interesting collection of antiquities relating to the town and
the fortress. The importance or the piety of the town must have been
far greater previous to the Cromwellian civil wars than either is
now, since there were then fourteen churches, whereas there are now
but three. Beyond one or two tablets to local benefactors, there is
nothing interesting in St. Mary's Church on the Market Place. St.
Peter's is the burial-place of Sir William Blackstone, "one of the
judges of His Majesty's Superior Courts at Westminster," and Recorder
of Wallingford, who built the flint tower, with its uncomfortable
spire--both conspicuous monuments of the architectural decadence--and
died in 1780. In the Council Chamber of the Town Hall there is a modern
portrait of the judge in robes and bag-wig. It is charitable to suppose
that his lordship's legal acumen was superior to his architectural
taste. The most interesting tomb in the churchyard is that of Edward
Stennett, the friend of Bunyan, who may have died any time between 1705
and 1795, since the third figure of the date has become obliterated.
Among the portraits in the Town Hall is one of Archbishop Laud ascribed
to Holbein. The date of 1635 upon the painting indicates that the
author of the ascription was daring even beyond the usual audacity
of such persons. The presence of Laud's portrait is explained by the
double fact of his being a Berkshire man and a benefactor to the town.
In common with most of the towns in the Thames Valley, Wallingford
contains many good red-brick houses, chiefly of Georgian date.
[Illustration: MOULSFORD FERRY.]
The river, after leaving Wallingford, widens a little, and there is a
continuation of the park-like meadows. A short distance down stream is
Wallingford Lock, which is a lock only in name. Here the towing-path
deserts the Oxford for the Berkshire shore, and the long and lovely
reach which ends at Moulsford Bridge begins. This spot marks the
commencement of the stretch of meadow, hills, and woodland, which makes
the delight of Goring and Pangbourne. The Oxfordshire bank is not
merely studded, but is thickly overhung, with trees and undergrowth,
beneath whose shade many a boat is moored for those aquatic flirtations
which are among the most enchanting of summer diversions. Directly one
gets clear of Wallingford the wooded heights about Streatley come in
view, with a glowing "scarf of sunshine athwart their breast." On the
Oxford bank, halfway to North Stoke, more or less, is Mongewell House,
a delicate bit of white in a setting of green lawns and venerable
trees. Once Mongewell was an episcopal retirement, to which the Bishops
of Durham resorted for relief from the fatigues of administration.
It was admirably suited to such a purpose, since it is a silent and
contemplative spot--the more peaceful, perhaps, from the contiguity of
the little Church of Newton Murren, a marvel of the miniature, with
a tiny chancel, and a belfry no bigger than a dovecote. Any monotony
there may be from this spot to the ferry at North Stoke is relieved
by the Streatley Hills, looming ever larger as the boat swings down
the reach, and by the fine clumps of timber which line the river bank
on each side. Many a sweet rural picture is passed on the oarsman's
highway between Newton Murren and Moulsford Bridge, and in such a
country all seasons of the year, and all times of the day, have their
charm. The early-morning hours upon the riverside provide unending
delight to the real lover of nature. Everything is fresh, crisp, and
blithe, for the life of the fields and hedgerows is busy and bustling
long before the earliest man's breakfast-time. The ideal climate, cool
but not cold, exhilarating, buoyant, redolent of the delight of life,
would be a perpetual summer morning, such as it is from five until
nine. Every sight gratifies the eye. Then the dew is still heavy upon
the hedgerows and the tall aquatic grasses, and where there is a bit
of furzy country, there is a tear in every golden flower of gorse.
The atmosphere is clearer and more elastic than later in the day. The
far-distant rush of trains, the only reminder that there is a world
beyond the horizon, and that its daily fret has begun, which at noon is
a mere rumble, in this crisp air is sharp and almost shrill. The ring
of the scythe under the whetstone many fields away sounds but a few
yards off, and the metallic clang of the stable clock at some country
house, hidden behind the belts of woodland, half-an-hour's walk as
the crow flies, is distinct as the raspy cry of the corn-crake in the
yellowing wheat near by. It is hard to say at what season of the day
this stretch down to Moulsford Bridge is most charming. To my taste
it is the early morning; but poets and lovers would probably prefer
sunset, not to say moonlight.
[Illustration: ABINGDON TO STREATLEY.]
Against Moulsford Bridge there is a lovely eyot, edged with flags and
rushes, and bushy with willows and alders. In time of drought the
furthermost arch on the Berkshire shore is not uncommonly dry. There is
a path on each side of the river just here; that on the Berkshire bank
is the more enticing, for it is quite romantically wild and undulating;
but the towing-path proper crossed into Oxfordshire at Stoke Ferry a
little further up. It is well worth risking trespass and climbing to
the railway bridge for the sake of the fine view up and down the river.
Looking back the way we have come, the country is rich, pastoral, and
full of trees; ahead the prospect, while equally sylvan, is far more
varied. The river winds but little, and the long reach past Moulsford
Ferry is in sight for some distance, but the banks are more park-like,
and the land begins to swell towards the background of hills that
closes in the view, the outposts of the range of downs which beautifies
the river beyond Streatley. The brimming, almost straight, reach of
water immediately below the bridge is one of the most interesting spots
on the river to the muscular generation, since upon it are rowed the
trial eights of the Oxford University Boat Club. Close to the bridge
the perch-fisher is usually in great force, for around the eyot the
perch dwells in numbers. It is but a short distance hence to the Ferry,
where the water is remarkably deep and limpid. Opposite thereto is the
oddly-named "Beetle and Wedge" Inn, a quaint, three-gabled old place,
overgrown with ivy and shaded by clumps of luxuriant elms. "The Beetle"
is a grateful halting-place, and its brick-floored parlour a cool
retreat from the glare of the outer world. There is usually a garrulous
villager or two, in the long-descended smock-frock beloved of the older
generation of peasants even in these changeful days, who will pause in
the discussion of their mugs of brown home-brewed to greet the stranger
with the old-fashioned courtesy which still happily clings to their
class. The "Beetle and Wedge" is an odd old place, and although not
nearly so original as the "Barley Mow" at Clifton, it has the low roofs
and capacious fireplaces which add so much to the comfort of an ancient
hostel. It is really astonishing how large a number of our old wayside
inns have survived the crushing blow dealt them by the abolition of
the stage-coach. There they stand still, with their venerable gables,
handsome red roofs, and ample chimneys, eloquently suggestive of warmth
and good cheer for tired travellers. In a comfortable old-fashioned inn
the crusty loaf, the hunch of well-seasoned Cheshire, and the tankard
with "a good head to it," like David Copperfield's birthday treat, have
a zest and flavour which are always lacking elsewhere; the result, no
doubt, of their being usually eaten during the exhilaration following
upon physical exercise. These ancient Thames-side inns possess a charm
peculiar to themselves, due largely to their lovely surroundings and to
the river flowing beneath their windows.
From the "Beetle and Wedge" to Streatley and Goring Bridge, the goal of
our pilgrimage in this chapter, the towing-path keeps to the Berkshire
bank. As we near Cleeve Lock the scenery becomes yet more sylvan. The
river is densely lined with trees, the more especially on the Oxford
shore, and the stream winds just enough for picturesqueness. Groups of
splendid beeches dot the country, and the water is enlivened by many a
boatful of flannelled rowers and pink-vested sirens. Ladies appear to
have recognised, with intuitive taste, that pink and white are two of
the most effective colours for river wear, and the Thames, in all the
fashionable reaches, owes much of its vivacity to the brilliant hues
of its attendant water-nymphs. However solitary the river may be in
some parts, as between Clifton and Dorchester, for instance, there is
enough of life and movement within hail of Goring. The neighbourhood
of Cleeve Lock is a favourite haunt for house-boats and campers, since
there is nothing prettier on that side of Abingdon until such famous
spots as Henley and Maidenhead are reached. The house-boats which
take up their moorings hereabouts are usually of the larger and more
elaborate pattern. The little muslined windows are gaily decked with
flowers, there is a miniature flower-garden upon the flat roof, and
where the roof overhangs are suspended Chinese lanterns, gorgeous with
many a brilliant stripe and spot. A graceful white-robed figure, in a
coquettish pink sash, seated in the stern, is not the least attractive
object in the landscape. The roar of the Streatley weirs below is
plainly heard, and many are the lovely glimpses of the brimming, rushy
river between the lock and the bridge. Overhead rise, close at hand,
the broad, rolling hills, upon which the sun casts shade and shine in
successive flecks. The clouds, alternately deep blue and flaky-white,
seem to cast their moving reflections upon the crest of the hills,
for the gilded sunshine melts with delicate gradations into soft,
shimmering shadow. Half a mile or so below Cleeve Lock the stream
divides, the cut to the left going to Goring Lock and the main channel
to Streatley. From the point of divergence to Streatley and Goring
Bridge is but a brief pull, and few pilgrims of the Thames will desire
to push on without halting for a while at this pretty village. Near the
bridge is a mill, fed from the river, looking very picturesque with its
steep gables and high-set dormer windows. The weirs here are favourite
sketching grounds, and almost daily in summer and early autumn easels
are pitched in the wise represented in the final illustration to this
chapter. These weirs are exemplars of the picturesque. Roughly built
up with stone and stakes, they are overgrown with furzy vegetation, to
which the water, as it pours foaming down the cascade, forms a charming
contrast. There are few prettier glimpses of Thames scenery than are
to be had from the long white toll-bridge which connects Goring with
Streatley. Looking down are the thick woodlands about Cleeve Lock, with
the rich, timbered meadows on the Berkshire bank. Upward, towards
Goring and Pangbourne, the course of the river is seemingly stemmed by
the downs, which are covered with herbage and timbered to the water's
edge. The weirs, with their tumbling waters, and the little eyots,
cumbered with tall osiers, add to the picturesque diversity of the
scene. The twin villages themselves are embosomed in foliage, which in
the wane of summer takes many changing tints.
[Illustration: STREATLEY MILL.]
Although it is not a very distinguished spot, historically speaking,
Streatley has far-reaching memories. Ina, King of Wessex, is mentioned
in the Cartulary of Abingdon Abbey as having given a piece of land
there in 687. After the Conquest the manor was part of the rich booty
secured by that bold brigand Geoffrey de Mandeville. The church, which
nestles among some grand old trees at the foot of the village, near
the waterside, is ancient but hardly picturesque. Its patron, oddly
enough, is doubtful, but is believed to be either St. Mary or St. John
the Baptist. The massive square tower is well preserved and dignified.
There is some uncertainty as to the date of the church, but it appears
to have been built by Pone, Bishop of Sarum, in the first or second
decade of the thirteenth century. He it was who endowed it, and some
of the architectural details are similar to those in the bishop's own
famous cathedral. The oldest funeral inscription in the church is
upon a brass, dated 1440, in memory of Elizabeth Osbarn. This brass,
like one or two others, is very well preserved, and still bears the
full-length figure of the lady. Large families appear to have been
very common in the Thames Valley in the olden times, as numberless
inscriptions in riverside churches testify; and it is not surprising to
find here a brass, dated 1603, to a parent of eleven daughters and six
sons. The village has a pleasant street on the brow of the hill, with
some good old houses shaded by older trees. Streatley is a delightful
place to halt for the night on a boating or walking excursion. Its
material advantages are that it has capital accommodation for the tired
walker and rower, and that the proximity of Goring Station makes it
easy to bring up the heavy luggage, without which ladies are not happy,
even on the river. Of its more æsthetic attractions I have already
spoken. To the dweller in towns it is unspeakably delicious to be
lulled to sleep and gently awakened by the musical plash of the weirs,
while a stroll at dusk along the river bank is full of delights. In
the gloaming the ruminating, sweet-breathed kine loom mistily as they
lie sociably grouped under the lee of a protecting hedge. On the river
twinkle through the gathering night the lamps of the house-boats, the
Chinese lanterns, depending from the overhanging roofs, glowing through
their fantastic filaments like great transparent fire-flies. And but
for the rush of the weirs, the dip of a belated oar, and an occasional
ring of laughter from the huge, blackly-outlined boats, the night is
silent.
/J. Penderel-Brodhurst/.
[Illustration: THE THAMES AT STREATLEY.]