CHAPTER XII.

GRAVESEND TO THE NORE.

Morning on the Lower Thames--Gravesend--Pilots and Watermen--A

Severe Code--Tilbury and its Memories--The Marshes--Wild-fowl

Shooting--Eel Boats--Canvey Island--Hadleigh Castle--Leigh, and the

Shrimpers--Southend and the Pier--Sailing--Sheerness--The Mouth of

the Medway--The Dockyard--The Town and its Divisions--The Nore--A

Vision of Wonder--Shoeburyness--Outward Bound.

The beautiful stretches of the Upper River must always offer an

attraction to men who have an eye for colour, and to whom the curious

spectacle of cultured wildness is pleasant.

But there are some who, while they remember the long reaches where

the willow herbs shine and the glassy river rolls, think kindly of

the other reaches where the signs of toil begin, and where the great

stream pours on between banks that have nothing to redeem them save

strangeness of form and infinite varieties of bizarre tints.

A voyage in a small boat from the hill where the Greenwich Observatory

cuts sharp against the sky, down to the rushing channels where the

black flood flows past the Woolwich Piers, is always unpleasant to

those whose senses are delicate, but as soon as we reach Gravesend we

come to another region, and there those who care little for brilliance

of colour, those who care little for softness of effect, those who care

only for stern suggestion, find themselves at home.

One of the pleasantest experiences in life is to wake in the early

dawn, put sail on a fast yacht, and run on the tide from Gravesend,

past the grim end of the Lower Hope. The colliers weigh anchor, the

apple-bowed brigs curtsy slowly on the long rush of swelling water,

and as you look up from your cabin you receive sudden and poignant

suggestions that tell of far-off regions, and that take you away from

the grim world that you have just left behind.

Here is a clumsy black brig bustling the water before her! The ripples

fly in creamy rings from her bows; her black topsails, with their

queer patches, flap a little as the wind comes and goes, and you hear

the hoarse orders given by the man who stands near the helm, and who

is in authority for the time. Then a great four-master spreads her

wings, and while the little tug puffs and frets around her as though

there were important business to do, which did not allow of a moment's

consideration, the big ship slowly slides away, and gathering power

under her canvas, surges into the brown deep, and takes the melancholy

emigrants away towards the Nore.

Then the "tramps" of the ocean--the ugly colliers--are not without

interest. One of them foams up to you, and you know that the man in

command of her has perhaps not slept for seventy-two hours. He has

made his wallowing rush from the North country; he has risked all the

dangers of fog and darkness and storm, and he has brought his vessel

up to the derrick with satisfaction. Then in a few hours the swarm of

"whippers" have cleared her; the rattle of the great cranes has rung

through the night, and the vessel has been emptied in a time that would

seem astonishing to those who manage sanitary corporation business on

shore, and who condemn us to endure the presence of ghastly stenches

and unspeakable sights for hour after hour. The anchors are whipped up

and the ocean "tramp" tears away on her trip to the Tyne.

There is not a single sight or sound that does not convey its own

interest. If it is autumn time, the racing yachts are clearing for

action, dapper men are bounding hither and thither, as though there

were nothing in life to be cared for excepting success in the race

that must shortly be begun. The gun fires, and the lazy breeze of the

morning strikes the huge spinnakers, while the razor-bowed craft move

slowly out, and gradually gather speed until the troubled water foams

in crisp whirls and rolls away aft in long creamy trails.

The upper reaches of the river are lightsome, and given over wholly to

pleasure. Every turn conveys the sensation of wealth and comfort; every

delicate shallop that floats luxuriously past the locks hints of money

acquired in the crush of the great city; but in the Lower River any day

the story of stress, and struggle, and coarse labour may be read on the

spot, and perhaps nowhere in the world--not even in the huge docks of

Liverpool--can so vivid an idea be gained of the mercantile greatness

of England. No attempt is made to disguise the natural ugliness and

coarseness of every feature in the scene; steamers surge up at half

speed, and the vast waves that they throw curl against the bank and

bring away masses of mud; the barges glide lazily, the black shrimpers

troop down the current with their ragged sails, and everything speaks

of a life given over wholly to rough toil.

It is true that many parties come from the City in steamboats, and in

the summer evenings the air is full of music, and shrill sounds of

laughter ring from the splashing boats as they pass you; but these are

only stray visitations, and no one who knows the Lower River, no one

who has felt the sentiment of the locality keenly, can ever associate

it with light-heartedness.

Gravesend is a pretty town that straggles around the base of a bluff

hill. From the summit of this hill you can look far over the plains

of Kent; you may see the waves coiling and whitening round the Nore;

you can see the towers of Rochester; you can see the great desolate

stretches of marsh-lands that lie between Malden and Wallend. The town

is wholly given over to shipping business, and although smart villas

display their finery on the outskirts, yet somehow we feel these to be

merely excrescences. They are very gaudy, the gardens are oppressively

handsome, and the wealth of the owners is undoubted; but the lover of

Gravesend cares only for the narrow streets that straggle down to the

river; for the odd little shops where all requirements of seafarers

may be satisfied; for the narrow wharves, past which the tide rushes

from Northfleet Hope. For all who have read nautical literature the

place is peopled with memories. Here the great Indiamen lay, in the

times when the long six-months' voyage round the Cape had to be taken

by officers and civilians. In these narrow, sloping streets the women

stood and watched the passing of those they loved as the monster ship

slid down on the tide. The very name of Gravesend brings up memories

that can hardly be put into words; for in old yellow letters, in old

books, in old newspapers, the word is always associated with meetings

and partings, with great changes of fortune, with the keenest moments

in the drama of life.

The town has the reputation of being the Cockney's Watering Place, but

to those who know it intimately the normal life goes on unaffected by

the incursion of the chattering crowds brought down by the steamers.

The Whitechapel tripper at once betakes himself to the public-house, or

to the tea-gardens, or to the dancing-rooms; while the watermen, the

seamen, and the shrimpers go on composedly with their old-fashioned

tasks. The pilot goes out with his smart cutter. He is a comfortable

man, with a healthy air of authority, and there is something in the

very roll of his voice that speaks of riches and monopoly. The Guild of

Pilots keep their business very much to themselves. It would be hard to

find one of them who is not exceedingly well to do, and any accidents

that may happen do nothing to diminish a pilot's means. If on some dark

and foggy night he makes a mistake, as some great ship gropes her way

down the misty reach, it matters little to him; for even if he cuts

down the ship, and drowns the whole crew, he can make himself perfectly

easy. His money is settled on his wife, and the cleverest lawyer in the

world could not wring anything in the way of composition out of him.

The watermen still ply in their flitting wherries, but the glory of

their trade is departed. Long ago the tilt-boats left for London Bridge

with every tide bearing their loads of passengers.

The sternest rules were made for the guidance of the watermen. There is

one curious order made by the Court of Rulers, Auditors, and Assistants

of the Company of Watermen, forbidding any indecent behaviour or

expression towards their fare, or whilst plying or rowing on the river.

It runs thus:--

"Whereas, several watermen, lightermen, and the apprentices of

such, whilst they are rowing, working upon the River Thames, and

at their several respective places of resort, or plying places,

between Gravesend and Windsor, do often use immoderate, obscene,

and lewd expressions towards passengers, and to each other, as

are offensive to all sober persons, and tend extremely to the

corruption and debauchery of youth. For prevention therefore

of such ill-practices for the future, it is hereby declared

and ordained by the Court aforesaid, That if any waterman or

lighterman, after the 16th day of October, 1701, shall upon the

said river, or at any place of their resort, as aforesaid, be

guilty of using any such lewd expressions, and be thereof duly

convicted by one or more witness or witnesses, or by confession

of the offender before the Rulers of this Company, he shall

forfeit and pay for every such offence the sum of 2s. 6d. And if

any waterman's or lighterman's apprentice shall herein offend, the

master or mistress of every such offender (the offender being duly

convicted as aforesaid) shall forfeit and pay the like sum of 2s.

6d., and in case of refusal the offender shall suffer correction,

as the Rulers of this Company shall in their discretion think fit

and necessary; which said forfeitures (when paid) shall be applied

to the use of the poor, aged, decayed, and maimed members of the

Company, their widows and children."

This enactment is two hundred years old, and lasts up to this day. The

wherries were regulated with equal strictness. No boat was allowed to

take more than seven passengers at a time, and the sum of 2s. 6d. was

charged on each passenger embarked over the number.

Everybody who knows the build of the wherries knows that on the Thames

it is extremely difficult to turn to windward in a small boat. When the

tide is running out it is, of course, impossible to turn at all; but

even when the flood is running up it is extremely hard to "beat;" and

the wisdom of the old masters is very prettily shown in one enactment,

which declares that "If any master carrying passengers to and fro from

London to Gravesend shall at any time hereafter turn to windward in any

of the said boats wherein are any of her Majesty's subjects, he shall

forfeit and pay for every such offence the sum of 10s." This severity

of regulation made the river as safe for the ordinary travellers as

it now is for those who use the large steamboats. Many persons were

drowned first and last, but the number of deaths due to the upsetting

of watermen's boats in the whole of the last century did not in sum

equal the number destroyed in the massacre which took place when the

_Bywell Castle_ ran into the _Princess Alice_.

The regulations as to fares and fines are all very curious, and a

glance at the droll bye-laws of the Watermen's Company seems to lift a

curious veil between us and a dead society. Here is one terrible code

of punishments:--

£ s. d.

Private watermen reviling passenger 0 2 0

Swearing or cursing 0 2 0

Towing a boat while carrying a passenger 0 2 6

Plying when his boat is not at the stairs 0 5 0

Working with a wrong number 0 10 0

Marrying in apprenticeship 10 0 0

Refusing to carry a fare 0 2 6

Bum-boats selling goods before sunrising and after sunsetting are very

hardly dealt with. For the first offence the boat forfeits 40s., and

for every succeeding offence £4.

The fares made for the year 1785 were easy enough. From London to

Gravesend the figure required was six shillings, and the other fares

were proportionately reasonable. Thus quiet City men ran down from

London Bridge on one tide and returned on the next, but the tilt-boat

is now as extinct as the caravel. A few smart wherries dodge about

the lower reaches waiting for inward bound vessels; but the watermen

is no longer jolly, and in a few years it will be found impossible to

find a youthful member of the craft, for no parent would apprentice

his son to a trade in which few men can earn enough to keep body and

soul together. A righteous retribution seems to have doomed a race of

harpies to extinction. In the old days, when a towering East Indiaman

came up the river, and the tanned soldiers and the weary civilians

crowded joyously to the side, the watermen pounced on their prey, and

each eager passenger had to run the gauntlet of a band of marauders.

Times have altered, and the keen, ragged men who ply the wherries are

only too glad to take a passenger to the Nore and back for a sovereign.

Across the water Tilbury Fort frowns over the bulge of the reach.

The guns command the Lower Hope, and it would be impossible for an

enemy's vessel to sail so far as Northfleet without being badly mauled

or sunk. The place is associated with the names of a great queen and

our greatest soldier. There the fierce Amazon mustered her troops

and spoke rough words of encouragement to them; there General Gordon

walked, with his quick, quiet movements, and his curt, low speech.

Gordon planned the fortifications at the south of the river, but he

travelled from bank to bank with that eager activity which marked

his every action. His work is masterly in conception and execution,

and if the torpedo service is properly organised it is hardly likely

that the roar of a foreigner's cannon will ever be heard in London

again. A roistering multitude once fluttered the people of the infant

village of Tilbury, and rioted through the quiet place on the southern

shore. The old historian grows quite haughty in his malice as he

tells how "A rude rout of Rascals, under the leading of Wat Tyler,

a taylor, who commanded in chief, with their grave ministers, John

Ball, Jack Straw, a thresher, Jack Sheppard, of the Council of War,

under the title of King's Men, and the servants of the Commonwealth

of England, after ransacking and demolishing all the fair structures

of the nobility and gentry of the Essex side, summoned K. Richard II.

to give them a meeting, who accordingly, accompanied with most of his

best counsellors, took his barge and went to Gravesend, but seeing the

rabble so ragged and rogue-like, a company of swabs, composed of the

scum of the people; it was held no discretion for the King to venture

his person among them, and so returned to the Tower from whence he

came."

Poor Richard let the "swabs" pass up the north side of the river, and

he met them there with a gallantry which is a little unlike the conduct

of the driveller who long afterwards fell from the throne which he had

covered with dishonour. All the scene is dull and peaceful now. Gordon

is gone from us, and his name will pass, like that of the "swab" Tyler,

into the quietude of the history-books.

"So much carry the winds away."

North of Tilbury, and away to the eastward along the Essex shore,

stretches a strange, level country netted with winding streams. As the

tide runs out, the little ditches send down runnels of clear water.

Charles Dickens was always fascinated by this region; but, strangely

enough, his works have given everybody a false impression of the whole

marsh country. People think of slime, and darkness, and poisonous

exhalations, and an atmosphere of horror and crime. They think of the

faces of hunted convicts and the grim night-scenes in which Joe Gargery

and his pet took part; but at certain times of the year the marshes are

really cheerful--the clear streams glitter in the morning sun, and the

larks sing their hearts out high up in the air. The multitudinous notes

fall around you from the shining heights like a shower of pearls, and

for miles the eye is met by a blaze of colour and dazzling glitter.

The ragworts spread in blinding sheets of yellow; the purple stars of

the mallow peep modestly out from the coarse grass; and amid all the

riot of sound and colour the peaceful cattle stand, and give a sense of

homely companionship to the scene. When the tide flows, the river slips

into the channels, and the tiny runnels of spring water are driven back

to their sources; the ditches fill and overflow; the fishes, in many

cases, catch their prey within a yard of where the cattle were feeding;

and the grass becomes impregnated by the tide. It is this daily advance

of the brackish flood that makes the marshes so valuable as grazing

grounds. The cattle eagerly tear at the salty grass, and its nutritive

qualities are so great, that it is sometimes found that a whole herd

turned out on the marshes within a week or two weigh on the average

half a stone more than they did when they first fed on the saltings. In

winter, truly, the marshes are bleak and inhospitable; but in the soft,

rich mud of the ditches the wild-fowl swarm, and the sportsmen have

good times when the weather is frosty. A man who is not greedy, and

who will be content with a very moderate bag, can hardly find a better

place for exciting sport than within these northern saltings. Sometimes

a redshank starts up, whistling desperately, and goes off down wind

until the charge stops him; the ringed plovers cower low in the ditch,

and shoot along under the bank with steady, level flight, until they

are forced to sweep out over the grass and give the gunner his chance.

At the fall of the evening the wild note of the curlew sounds with

piercing cadence. There be many men in London who count Benfleet

Station as the entrance to Paradise; and it is a very pleasant sight

to see the smart shooters dispersing on a brisk, frosty morning. Below

Canvey Island, and over the immense flats of that dismal place, the

heaviest bags can be made with a big duck-gun. Most of the yachts on

the river have a punt with the orthodox engine of destruction attached.

There is something murderous and commercial about the duck-gun. To get

up to a flock of birds needs a certain cunning and skill, which almost

rise to the dignity of a fine art, and the excitement is amongst the

keenest forms of pleasure that sport can give; but when the black,

screaming flock has risen, and the boom of the huge gun has sent the

echoes flying, then the sight of destruction, struggling, and suffering

is apt to pain the sentimentalist. An hour's wander with a small

gun--an hour that will bring its couple of brace of birds--offers the

more artistic form of sport.

The shooting country is hardly broken between Benfleet and the

Blackwater. Everywhere the eye travels over dark ditches, speckled

flats, and stray groups of birds. At times the ground seems to be

covered by a struggling army, whereof the squadrons perform strange

evolutions. Then the wary gunner, watching with his glass from afar

off, knows that the troops are on the feed, and takes his measures

accordingly.

In choosing a boat for the river work, you can hardly do better than

follow the model adopted by the waterside folk. Right round the coast,

the action of years of experience has enabled the inhabitants of

every place to choose the exact kind of craft best suited for their

locality. In the North the delicate "cobles," with their light draught

astern, are adapted for the long, shelving beaches. No fisherman

ever thinks of running into the cove without preparing to make for

the beach with his craft stern-foremost. The Yarmouth men have their

stiff "hookers," which draw a good deal of water, and are without the

dangerous "crankness" that characterises a "coble." The Suffolk men,

on the stony stretches of coast between Southwold and Aldborough, have

broad, clumsy, longshore boats, which stand a great amount of knocking

about. In this way the unconscious process of adaptation, involving

the transmission of hints from one generation to another, has made the

Thames boats all that can be desired for their work. For all practical

purposes a Gravesend wherry will see you safely to the mouth of the

river, and beyond the Nore; while the average Thames "hooker," or

"bowler" boat, as it is called, will stand up well to any weather that

she is likely to encounter.

Take an ordinary wherry, and an hour's sail from Gravesend brings you

into a foreign colony. Clustered thick in the sheltered haven of the

river lies a fleet of vessels, strange in build, startling in colour,

outlandish in rig. Their bulging bows are like the breasts of some

Titanic women. The low sweep of their bulwark makes it astonishing

that they can ever go to sea without being swept, even when the

enormous boards are hung in position to keep out the rush of water

and to stiffen the vessel. Quiet, good-humoured men lounge on the

spotless decks of these ships, and address you in broken English or in

a strange tongue. As you walk, you hear the sound of wallowing, and

when you look into the gulf of the hold you see a strange, weltering

mass of snaky-brown things of which the aspect makes an unaccustomed

man shudder. Tons of eels welter in these watery caverns, and the

landsman sees with astonishment that the sides of the vessel are

thickly perforated to allow the rush of the sea, and that each ship

is neither more or less than a huge floating sieve. In quiet ponds in

Holland this harvest of eels is raised, and the vessels go to this

point in all weathers. If they sailed past Gravesend, not one fish of

their cargo would survive; so they remain at the bend where the water

is salt, and the Thames flows through and through their holds until the

last consignment has gone to Billingsgate. Then the quaint vessels warp

themselves out of the haven. With their slow, blundering appearance

they always seem as if they must come to mischief, yet somehow or other

the quiet, phlegmatic Dutchmen make their queer craft do exactly what

they wish. These fellows are not fond of the English fishermen, and a

fight between the nationalities sometimes enlivens the dreary monotony

of the haven; but to any one who boards their ship in a polite manner,

and shows signs of good breeding, they are most complacent, and one

learns to like their grim simplicity.

[Illustration: AT CANVEY ISLAND.]

The river widens sharply out to the eastward of Thames Haven. On the

south the Kentish Marshes stretch from the bluff of the Lower Hope

to St. James's, and deep creeks run away southward towards Cooling,

Halston, and Hoo St. Mary. It is very difficult to traverse this huge

flat without a guide who knows the place pretty well. Men who have shot

over the country winter after winter sometimes miss the exact spot at

which a ditch may be crossed, and are kept wandering for an hour at a

time before they can extricate themselves from the labyrinth of deep,

muddy channels. Like the Essex Marshes, the Cliff Marsh, the Halston

Marsh, the St. Mary Marsh, and the rest, are the delight of wild-fowl

shooters. A dingey can traverse most of the creeks for some distance,

and birds may be got in hard weather without adventuring amongst the

swamps, where a slip would produce the most unpleasant consequences.

Like the Essex Marshes, too, this peninsula, which lies between the

Medway and the Thames, is very beautiful in the summer for those who

have learned the true sentiment of the country. Rank and luxuriant life

spreads everywhere, and although sauntering is not a very pleasant

employment, owing to the difficulty of negotiating the ridges between

the ditches, yet the blaze of colour, and the jargon of song go on, and

very pleasing thoughts come over the mind. The tide has a strong sweep,

but a yacht will lie very comfortably clear of the foreshore. There are

particular places, which the yachtsmen and bargemen know well, where no

possible force of the tide would tear the anchor out of the ground. The

present writer has again and again been caught at nightfall by the ebb,

but there never was any danger, though the rush of the river went by

like a mill-race. On one occasion the steering-gear of a steamer gave

way as she was passing down at nightfall, and she plunged in amongst

the stray vessels which were anchored alongside of the dreary flats,

cutting one ship down, and bringing herself hard on the mud; but a

catastrophe of this kind is hardly likely to occur once in twenty years.

A small boat soon shoots round the Lower Hope and into the westerly

channel that flows around Canvey Island. At high tide the boat will

travel easily up to the sea-wall, which rears itself like a strong

fortification at the innermost edge of the saltings. The wall is

overgrown with sea-weed, and the very steps by which one gains the

Coastguard Station are slippery with sea-grass. Inside the wall the

stretch of the island lies, as it were, in a great basin. Corn waves,

bright meadows shine in the summer, and marshy streams creep slowly

into the channels that cut the weird place away from the mainland. A

wild and forbidding place is Canvey Island. The strong sea-wall is

gruesome with its shaggy wreaths of trailing weed. The inner side is

well covered with coarse grass, and from thence away to the northward

a flat of somewhat repulsive aspect runs as far as Benfleet. The

island has a peculiar population. The coastguards' hamlet lies close

to the wall, and the men are ordinary sailors; but in the villages of

Canvey, Knightswick, Panhole, and Lovis, there is a scant population

of people who have their own ways, their own traditions, and their own

methods of regarding a stranger. They are singularly hospitable, for

free-handed sportsmen find the island a happy hunting-ground, and the

people expect and give kindness. The one little inn by the Coastguard

Station is, perhaps, the quaintest in all Essex. Memories of smugglers,

of desperate water thieves, of old collier sailors seem to hang about

its low walls. No one need expect comfort there, but the keeper purveys

for all comers with a rude hospitality which is amusing. On the

Fobbing side of the island the ditches are very deep, and the sides

soft and treacherous. Once a bird is shot there it is very difficult

to recover it. All the dogs kept on the island have a singularly

business-like air, but no one would care to let a valuable dog follow

his game down these steep, gluey, ramparts. To the east, however, the

saltings stretch far towards Canvey Point; and it is not only safe, but

absolutely pleasant to walk over them before the tide creeps through

the rough herbage.

Hardly a shore-bird known in the British Islands fails to visit Canvey.

Looking through a telescope from Benfleet Station, it is easy to

pick out the flocks as they consort in their different communities,

and squat among the mud, or pick their way carefully through the

twining grass. At one time, on a frosty morning, it is possible to

see dotterels, plovers, redshanks, gulls, and pipers, all busy on the

eastern flats; while to the west the cunning curlews dodge on the

slippery banks of the Fobbing ditches. The foreshore is perfectly free

to strangers; although one proprietor in the island has ventured to

dispute the fact. A private grant of the shore was made two hundred

years ago, and below the sea-wall no visitor can be considered as a

trespasser, while a boat may bring up anywhere in the channel. Canvey

is not an inviting spot for camping out. On a gusty night, when the

rushes moan and shiver, and the great river sounds hoarsely, it is

hardly possible to look out into the darkness without feeling a sense

of strangeness and even of fear. The island seems to have no salient

points; the hill, topped by the house known as the Hall, rises a

little, but it is more like a cloud than like a solid mound. A shadowy

figure from the coastguard's hut sometimes paces up and down, but even

this gives none of the refreshment of human companionship. The writer

once took refuge in the Channel at midnight during very bad weather.

The boatmen did not care to land, and we sheltered ourselves as best we

could from the storm. The island then showed in all its mystery through

the drift of rain and the flying haze. It was an experience never to

be forgotten; but no one is recommended to try it. It is better to

seek the hospitable shelter of an inn, and put up with rough fare,

or any fare, rather than remain in the open amid that abomination of

desolation.

[Illustration: THE FRINGE OF THE MARSHES.]

[Illustration: HADLEIGH CASTLE.]

The sea-wind comes with sharp, stirring breath after we pass the long

spit that shoots out from the weird island; the river is still yellow,

but when the breezes set the foam dancing the crests of the waves

are of pure white. In the reach at Erith there is sometimes a heavy

roll that travels as swiftly and as high as the jumping seas of the

Channel, but the curling crests of the waves are yellow, and they hint

of foulness beneath. All changes when the estuary fairly breaks open

to receive the unchecked wash of the tide, and it is exhilarating to

sweep over the full-bosomed river that swells as though it would fain

topple across the low rampart of the Kentish marshes and flood all the

sluggish runlets. We take it for granted that any one who cares to

enjoy the sights of the Lower Thames fully will use a sailing-boat.

The discreet navigator may then explore to his heart's content. On

the southerly shore there are few buildings which have any interest,

but on the Essex bluffs there are many places worth going ashore to

see. The low hills command a fine outlook to the southward, and every

salient point has been selected at one time or another for building

purposes. Looking northward from the dull level of Canvey Island, one

sees a strong tower that forms a central mark in a pretty landscape.

At first sight the building looks firm and uninjured, but when you

climb the bosky hillocks upon which it stands, and approach within a

hundred yards, you find that the imposing shell is but a ruin after

all. This is Hadleigh Castle, which is said to have been built by the

proud favourite Hubert de Burgh. Six centuries, with frost, and fire,

and snow have spent their wearing influence on the stately ruin. Where

once the mad Earl of Kent held high revel the owl makes her nest and

the garrulous jackdaws flutter and babble.

"'Tis said the lion and the lizard keep

Their court where Famshyd gloried and drank deep."

The old story holds true alike on the Essex hills and on the plains of

Persia. Where Hubert de Burgh gloried and drank deep the wild birds

harbour and the moaning winds pour unchecked through the desolate

towers. Hadleigh Castle could only have been built by a man who took

long views of life, and who felt his hold on his place in life very

secure. Even now, though the towers are hollow, and the grass makes

the battlements shaggy, the castle has an air of grim strength, of

steadfast power, that give pause to the mind. All round the grey walls

the birds flutter in changing flocks. Far down the slope the river

rolls and the ships glide without ceasing, while the trees rustle

and the grass gleams as the breeze flies over. There is movement and

colour everywhere, the trains rush along the embankment just below

us, and amid all, scorning change, fronting, incurious of night-time

or day, the centuries' enormous weariness, stands the structure that

was built in the dark ages. Dark ages! Can we equal this nobility of

outline, this triumphant strength, nowadays? When all the rickety

streets of modern London shall have sunk in decay, when perchance

the great city is but a fading memory, the rugged Castle of Hadleigh

will remain in disdainful steadfastness--a monument of human pride

and skill, and alas! of human folly and failure. Elizabeth came here,

as did her savage father before her. Generations of ladies, gay and

courtly knights, met in their turn within those tremendous walls,

and now the curious traveller may wander unchecked amid the remnants

of magnificence. Let no one who sails on the Lower River miss seeing

Hadleigh Castle, for it is a worthy example, all mutilated and

imperfect as it stands, of a noble school of architecture; and there

are no ruins of a finer and grander type even on the storied banks of

the many-memoried Rhine.

The view from a steamer is very well in its way, but the quaint

glimpses of mysterious creeks, the chance views of forlorn waterside

cottages, the flashes of colour from red-tiled roofs and glowing

gardens can only be seen at their best from a stiff boat that can

either creep inshore or bowl over the solemn flow of the outer current.

Leave the chilly stillness of a channel like that which bubbles around

Canvey Island; spread the boat's wings, and in a few minutes you may

have the whitening ripples purling clearly along under the quarter, and

you see the fleet waves coiling and plashing at the Nore.

[Illustration: LEIGH.]

To the north of Canvey Point lies the village of Leigh, which may be

called the Yarmouth of shrimpers. The bulk of the village lies close to

the water's edge, but the church, with its picturesque tower, crowns

the top of the hill, and forms a conspicuous landmark. The black boats

bustle out of the haven in swarms, and settle like ungainly sea-fowl

as their trawls go down. It appears as though nothing were being

done--as though the boats were merely anchored in a clumsy fashion,

but, all the time, the brailed-up mainsail is imperceptibly dragging

each vessel along, and the nets are gathering their prey from the muddy

bottom. Solemn, grimy men move listlessly about, or sit amidships, as

if they were burdened with misanthropy; the rudder takes its own way,

for the drag of the net usually serves to keep the boat on her course;

the sail flaps mournfully, and the jar of a shaken block cuts the air

like the report of a pistol. Yet the lazy-looking craft are busy, and

the bubbling boiler amidships is kept always ready. When the haul is

made, and the wriggling myriads of shrimps are sorted out, then the

boiling-nets come into requisition; the crustaceans are swiftly dipped

into hot water, and the impassive fishermen prepare deliberately for

another haul. No one who goes down Thames should miss landing at Leigh,

and, if possible, he should contrive to spend a Saturday evening with

the men. They are a civil race, and they take a stranger's presence as

a compliment. Many of them are yachtsmen, and the admirable semi-naval

discipline of the yachts has leavened the manners of the place. The

rough fellows sing their silly songs, and exchange wise remarks about

fishing and yachts (which are the only subjects of worldly interest

to them), and they are always ready to take a visitor into their

confidence. Barring the slight polish acquired from mariners who have

seen the strange regions of Cowes and Dartmouth, these villagers are

like survivals of a dim past. In fact, so thoroughly marine is the

general atmosphere, that shore-going costume seems incongruous in

Leigh, the presence of a dealer is painful, and one feels as if it were

a sin against propriety to wear anything but old-fashioned garments. It

is worth while to pay a visit to the station in the evening when the

last up-train is about to start; the platform is crowded with hampers

of all shapes and sizes. They contain shrimps ready for transmission to

the all-devouring Metropolis.

It is best to run well out to the southward after leaving Leigh, for

then the pleasant slope of the hills that fringe the northern shore is

well seen. Stray copses straggle here and there; lines of fir-trees

strike against the sky like regiments with arms at the carry, and

pleasant houses peep from their pretty perches. Southend is already

feeling its way toward the west. The central ganglion of the town is

perched in its little basin in thick clusters of houses, that seem to

climb over the rounded wold; but the stray villas are planted like

pioneers, and by-and-by the lines will be completed, and Southend will

perhaps come to be in touch of London.

The magnetic attraction of the great city is felt everywhere. We are so

secure now that bodies of men no longer huddle themselves within the

solid safety of stone walls. Every modern English town has a tendency

to sprawl. Only cross this river and run southward to the Foreland, and

you are within sight of quaint old towns that had a serene, corporate

existence, and nestled inside their defences like discreet swarms of

bees. Rye, Sandwich, and all the rest, resemble the eyries of seabirds

planted safely in snug coves, but this Southend sprawls like its own

wriggling pier. Carlyle foretold the junction of London and Reading,

and there is a sad probability that this will come about. In the same

way Southend at last will blend with London, and we may have the

jingling horror of a tramway from London Bridge to the low bluff that

fronts the Nore.

[Illustration: SOUTHEND AND THE PIER.]

As we move eastward a strange serpentine shape rises out of the water.

At first it is like a cloud, then it takes on the appearance of a huge

centipede with an abnormal number of feelers and a blunt, horned head.

That is Southend Pier, which strikes for a mile and more over the

mud-flats. The lighthouse rounds off the end of this odd structure with

a somewhat dignified suggestion of solidity, but the long, straggling

chain, alas! looks as if it were all unfit to stand the fierce rush

of the North Sea. It is quite easy to land on the hulk that creaks

and sways below the lighthouse, but the present writer never cares to

trust a small boat against the outer edge when the river is running

hard. There are strong steps at intervals all the way along, and it

is best to go round the pier-head and place the boat according to

the wind. When once the upper pathway is gained, it seems as though

the town were within easy reach. But let no one try fast walking

along that treacherous road; it is meant for men who care for gentle

pedestrianism, for meditation, for quiet glimpses to seaward, for lazy

criticism of passing vessels. Indeed, there is enough of interest to

take away all desire for hurry. Around the piles the grey water laps

and swirls, scooping out round holes in which black colonies of mussels

nestle. Little fish pursue their nervous activities in the clear pools;

the scream of sea-birds comes faintly from far away, and the keen

breeze makes hoarse noises in the labyrinth of the piles. At low water

the flat seems interminable, and it must be owned that it does not look

very pleasant. Glossy hillocks of mud thrust their shoulders out of

stray ponds of salt water, and every hillock seems to be composed of

a rather nasty kind of gruel. Lumps of sea-weed lie about the greasy

surface: they are like currants in a monstrous, uneatable custard. The

gulls settle and chatter around the bitter lakelets, and they are the

only beings that find the flats easy to walk on. It is hard to say how

far one would sink if he were daring enough to adventure himself among

the wreathing mazes of mud. Perhaps the footing is more solid than

it seems, but we never cared to try. Slowly and warily the traveller

moves over the puzzling planks, and as each new landmark shows itself,

the length of the pier impresses itself on the imagination of tired

humanity. The men below who wallow in their enormous boots among the

oyster-beds take matters easily, and tend their precious charges

with deliberate care. They are like wild denizens of the gruesome,

glistening waste; and they are as much at their ease as the sea-birds.

But the stranger only longs to be rid of the jolting monotony of the

cross-planks, and as the town comes sharply into view one is tempted to

leave off contemplating the green piles, and the busy fishes, and the

long melancholy of the sea-marsh, and the most phlegmatic of new-comers

is inclined to break into a trot. The leisurely persons who stroll out

to inhale the wind from the Nore may take their ease as they will,

but, after the first minutes of interested observation, the foreigner

longs for human companionship; he longs to be rid of the dominion

of this intolerable roadway. The town straggles down a brief, steep

bank of clay, and spreads itself over a fine level. It has all the

outward appearance of a southern watering-place; the bathing-machines

stand along the low sea-wall, the boats repose on the beach, and the

strollers wander listlessly over the very narrow border of sand. The

old town is quaint and pretty, and the new town is flashily handsome.

London has set its mark deeply everywhere, and, from the smart cabmen,

who salute with demure shrewdness, to the imposing platform where the

band plays, everything tells of city influence. Southend is a lesser

Ramsgate, and, in its way, it is a very fair imitation of that other

dependency of Cockaigne.

When the tide flows, the scene is really pretty. The suggestive flat

is so very, very level that the first rush of the tidal wave sends

foaming streams careering among the winding hollows and pools. Like

magic the vanguard of the sea gains the limit, and soon the wide sweep

from Southend to Canvey becomes a shallow dimpled lake. The sense of

depth is wanting, but if you only look at the surface, then you may

take for granted that you are on the border of a very noble bay. As the

tide gains, the little yachts rise from their bed of mud and curtsy at

their moorings, the fishing-boats glide in, and the curve of the beach

is full of animation. We know nothing of the bathing, but we should

incline to think that there may possibly be a good deal of suspended

matter in the water. Be that as it may, the bathers enjoy themselves

mightily, and, even were there no bathing, the compensation offered by

the sailing-boats that shoot over the wide bight is worth reckoning. To

sail on a water where is depth enough to float you, but hardly enough

to drown you, must be pleasing to the non-adventurous mind.

Southend is very modern, and has not yet gathered any great population;

but it is so cheery, and the powers that rule municipal affairs are

so firmly resolved on making it "attractive," that it has a promising

future. When the Thames no longer discharges filth to the sea, and

the sands regain their purity, it will be delightful to walk over

that noble level; but our generation will hardly see such a blessed

transformation. From much experience we can say that, in winter-time,

the pier offers very inspiriting views. The waves fly hard over the

sands in heavy weather, and their eager rush breaks them into short

combers, that strike the piles, and set the timbers quivering.

Sometimes the spray drives high, and at night the roaring darkness is

as wild as the clamorous mystery that meets you as you gaze seaward

from the cliffs of Bamborough or the wind-swept marshes of Southwold.

So far as creature-comforts are concerned, the traveller is practically

in London. The people have been too wise, so far, to set up as

plunderers, and tired brain-workers who wish to escape easily from

London for a short time may get a breath of sea air without paying too

heavily for the medicine.

On the Upper River a certain amount of enjoyment may be had by sailing

a small centre-board boat; but precisely the same quality of enjoyment

may be derived by using the same boat from Southend. It is not all

whose business will allow them to run to Southampton, or Brighton, or

Margate, but every one can easily get to Southend, run at intervals

into the very midst of the fresh sea-breezes, and return with very

little more trouble than is needed to travel from Uxbridge Road to

Charing Cross. As we have so often insisted, the great blessing of the

royal river is, that its pleasures are so easily accessible to the poor

man. A sound longboat may always be had at a moderate price in Victoria

Docks, and a fresh-built boat, on the longboat pattern, need not cost

more than £30 when the most minute articles employed in fitting are

paid for. The exhalations from the Kentish and Essex marshes, which

become unspeakably horrible when mixed with the suspended carbon that

floats above the City, are never felt at sea, and the priceless boon

of health may thus be had at a less price than that paid by many

middle-class families for the ministration of the physician.

A splendid run from Southend to Sheerness may be had in any state of

the tide. A yacht must go through the passage called the Swashway,

where the soundings are deep, but a wherry will easily pass the sands.

There is nearly always a good breeze, and when the wind is strong

enough to set the scuppers awash, the sensation of skimming from land

to land with the speed of a bird is something to be remembered. At

first, Sheerness is like a low-lying cloud, but gradually the pouring

mouth of the Medway becomes distinct, and soon the front of the forts

is seen, and we realise the full strength of the place of arms, which

has been created on an island that once was a dismal swamp. England

paid dearly before the value of Sheerness as a strong position was

recognised. Twelve guns were mounted there after the Restoration, but

the bold Ruyter minded the puny armament very little, and destroyed

our fleet after passing under the very nose of the batteries. It must

have been a wild time when the apple-bowed Dutch men-of-war cleared the

Swashway, and held on straight up the Medway. Well might the people

"think of Oliver, and what brave things he did, and how he made all

foreign princes fear him." The Admiralty showed vigour when the dreaded

Ruyter was out of sight, and from that day until the present scarcely

a year has passed that has not seen some addition made to the colossal

works which were begun in the time of Pepys.

At the latter end of the last century lines of old war ships were

formed into breakwaters, and each vessel was utilised as a barracks.

Chimneys of brick were built on the hulks, and the lines of ships

looked like floating streets. Under the shelter of these queer barriers

the most extensive works were carried on in safety, and there is hardly

a spot in the world where the victory of man over dumb obstacles is

more triumphantly made apparent than in the monster basins where the

war ships rest. A right instinct told our engineers that Sheerness

protects the heart of the nation, and the energy displayed in building

the stone wall, which runs for a quarter of a mile parallel with the

pier, was worthy of Stephenson himself. After the great dock had been

completed, which was to accommodate a dozen first-rates, it was found

that, in order to make room for the huge structures, enough soil had

been excavated to raise the level of the whole swamp more than fifteen

feet. The history of other engineering achievements has been written at

a mighty great length, but this--perhaps the most extraordinary feat on

record--has met with scant notice.

[Illustration: SHEERNESS DOCKYARD, LOOKING UP THE MEDWAY.]

The age of iron has come in, but memories of the old times hang round

the town. Here is a burly hulk, moored in the swinging tide. Long ago

she carried her two tiers of guns; those slovenly sides were polished

like a violin, and there was not a reef-point out of place. She could

not sail much better than a floating haystack, and her mode of getting

through the water consisted of going three miles ahead and two to

leeward. But she was good enough to fight anything that she met on blue

water, and she took her share of hard knocks in her time. The remnants

of the men-of-war meet us everywhere, and whispers of boyish romance

come to the mind as we think of their clumsy majesty.

But there was not much romance in the life that went on in the ships

that made our boast, and no glamour of poetry or rollicking fiction

affects the minds of those who know the facts. When towering liners lay

in this anchorage, and their strength was the wonder of the foreigner,

it was too often true that the life of the men on board was one round

of sordid slavery, starvation, and hopeless suffering. The men who

fought our battles were fed worse than dogs, and flogged worse than

convicts. Think of all that happened when the ships were running toward

the sea, down this very brave river that we have traced so far. The

water-casks were filled from the befouled flood, and in a few weeks

the horrible stuff was so putrid that it had to be strained through

linen before it could be used, and men turned sick at the smell of the

nauseous draught, which was all that they had for drinking and cooking.

This unspeakable nastiness was of a piece with the rest of the life

on shipboard. The work of the fighting-machine went on smoothly under

iron discipline, but in most cases each ship was an abode of vice and

random tyranny. We hear ridiculous talk of the great days of the Navy.

In those great days the men between decks lived in squalor to which

paupers from the slums would object; many of them were stolen away from

home and from love to go and dwell in that dim quarter among the odious

hammocks; they endured shameful stripes, they drank poisonous water,

they ate meat that a kennel of hounds would have refused, and they

were regarded as having forfeited their manhood. Then in time of need

they had to stand to their guns and run the chance of being smashed by

a French round-shot. Truly the romance shines out but dimly when we

insist on plain prose truth!

[Illustration: SHEERNESS DOCKYARD, FROM THE RIVER.]

Only about ninety years ago Sheerness was covered by guns laid by

angry mutineers, who had burst into rebellion after suffering wrong

unspeakable. Had the sailors not held their hand and offered to hear

reason, they might have laid the place in ruins, and opened the way

to a foreign armada. They had reason enough for anger. Cheated of

their pay, their food, their clothing, their liberty, imprisoned for

years on pestilent foreign stations, crushed under savage discipline,

they refused longer to endure a bondage that the very brute beasts

would have rejected. Then Sheerness saw her direst danger, and then

England was near a disaster from which she might never have recovered.

The whole grim story of the mutiny starts out vividly as we see the

very place where the Admiralty messengers came in terror, and where

the discarded officers were put on shore. Here and there we meet

with a smart, well-looking seaman, and the very look of him reminds

us that the bad days are gone. Jack is not like the scarecrows who

clamoured for food and justice in the terrible times when Sheerness was

panic-struck, and Gravesend Reach barricaded; he looks like a free,

independent man; his rights as a citizen are recognised, and no petty

tyrant can lay the lash on him.

The tendency to dwell on the past is almost irresistible as we move

amid the stupendous evidences of modern ingenuity and resource. The

clangour of hammers resounds in the dockyard. That monster, over

whose iron ribs the swarming workmen clamber like midges, could have

steamed quietly among Nelson's fleet and sent them all to the bottom

in a couple of hours. Not one of them could have scratched her, not

one could have run away from her, and, supposing that her ram were

employed, she could have shorn through the _Victory_ from bulwark to

bulwark without even running the risk of being boarded. Out in the

stream lies the rotting hulk which once was regarded as the prime work

of the human hand and brain; in dock lies the iron monster that needs

neither wind nor tide--the monster which could stand the brunt of

the _Bellerophon's_ broadside without suffering a dent. So the world

changes.

It would take a month to describe the dockyard; indeed, in a single

day's inspection, it is hardly possible to gain an idea of the

magnitude of the place. It is a little world of industry, with a

separate constitution, and separate laws. In such a vast organisation

it is inevitable that blunders occur, and that woful waste goes on

among the incredible masses of material that bewilder the senses.

Nevertheless, a sight of Sheerness Dockyard gives a more definite

idea of British power than reams of abstract declamation and shadowy

description.

The town is marked off into strictly defined regions. Blue Town lies

within the garrison limits, and is pervaded by the military. Mile Town

faces toward the Nore, and lies within a strong line of fortifications.

Banks Town and Marina front the open sea, and are clear of the

atmosphere of business. The two last-named quarters form a merry little

watering-place, and they are intensely modern. The sea rolls up the

beach, pure and clean, and there are few signs of that dubious compound

which makes the Southend flat a place of fear. There the children

build their sand-castles, even as the children did in Homer's time

by the blue eastern waters; there the enfranchised clerk carries out

his peculiar system of enjoyment, and the usual happy, commonplace,

invigorating life goes on during the season. If we described Marina, we

should only describe the typical sea-side places into which the cities

empty themselves in the autumn weather. We may leave Sheerness. The

guide to the docks alone would occupy this book if we only indicated

the points of interest. It is best merely to say that, alike to those

who know the stirring history of our navy, and to those who are amused

by Cockney jollity, the place is worth seeing.

The striped buoy rises and falls to the rhythm of the short seas, and

the waving ball that surmounts the tall pole catches the eye at a long

distance either riverward or eastward. This light is one of the marks

that Englishmen think of wherever they may be on the surface of the

globe. Not a passenger steamer goes past that light without a tremor

of excitement running through all who are on board of her. It seems as

though there were magic in the name, and whether for the sailor coming

from the East Indies, or from round the Horn, or the coasters who have

merely run down from the Tyne, the words, "Here we are, abreast the

Nore!" have a sound that acts like a charm.

That worn and battered vessel that trails past you as though she were

weary of infinite travel and incessant hard battering amid furious

seas, has men aboard her who have chattered for hours together about

all they would see and do when once they passed this point. When the

seas are crashing down on the forecastle-head, and the falling water

sounds like muffled drums; while the stinking lamp gutters in the foul

atmosphere, then Jack, as he stretches on his squalid bunk, grumbles to

his mates about the delight that will come when all this is over, and

the buoy heaves up well within sight; and man-o'-warsmen who beat about

in rickety gun-boats on the hideous coasts of East and West Africa,

think with longing of the time when their cruel privations shall be

over, and the magic announcement shall be made that sets the pulse of

every mariner dancing.

To the mere landsmen, the whole stretch of the sea around the light is

pleasant to sail over. The fishermen and bargemen say, "You are sure

to get a breeze down by the Nore!" and there is hardly a day at any

season of the year, or in any weather, on which this prophecy is not

justified. The yachts that come lazily down, with their huge spinnakers

spread like a swan's wing before cat's-paws that merely tremble over

the surface of the Thames, immediately show signs that the captains are

exercising caution when they cross that breezy band. You instinctively

expect to see the spinnakers taken in, and to see the swift cutters

lie hard over to the mainsail and foresail they sweep round the buoy.

Once you have sailed to the eastward, you feel as though your craft

were suspended between sea and land. On one side you have Southend,

glittering in colour; on the other, you have the more sombre vision of

Sheerness. Far up the river the rippling flood advances, as it were, in

steady ranks upon you; and away to the south-west the marshes glitter,

and the far-off hills look cold and blue. Between tide and tide a whole

day of pleasure may be enjoyed by one who is content to watch merely

the changes of sea and sky, and to speculate lazily as to the character

of the vessels that pass in long procession. To men into whose spirits

the charm of the Lower River has entered, there is no form of enjoyment

dearer than merely to sail past the Nore, run outside near the Maplin

sands, and there wait until the tide turns and the inward trip can be

made with ease. In a small boat it is best to keep slightly out of the

track of the vessels that are running into the Swin, and to hit the

happy medium between those that are going north about and those that

are travelling south. The colliers go by flying light; the men on board

are tolerably lazy; and as the dirty, rusty hulks lumber by, the seamen

wave a kindly greeting. Smart, clean-built Scandinavian barques claw

their way down, and the leisurely barges--which we have mentioned so

often--pass by, laden to an extent that excites wonder at the temerity

of the cool ruffians who man them.

[Illustration: MOUTH OF THE THAMES--LOW WATER.]

Amid this unceasing panorama, every separate picture of which tells

some fresh and strange story of far-off regions, of grimy labour, of

storm and peril, it is easy for men who are content with a day of small

things to sit for hours and hours, perhaps only exchanging monosyllabic

comments on each new-comer. The most glorious sight of the many that

may be seen at the Nore comes when some mighty sailing-ship looms to

the northward of the marshes, and swims grandly on in the wake of her

puffing, fussy little tug. As the two come on in their brief procession

the tug represents mind; the vessel represents matter. That great

ship that will so soon perhaps be sweeping down the league-long seas

southward of the Horn trails meekly in the wake of a fat little screw,

which could be placed on the deck of the convoy without causing a

great deal of inconvenience. The ship is the embodiment of grace--the

tug is the embodiment of ugliness; and yet until the river is clear

the tug is master. But supposing a fine breeze springs up, then, of a

sudden, there is a stir on board the vessel. From afar off you cannot

tell exactly what is being done, but you know that presently her white

wings will be shaken out; and, sure enough, as the vessel strikes the

open, the sails fall--a cloud seems to spring from the water as if

from the touch of a magician. Then the tug swings discreetly aside.

Little by little, the wind lays its hand on each of the bellying sails

and thrusts them out, till their broad bosoms glint in the sunshine

and the hulk lunges and gathers way under their steady pull. The wind

gains power, and the ship comes on with a creamy ripple of foam ringing

her bows like some dainty ornament; and, with a sweep, she passes you

by, leaving a billowy wake behind her; and before your last cheer has

died into silence she is away on her journey. When one of the great

four-masters glides out under her towers of canvas there is something

in the sight that brings one's heart into his mouth. It never grows

stale. You see the great hull with a line of wistful faces peering over

the bulwark, and you know that you are only gazing upon a common-place

emigrant ship. Yet the most prosaic of men comes to think of this

majestic structure as a living being, and the poorest emigrant that

ever wept over his farewells at Gravesend acquires a certain dignity

from being carried away by her.

Shore-going folk often wonder at the contented impassivity of seamen

who happen to have an idle hour in which to stare at the ships and the

water. Observe an ordinary East Coast seaman spending his leisure. His

eyes seem devoid of speculation, he stares sleepily seaward, and when

he talks to a companion he uses brief, ill-formed sentences. But his

mind is active, and if you listen to his low comments you will find

that, in a quiet way, he studies the water and its passing burdens as

men study a beloved book. If a ship is detained to wait for a tide

or a pilot, the sailors find their pastime in contemplation and rude

comment which the landsman does not understand. If that landsman

only spent a while in a yacht on the Lower River they would learn

that the solemn men who look so still and melancholy are probably

feeling a placid pleasure, and the fixed silence is the expression of

a sober contentment that cannot find expression in words. When our

full-rigged vessel goes rolling away with the wind rushing hoarsely

out of her courses the sailor feels acute delight; but he only grunts

his admiration. The landsman may be excused if he breaks into unwonted

ejaculations, and we have recognised our own right to the landsman's

privilege. The present writer can never forget the shock of surprise

with which he first saw a full-rigged ship slashing seaward from the

Lower Hope. He rose as the dawn was painting the river with flashes of

gold, and, lo! to leeward of the yacht, within forty yards, the monster

ship was shouldering her way through the dappled flood. The smaller

vessel was lying down till her copper gleamed to windward, and the

swashing stream surged aft and rolled nearly up to the companion; but

the little "floating chisel" could not long hold her own against the

cloud-capped castle, and soon we watched her drawing proudly away on

her long journey.

The trim gardens, the rich air of ordered beauty, the lovely song of

birds--all the things that greet the senses on the Upper River are

pleasant to the senses, but nothing in the gliding shallows that we

love so well could equal the majesty, the strength, the glory, of that

noble ship; and the sight of her was something to remember in happy

nights when one cannot sleep for the delight of living.

[Illustration: ARTILLERY PRACTICE AT SHOEBURYNESS.]

Sometimes, when loitering northward of the Nore, we hear a sullen

boom, and feel a tremor in the air. The artillerymen are at work on

the ranges at Shoeburyness, and some tremendous piece of artillery is

pitching masses of iron seaward. There is no danger, for it rarely

happens that even an unwary bargeman ventures near the forbidden

region. In our time we only remember one accident. The eighty-one ton

gun had hurled a shrapnel shell over a distance of about six miles. On

the landward side, the whole of the windows within a quarter of a mile

were shivered from out the frames, and the officers' quarters were left

desolate; while, to seaward, a great massacre took place among a flock

of unwary gulls. But this is the only loss of life that has been caused

by the projectiles which scream over the broad shallows. To persons of

a military turn, Shoebury is a most interesting quarter. Everything is

so trim, so business-like, so ineffably military; and the work goes on

so calmly that no one would think that the groups of stern officers and

dashing artillerymen were studying the art of destruction. In summer,

when the volunteers are encamped, the whole place breaks into merriment

as soon as the toilsome competitions are over, and the forts are well

worth a visit from a tourist. The picturesque is lacking, but once

more, the power--the immeasurable reserve force--of our nation strikes

on the mind and wakens a feeling of pride.

[Illustration: GRAVESEND TO THE NORE.]

Morning on the Upper River is joyous, and all through the bright

summer days a sense of keen gladness grows with every hour. The sleepy

afternoons, when the silence broods over the reaches like a voice,

carry the day-long symphony of gladness through yet another movement;

and in the evening, when the clear stars speak silence from their

glimmering eyes, and wash the dusk with silver, everything grows

beautiful, tender, and kindly to the thoughtful soul.

The Upper River is like a delicate lady, clad in all daintiness, and

beaming with gentle beauty. The Lower River is like a burly man,

who urges his way through his career with a sense of strength, with

a disdain of obstacle, with a brutal persistence that keep up the

masculine character. From the places where the ships curtsy at their

creaking tiers, to the splendid stretch where the sea-breeze blows

shrill, chilly with flecks of foam, every yard is vivid with interest.

We believe that no man ever grew tired of the Upper River. People

haunt its reaches year after year, till it seems as though all the

blessed summers were blended into one memory. We cannot think with joy

of summer on the Lower River; but the bitter winter days, the scream

of keen blasts, the monstrous procession that connects the world of

the city with the great world of the outer sea--all these things are

never-fading when once their impact has fairly gained the recesses of

the soul.

Old sportsmen may still be found who shot over the saltings or glided

round the forbidding points of the Lower Thames in their youth; the

habit never leaves them, and, as the seasons roll, these men find their

keenest delight from prowling among the shadowy marshes or facing the

salt, shrill wind that pulses and beats around the Nore.

Sometimes a Cockney sceptic may be found who shudders and speaks of the

Lower River as a place of horror. He sighs for the glades of Clieveden,

for the mossy chestnuts of Hampton Court, for the sloping gardens of

Sunbury. But let a wise sportsman take the sceptic's education in hand;

let his wayward mind be disciplined by merry days among the swarming

saltings, and he will acquire a taste that will be lasting. If he is

judiciously taught he may come at last to feel the true ecstasy, the

mysterious poetry, that touch the soul on shining nights when the

moon-silvered roll of the water is gladsome, and the shadowy ships

steal away to the sea. Then the sordid flats are touched into beauty by

the cold gleam, and the winds, and the waters, and the sailing clouds,

and the quiet ships pass like a mystic pageant, fleeting, fleeting,

ever eastward. The veriest townsman that ever waked the echoes under

Kingston Bridge with his clamour will own at such a time that few

sights in England are finer than the noble outflow of our splendid

river.

/J. Runciman/.

[Illustration: OUTWARD BOUND--PASSING THE NORE LIGHT.]

INDEX.

Abbey Church at Dorchester, 72

---- of Abingdon, 63

Abingdon Bridge, 63

----, Abbatial parlours at, 64

----, Environs of, 68

----, Market Cross at, 65

----, Market-place of, 64

----, Shrine at, 66

---- to Streatley, 62 to 84

----, Town of, 62

Abney House, 134

Above Oxford, 1 to 32

Albert Bridge, Windsor, 169

---- Docks, 303, 320

---- Embankment, 266

Ancient Stone Cross at Abingdon, 65

"Angler's Rest," The, 176

Angling in the Thames, 13, 28, 29, 90, 107, 161, 170, 172, 186, 187,

193, 197, 218

Ankerwyke House, 173

Antiquity of Streatley and Goring, 87

Appleford Bridge, 70

Apps Court at Hampton, 200

Artillery Ranges at Shoeburyness, 360

Asiatic Home, 304

Aston Ferry, 119

Avon Canal, 99

B

Bablock Hythe, 24

Bampton, 20

Bankside, Southwark, 282

Barges on the Thames, 57

Barking Abbey, 326

---- Reach, 327

"Barley Mow," The, 71

Barn Elms, 253

Barnes Common, 248

----, The Village of, 248

Basildon Ferry, 88

----, Village of, 88

Battersea Bridge, 258

---- Park, 264

---- Reach, 257

Bear Garden, Southwark, 282

Beauchamp Tower, 300

Beefeaters and Guards at the Tower, 301

"Beetle and Wedge," The, 82

Bell Weir Lock, 173

"Bells of Ouseley" Tavern, 172

Belot, The Arctic Explorer, 316

Benedictine Novices at Oxford, 39

Benfleet Station, 342, 345

Bensington, The Village of, 77

---- Lock, 78

Bermondsey and Tooley Street, 298

Billingsgate Fish-market, 291, 292, 294

Binsey, The Village of, 32

Bird Life on the Thames, 18

Birthplace of River Thames, 2

Bisham and its Ghost, 126

---- Church, 127

---- House, 125

---- Priory, 126

---- Woods, 149

Bishopric of London and Fulham Palace, 255

"Black Cherry Fair," 187

Blackfriars Bridge, 277

Blackwall, 319

Blenheim Park, 27

Bolney Court, 104

Botanical Gardens at Battersea, 262

Boulter's Lock, 141

Bourne End, 133

Boveney Lock, 151

Boyle Farm and the "Dandies' Fête," 209

Boyne Hill, 142

Bray, 145

Bream Fishing at Dagenham, 325

Brentford, Town of, 246

Brethren of the Holy Rood and Abingdon, 65

Bridge at Richmond, 235

---- Ward Without, 282

Bridgwater Canal, 56

Burrow Marsh, 103

Bushey Park, 204, 219

Bye-laws of the Watermen's Company, 340

C

Canal from Birmingham to Oxford, 56

Canute's Country, 21

Canvey Island, 345

---- Point, 345, 349

Capital of Wessex, The, 73

Carp in the River, 111

Cassington Church, 30

Castle Eaton Bridge, 12

Caversham Bridge, 94

---- Warren, 94

"Cawsam Hill," 93

Chaucer and Southwark, 282

Chelsea and Neighbourhood, 260

----, Cheyne Walk, 262

---- Don Saltero's Coffee-house, 262

----, Great Cheyne Row, 262

---- Hospital, 263

---- Suspension Bridge, 264

Chertsey, Angling at, 186 to 188

---- Bridge, 185

----, Bridge House at, 189

---- Church and Bell, 186, 188

---- Fairs, 187

---- Mead, 184

----, St. Ann's Hill at, 189

Cherwell Bridge at Oxford, 50

Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, 260, 262

Chiltern Hills, 86

Chilton Lodge, 98

Chinese Barges and Weirs, 56

Chiswick House, 250

Christ's Hospital at Abingdon, 67

Church of Old Windsor, 170

---- of St. Peter ad Vincula, 301

---- of St. Helen at Old Abingdon, 68

Churn, The, 7, 8

Clasper's Boathouse, 37

Cleeve Lock, 82

Cleopatra's Needle, 274

Cliefden House, 136, 138

---- Woods, 134, 138

Cliff Creek, Gravesend, 336

Clifton Bridge, 71

---- Hampden, 70

Coarse Fish in the Thames, 109

Commercial Docks, 307

Conservancy of the River, 179

Convent at Isleworth, 240

---- of Sheen, 237

Cookham Bridge, 135

---- Church, 136

Cooper's Hill, 175

Coronation Stone at Kingston, 214

Courses of the Thames, The, 34

Cowey Stakes at Walton, 195

Cowley's House at Chertsey, 108

Craven House, 254

Cricklade, The Town of, 10

Crockham Hill, 190

Cross Ness Sewage Works, 326

Crowmarsh Gifford, Parish of, 78

Culham Court, 119

---- Lock, 69

Cumnor, The Village of, 24

Custom House, 291, 296

D

Dace and Roach in the River, 111

Dagenham Breach, 325

---- Lake, 325

Danesfield House, 123

Dartford, 330

Datchet Mead and Falstaff, 168, 169

Day's Lock, 70

Denham's Description of the Thames, 175

Deptford Dockyard, 211

---- and Peter the Great, 315

Disused Weirpools, 23

Dock Labourers, 314

Dominican and Franciscan Teachers at Oxford, 39

Don Saltero's Coffee-house and Thomas Carlyle, 262

Dorchester Abbey, 70

Dorchester Abbey Church, 73

Dorchester, Capital of Wessex, 73

Duelling at Barn Elms, 254

Dufford Ferry, 21

Dumb-barges on the River, 312

Dyers' Company and the Swans, 133

E

Early Names of the Thames, 4

East India Docks, 310, 315

Eel Boats, 343

Eelbucks at Chasey Farm, 94

Eel Pie Island, 222

Egham, Town of, 178

English Frigate _Warspite_, The, 324

Environs of Abingdon, 68

Epitaphs in Bensington Churchyard, 78

Erith, 327, 329

Erkenwald's Monastery at Chertsey, 186

Essex Marshes, 342

Eton, 151

----, Chapel at, 164

---- College Buildings, 162

----, Founder of the Chapel, 165

---- Montem, 166

---- or Waterton, 164

----, Provosts at, 163

----, Rouse's Scholarships at, 163

----, Speech Day at, 165

Exciting Race from Cookham to Marlow, 147

Eynsham Bridge, 27

---- Cross, 27

----, The Village of, 27

---- Weir, 25

F

Fairford and the Coln, 13

"Fair Mile," The, 115

Famous Grotto at Twickenham, 222

Farringdon, The Town of, 20

Fawley Court and its History, 117, 118

First Lock, 14

Fish at Billingsgate, 294, 295

---- in the Thames, 13, 28, 29, 76, 99, 161, 170, 172, 193, 194, 197, 218

Fishers' Row, 34

Fishmongers' Hall, 288

---- Procession, 291

Fish Street Hill, 294

"Flash" Locks, 55

Flyfishers' Club at Hungerford, 98

Fly-fishing in the River, 111

Flooding the River, 56

Flowers, Some Thames, 16

Folly Bridge, 32

---- ---- Lock, 55

Fords at Shefford, 21

Foreign Cattle Market at Deptford, 316

Four Noted Abbeys, 95

---- Streams, The, 35

Franciscans at Medmenham, 120, 121

---- and the Monkey, 121

Francis Rouse and Eton, 163

"French Horn" Inn, 100

Freshwater Wharf, 291, 292

Frogmore, 159, 167

Fulham and its Market Gardens, 256

---- and Putney, 254

---- Church, 256

---- Palace, 255

G

Garrick's Villa at Hampton, 198

Girls Rowing and Steering, 150

Godstow Nunnery, Ruins of, 31

----, The Village of, 30

Goring Church, 87

---- Mill, 86

---- Toll-gate, 87

---- Weir, 86

Great Marlow, 129

---- ----, The Church and its "Curiosities," 129

---- ----, The Deanery at, 130

---- ---- Weir and Locks, 131

Gravesend Reach, 336

----, The Town of, 333

---- to the Nore, 337 to 362

Grayling in the Kennet, 98

Greenhithe, 327, 328, 330

Greenwich Hospital, 316

---- Observatory, 319

---- Park, 318, 319

Grotto at Goring, 88

---- at Oatlands, 191

Groves at Bisham, 132

---- of Kew, The, 241

Gudgeon in the Thames, 176, 177

Guild of Pilots at Gravesend, 339

H

Hadleigh Castle, 348

Halliford Bridge, 194

Ham, Village of, 225

---- Weir, 12

Hambledon Lock and its Islands, 119

Hammersmith Suspension Bridge, 251

Hampton Court, 201, 202

---- ---- Bridge, 200

---- ---- Chestnut Avenue, 204

---- ----, Christmas at, 207

---- ----, English Brickwork at, 203

---- ----, Fountain Court, 206

---- ---- Great Hall, 204

---- ----, Painted Windows in Great Hall, 205

---- ----, Park at, 207

---- ----, Picture Gallery at, 206

---- ---- to Richmond, 211 to 228

Hampton House, 198

---- Wick, 213

Hannington Bridge, 12

Hardwicke House, 91

Hart's Weir, 17

---- Wood, 88

Hedsor Park, 136

Hennerton Backwater, 104

Henley and its Natural Scenery, 113

---- Bridge and its Builder, 115

---- Church, 114

---- Races, 115

---- Regatta, 117

----, the Riparian Metropolis, 107

---- to Maidenhead, 113 to 142

----, Town of, 113

Hinksey Stream, The, 37

History of Kew Gardens, 241

Hogarth's Frolic, 289

Holme Park Woods, 100

Houses of Parliament, The, 267

Howberry Park, 78

Hungerford, Famous for Trout, 98

Hurley and its Islands, 123

Hurlingham, 257

Hythe Bridge, 34

I

Iffley Lock, 55

---- Mill, 54

Inglesham Weir, 13

Ingress Abbey, 330

Inns at Rotherhithe, 307

Inscriptions in Bensington Church, 78

Invention of Rowing, 54

Isis, The Head of the, 3

---- and the Thames, The, 72

Isle of Dogs, 308, 310

---- of Osney, 37

---- of Thorns, The, 186

Isleworth, Town of, 239

Izaak Walton at Datchet, 169

J

Jesus Hospital at Bray, 146

K

Kempsford, 12

Kennington, The Village of, 58

Kentish Marshes, 344

Keston Heath, 316

Kew Bridge, 246

---- Churchyard, 246

---- Foot Lane, 227

---- Gardens, 237, 239, 241

---- ----, Chinese Pagoda in, 245

---- ----, Palm-house in, 243

---- Green, 246

---- Observatory, 237, 239

---- Palace and the "Dutch House," 241, 242

Kingston-on-Thames, 212, 215

---- Bridge, 211

---- Church, 206, 215

----, Coronation Stone at, 214

Kingston, Rowing Clubs at, 211

King's Weir, 30

Kitcat Club, The, 253

L

Lady Place and its History, 123

Laleham and Dr. Arnold, 182

---- Church, 183

---- Ferry, 182

---- House, 183

Lambeth, Borough of, 264

---- Palace, 266

---- ----, Archbishop Laud and, 267

Langley or Ridge's Weir, 23

Lechlade, The Town of, 14

Leigh, The Village of, 349

Limehouse Church, 308

Little Marlow, 132

Littlecote Park, 98

Littlemore, The Village of, 58

Lollards' Tower, Lambeth, 266, 267

London Bridge and its History, 284, 286

---- and its Traffic, 284

---- Docks, The, 303

"Long Reach" Tavern, 329

Long Walk at Windsor, 167

Lower Hope, The, 341

Ludgate Hill and the Temple of Diana, 278

M

Magna Charta Island, 174

Maidenhead or Maidenhithe, 141, 143, 145

---- Bridge, 145

Main Stream for Barges at Oxford, 37

Mapledurham House, 93

---- Mill and Weir, 92

Maplin Sands, 357

Market Cross of Abingdon, 65

Marking Swans, 133

Marlborough, The Town of, 99

Marlow Bridge, 130

Marsh Lock, 105

Medley Weir, 32

Medmenham Abbey, 120

Middle Temple Hall, 277

Millbank Prison, 264

Millwall Docks, 310, 312

Mongewell House, 80

Monkey Island, 151

Monument, The, 291

Morning on the Lower Thames, 337

Mortlake and its History, 247

Moulsey Hurst, 199

Moulsford Bridge, 80

Mysteries of Fly-fishing, 111

N

Names of Boat Landings and Stairs, 307

National Society's Training College at Battersea, 260

Navigation of the Iffley, 55

Newbridge, 22

Newbury, The Town of, 99

Newton Murren, Church of, 80

New Battersea, 264

Noah's Ark Weir, 23

Nore, The, 357

Northfleet, 330

---- Hope, 339

North Woolwich Gardens, 324

---- ---- Pier, 324

Nuneham Lock, 55

----, Heights of, 59

---- Reach, 61

Nunnery of Sion, The, 237

O

Oatlands and its History, 192

---- Grotto, 191

---- Palace and Park, 190, 191

"Ocean Tramps," 338

Ock Street at Abingdon, 68

Old Buscot, The Village of, 16

"Old Chelsea Bun-house," 262

---- ---- Church, 260

"Old Crabtree Inn," 252

Old London Bridge and its History, 285

---- ---- ----, Nonsuch House on, 286

---- ---- ----, St. Thomas's Chapel on, 286

---- ---- ---- Traitors' Gate on, 286

---- ---- Theatres, 282

Old Navigation Stream, 35

Old St. Paul's Church, 280

Old Windsor, 170

Oldest Stone Bridge, The, 22

Origin of "The Merry Wives of Windsor," 159

Osier Farm on the Thames, 88

Osney Abbey, 39

Oxford to Abingdon, 33 to 61

----, Architectural Revival at, 47, 50

----, Austin Friars at, 39

----, Black Friars of, 38

---- Canal, 37

----, Carmelites or White Friars at, 39

----, Chapel of Brasenose at, 49

----, Church of St. Martin at Carfax at, 40

----, College of St. Mary Winton, 43

----, Colleges at, 42

----, Degrees at, 42

----, Disputations at, 48

----, Early Colleges at, 43

----, Eleanor Cross at, 51

----, Grey Friars of, 38

----, Halls at, 43

----, Houses of the Friars at, 34

----, Lincoln College of Priests at, 46

----, Magdalen Bridge, 50

---- ----, College at, 44

----, Mendicant Order of Friars at, 38

----, Midnight at, 54

----, Oriel Barge at, 57

----, Preacher's Pool at, 38

----, Sheldonian Theatre at, 40

----, The Buildings of, 37

----, The Town of, 33

----, Trill Mill Stream at, 38

----, Undergraduate Revival at, 52

---- University and Parish Churches, 38

P

Pacey's Bridge, 35

Palace of Richmond and its History, 233, 234

---- of Westminster, 268, 270

Pangbourne, Village of, 89

Park Place and its History, 105

Paul's Walk, 279

"Pedlar's Acre," Lambeth, 266

Penton Hook Lock, 181

"Perdita's" Grave, 169

Petersham Park, 226

Phillimore Island, 104

Picnic Island, 175, 176

Pike and Perch Fishing, 110

Pilots and Watermen, 339, 340

Pimlico, District of, 264

Pink Hill Lock, 27

---- ---- Weir, 27

Pleasant Pictures at Bray, 150

Plumstead Marshes, 326

"Pool," The, 301, 302

Pope's Villa at Twickenham, 222

Porch House, Chertsey, 188

Port Meadows, 32

Prisoners at Windsor, 158

Prize-fighting at Moulsey, 199

Pudding Lane, 294

"Puppy Pie" at Marlow Bridge, 130

Purfleet, Town of, 328

Purley Hall, 93

----, The Village of, 93

Putney and Fulham, 254

---- Bridge, 255

---- Heath, 255

Q

Quarry Woods, 131

Queen Bess and the Custom House, 297

"Queen's Tobacco Pipe," The, 305

Queenhithe and the Tax on Fish, 294

R

Racing Yachts on the Thames, 338

Radcot Bridge, 18

Radley, The Village of, 58

Ramsbury Manor, 98

Ranelagh Club, Barn Elms, 254

---- Gardens, 263

Ratcliff Highway, 305

Ray Mead, 141

Reaches on the River, 309

Reading Abbey, 95

---- at the time of the Plague, 96

----, The Town of, 95

Rearing Ponds at Sunbury, 197

"Red Lion" at Henley, 115

Regatta Island, 117

Relics of "Roman London," 292

Remenham Hill, 114, 119

Rewley Abbey, 39

Richmond, 227

----, Asgill House, 230, 232

---- Bridge, 229

---- Church, 234

---- Green, 232, 234

----, Mansfield House at, 228

---- Old Deer Park, 237

----, Old Palace of Sheen, 230

---- Palace, 231

Richmond, Queensberry House, 232, 234

----, "Star and Garter" Hotel, 227

----, The Hill at, 227

----, Trumpeters' House, 232

----, Water Supply of, 235

River Churn, The, 8

---- Cole, The, 13

---- Coln, The, 13

---- Cray, The, 329

---- Darent, The, 329

---- Evenlode, The, 27

---- Iffley, 54

---- Isis, The, 11

---- Kennet, The, 95, 97

---- Lea, The, 319

---- Lech, The, 16

---- Loddon, The, 102

---- Ravensbourne, The, 316

---- Windrush, The, 21

---- Witham, The, 34

Riverside Amusements, 115

---- Inns, 180

---- Solitude, 72

Roach, Dace, and Gudgeon in the River, 111

Romantic Episodes, 154, 157

Roman Fortifications at Dorchester, 73

Romney Island, 165

Rose Isle, 58

Rosherville Gardens, 333

Rotherhithe, 306

---- Railway Station, 307

Round House at Inglesham, 13

Rowdyism on the Thames, 144

Rowing Clubs at Kingston, 211

---- on the River, 54, 146

Royal Albert Dock, 320

---- Gardens at Kew, 239, 243

---- Naval College, Greenwich, 317

---- River, The, 241

Rules of the Company of Watermen, 339

Runnymede, 174, 175

Ruscombe, The Village of, 105

Rushy Lock, The, 20

S

Sailors and their Ways, 306

Sailors' Home, 304

Salesmen's Cries at Billingsgate, 295

Salmon in the Thames, 109

Salt Hill, 166

Sandford Mill, 58

St. Helen's Church at Abingdon, 66

St. Katharine's Docks, 303

St. Magnus' Church, Billingsgate, 291

St. Nicholas' Church at Abingdon, 64

St. Olave's Church, Bermondsey, 298

St. Patrick's Stream, 103

St. Paul's Cathedral, 277, 278

---- "Paul's Walk" in, 280

St. Saviour's Church, Southwark, 283

St. Stephen's Chapel at Westminster, 270

St. Thomas's Hospital, Lambeth, 266

Scenery at Pangbourne, 90

Sewage of London, 316

---- Pumping Stations, 316

Sewer Works at Barking, 326

Seven Springs, The, 6

Severn Canal and Thames, 9

Shakspeare and Windsor, 159

Shelley and Great Marlow, 129

Sheerness and its History, 353

---- Dockyard, 356

Shepperton, Village of, 194

Shillingford Bridge, 76, 77

Shiplake Lock, 104

Shipping in the Pool, 290, 291

Shoeburyness, 360

Shrimps at Gravesend, 334

Shrimp Hampers at Leigh, 350

Shrine at Abingdon, 66

Skinner's Weir, 27

Silvertown, The Colony of, 322

Sinking of the Cambridge Boat, 250, 251

Sinodun Hill, 72, 76

Sion House, 239

Somerford Keynes, 10

Somerset House, 274

Sonning Bridge, 100

Sonning-on-Thames, 100

Source of the Thames, 1

Southend, The Town of, 350

---- Pier, 350

Southley, 167

Southwark Bridge, 280

Spawning Season, 109

Spring Well at Goring, 87

Staines "Deep," 179

----, Linoleum Works at, 178

----, Village of, 178

Stanton Harcourt, 25

State Barge at Teddington, 218

Steam Launches on the Thames, 29, 110, 144, 167, 170

Stepney, 308

Stoke Ferry, 81

Stone Church at Greenhithe, 330

Strange Names of Places, 298

Strathfieldsaye Park, 102

Strawberry Hill at Twickenham, 220

Streatley Hills, 80

---- Mill, 83, 86

---- the Mecca of Painters, 85

---- to Henley, 85 to 112

---- Tower, 84

---- Weirs, 83

Sundial at Kew, 243

Supposed Site of Saxon Palace, 171

Surbiton, 211

Surley Hall, 151

Surrey Docks, 308

Swallowfield, 103

"Swan," The, Thames Ditton, 209

Swans on the Thames, 133

Swashway, The, 353

T

"Tabard" Inn, Southwark, 282

Tadpole Bridge, 20

Tapestry Works at Windsor, 171

Taplow Court, 141

---- Woods, 141

Teddington, 215, 218

----, State Barge at, 218

----, "The Anglers" at, 216

----, Tombs in Church at, 219

---- Weir, 14, 218

Temple, The, 276

Temple Bar, 167

---- Gardens, 276

Temple's (Sir W.) Orangery at Sheen, 239

Tenfoot Weir, 21

Thames Angling, 107

---- ---- Preservation Society, 108, 197

---- and Severn Canal, 8, 9

---- and the Isis, 72

---- at Windsor, 161

----, Birthplace of, 2

---- Commission, 56

---- Conservancy Board, 179

---- Ditton, 207

----, Early Names of, 4

---- Embankment, 277

---- Flowers, 16

---- Haven, 344

---- Head, 2

---- Parade, 101

---- Sailing Club, 211

----, Source of the, 1

---- Street, 294

---- Subway, 299

---- Swans, 133

---- Trout, 109

---- Tunnel, 306

---- Valley, The, 62

---- ---- Church, 209, 210

---- Watermen, 288

The Upper and Lower River, a Comparison, 361

Tilbury and its Memories, 331, 341

---- Docks, 330

---- Fort, 332, 341

---- Marshes, 330, 342

Tithing Salmon, 186

Tooley Street and the Three Tailors, 298

Tower Hill, 299

---- of London, 299

Training Ships on the Thames, 329

Traitor's Gate, 286

"Tramps," The, of the Ocean, 338

Trewsbury Mead, 8

Trill Mill Stream at Oxford, 38

Trinity House, 299

Tripcock Reach, 327

Trout-fishing on the Thames, 13, 90, 109

"Trout" Inn at Lechlade, 15

---- Stream at Pangbourne, 90

Twickenham, 220

----, Orleans House, 223

---- Parish Church, 222

----, Pope's Tomb, 223

----, Pope's Villa at, 222

----, Strawberry Hill at, 220

----, York House, 223

U

University Barge, The, 57

---- Boat Club at Oxford, 55

---- Boat Race, The First, 118

---- ---- ---- on the Thames, 250

Upper, Lower, and Middle Pools, 302

V

Vale of the Kennet, The, 99

Vauxhall, 264

Victoria Bridge at Pimlico, 264

---- Dock at Blackwall, 303, 320, 321

---- Embankment, 274

Vintners' Company and the Swans, 133

W

Walker's Picture of the "Harbour of Refuge," 146

Wallingford Castle and Museum, 79

----, The Town of, 78, 79

Walton-on-Thames, 195

----, Ashley Park at, 196

----, Cowey Stakes at, 195

----, The Bridge at, 194

----, The Scold's Bridle at, 196

Wandsworth Brewery, 257

Wapping, 308

---- Old Stairs, 301, 308

Wargrave Hill, 104

Water-fowl at Penton Hook, 181

Water Gate of Inigo Jones, 275

Water Hay Bridge, 10

Waterloo Bridge, 275

Watermen's Company, Rules of, 339, 340

West India Docks, 314

---- Mill at Somerford, 10

Westminster, City of, 267

---- Abbey, 269, 270, 271

---- Bridge, 273

---- Hall, 269, 270, 272

----, History of, 270

---- Palace, 268, 270

Weybridge, 190

---- Green, 192

Whitchurch Lock, 89

Whitebait Fishing at Gravesend, 334, 335

White Friars or Carmelites at Oxford, 39

White Place, near Cliefden, 139

Wild-fowl Shooting, 342, 344

Willow-peeling, 89

Windsor, Albert Bridge at, 168

---- Castle and its History, 152

---- Castle as a Palace and as a Prison, 158

----, Great Park at, 159, 160, 166

----, Herne's Oak at, 166

----, Home Park at, 166

----, Long Walk at, 167

----, Queen's Walk at, 167

----, Round Tower at, 158

----, St. George's Chapel at, 154

----, The Merry Wives of, 159

----, Town of, 159, 160

----, Victoria Bridge near, 169

Wine Cellars of the London Docks, 304

Witham Hill, 28

Wittenham Clump, 70

Wolsey's, Cardinal, College at Oxford, 66

---- Tower at Henley, 114

Wolvercott, Village of, 31

Woodstock, The Town of, 27

Woolwich Arsenal, 323

---- Barracks, 322

---- Church, 322

---- Dockyard, 323

---- Reach, 322

Wraysbury Church, 173

---- Village of, 174

Y

Yachting at Gravesend, 333

York House, 274

TABLE OF DISTANCES

_Taken, by permission of the Author, from Taunt's "Guide to the

Thames."_

====================================================

_m_. _f_. _yds_.

Thames Head to Cricklade 11 6 2

Seven Springs " 20 4 0

====================================================

ABOVE OXFORD.

_m_. _f_. _yds_.

Cricklade to Oxford 43 7 2

Water Eaton Bridge to Oxford 41 7 152

Castle Eaton Bridge " 39 3 44

Kempsford " 37 7 0

Rannington Bridge " 36 5 88

Inglesham Round House " 33 2 0

Lechlade Bridge " 32 4 88

St. John's " 31 7 0

Buscot Lock " 30 5 170

Hart's Weir " 29 3 20

Radcot Bridge " 26 2 100

Old Man's Bridge " 25 1 110

Rushy Lock " 23 0 110

Tadpole Bridge " 22 1 54

Tenfoot Bridge " 20 3 0

Duxford Ferry " 18 4 59

New Bridge " 15 1 166

Ridge's Weir " 14 0 104

Bablock Hythe Ferry " 11 4 34

Skinner's Weir " 9 7 0

Pinkle Lock " 8 7 0

Eynsham Bridge " 7 2 193

King's Weir " 4 4 32

Godston Lock " 3 2 99

Medley Weir " 1 7 36

Osney Lock " 0 7 0

====================================================

OXFORD TO PUTNEY.

-------------------------+----------------+----------------+----------------

| From Place | From Oxford | From London

| to Place. |(Folly Bridge). | (Putney Br.).

-------------------------+----------------+----------------+----------------

|_m_. _f_. _yds_.|_m_. _f_. _yds_.|_m_. _f_. _yds_.

Oxford Bridge | 0 0 0 | 0 0 0 |104 3 66

Iffley Lock | 1 3 150 | 1 3 150 |102 7 136

Rose Island | 0 6 124 | 2 2 54 |102 1 12

Sandford Lock | 0 6 166 | 3 1 0 |101 2 66

Nuneham Bridge | 2 5 160 | 5 6 160 | 98 4 126

Abingdon Lock | 1 7 60 | 7 6 0 | 96 5 66

Abingdon Bridge | 0 3 211 | 8 1 211 | 96 1 75

Culham Lock | 2 0 0 | 10 1 211 | 94 1 75

Appleford Railway Bridge | 1 2 76 | 11 4 67 | 92 6 219

Clifton Lock | 1 4 54 | 13 0 121 | 91 2 165

Clifton Bridge | 0 3 140 | 13 4 41 | 90 7 25

Day's Lock | 2 4 40 | 16 0 81 | 88 2 205

Junction of River Thame | 0 6 180 | 16 7 41 | 87 4 25

Keen Edge Ferry | 1 0 140 | 17 7 181 | 86 3 105

Shillingford Bridge | 0 6 100 | 18 6 61 | 85 5 5

Benson Lock | 1 2 30 | 20 0 91 | 84 2 195

Wallingford Bridge | 1 2 0 | 21 2 91 | 83 0 195

Nuneham Ferry | 0 4 70 | 21 6 161 | 82 4 125

Stoke Ferry | 2 1 0 | 23 7 161 | 80 3 125

Moulsford Railway Bridge | 0 5 46 | 24 4 207 | 79 6 79

Moulsford Ferry | 0 5 64 | 25 2 51 | 79 1 15

Cleeve Lock | 1 2 78 | 26 4 129 | 77 6 157

Goring Lock | 0 5 0 | 27 1 129 | 77 1 157

Basildon Railway Bridge | 1 2 61 | 28 3 190 | 75 7 96

Gate Hampton Ferry | 0 2 66 | 28 6 36 | 75 5 30

Whitchurch Lock | 2 4 33 | 31 2 69 | 73 0 217

Mapledurham Lock | 2 2 70 | 33 4 139 | 70 6 147

The "Roebuck" | 0 7 145 | 34 4 64 | 69 7 2

Caversham Bridge | 2 6 206 | 37 3 50 | 67 0 16

Caversham Lock | 0 4 120 | 37 7 170 | 66 3 116

River Kennet's Mouth | 0 5 120 | 38 5 70 | 65 5 216

Sonning Lock | 1 7 28 | 40 4 98 | 63 6 188

Sonning Bridge | 0 2 60 | 40 6 158 | 63 4 128

Shiplake Lock | 2 4 66 | 43 3 4 | 61 0 62

Shiplake Ferry | 1 0 38 | 44 3 42 | 60 0 24

Boulney Ferry | 1 0 44 | 45 3 86 | 58 7 200

Marsh Lock | 0 4 78 | 45 7 164 | 58 4 122

Henley Bridge | 0 7 109 | 46 7 53 | 57 4 13

Hambledon Lock | 2 2 35 | 49 1 88 | 55 1 198

Medmenham Ferry | 2 0 66 | 51 1 154 | 53 1 132

Hurley Lock | 1 4 168 | 52 6 102 | 51 4 184

Temple Lock | 0 5 23 | 53 3 125 | 50 7 161

Marlow Bridge | 1 3 201 | 54 7 106 | 49 3 180

Marlow Lock | 0 1 107 | 55 0 213 | 49 2 73

Spade Oak Ferry | 2 0 205 | 57 1 198 | 47 1 88

Cookham Bridge | 1 5 66 | 58 7 44 | 45 4 22

Cookham Lower Ferry | 0 4 110 | 59 3 154 | 44 7 132

Cliefden Ferry | 0 3 44 | 59 6 198 | 44 4 88

Boulter's Lock | 1 3 178 | 61 2 156 | 43 0 130

Maidenhead Bridge | 0 5 70 | 62 0 6 | 42 3 60

Bray Lock | 1 3 152 | 63 3 158 | 40 7 128

Monkey Island | 0 4 128 | 64 0 66 | 40 3 0

Boveney Lock | 2 5 0 | 66 5 66 | 37 6 0

Windsor Bridge | 1 7 90 | 68 4 156 | 35 6 130

Romney Lock | 0 3 96 | 69 0 32 | 35 3 34

Victoria Bridge | 0 6 34 | 69 6 66 | 34 5 0

Albert Bridge | 1 3 6 | 71 1 72 | 33 1 214

Old Windsor Lock | 0 6 214 | 72 0 66 | 32 3 0

Magna Charta Island | 1 3 0 | 73 3 66 | 31 0 0

Bell Weir Lock | 1 3 157 | 74 7 3 | 29 4 63

Staines Bridge | 0 7 195 | 75 6 198 | 28 4 88

Penton Hook Lock | 1 6 168 | 77 5 146 | 26 5 140

Laleham Ferry | 0 6 140 | 78 4 66 | 25 7 0

Chertsey Lock | 1 1 4 | 79 5 70 | 24 5 216

Shepperton Lock | 1 7 183 | 81 5 33 | 22 6 33

Halliford Point | 1 2 33 | 82 7 66 | 21 4 0

Walton Bridge | 0 6 156 | 83 6 2 | 20 5 64

Sunbury Lock | 1 5 130 | 85 3 132 | 18 7 154

Hampton Ferry | 2 0 110 | 87 4 22 | 16 7 44

Moulsey Lock | 0 6 110 | 88 2 132 | 16 0 154

Thames Ditton | 1 0 209 | 89 3 121 | 14 7 165

Kingston Bridge | 1 7 55 | 91 2 176 | 13 0 110

Teddington Lock | 1 6 88 | 93 1 44 | 11 2 22

Eel Pie Island | 1 1 22 | 94 2 66 | 10 1 0

Richmond Bridge | 1 4 140 | 95 6 206 | 8 4 80

Kew Bridge | 2 7 124 | 98 6 110 | 5 4 176

Barnes Railway Bridge | 2 0 178 |100 7 68 | 3 3 218

Hammersmith Bridge | 1 5 196 |102 5 44 | 1 6 22

Putney Bridge | 1 6 22 |104 3 66 | 0 0 0

BETWEEN PUTNEY BRIDGE AND LONDON BRIDGE.

_m_. _f_.

Putney Bridge to London Bridge 7 3-1/2

Battersea Railway Bridge " " 5 5

Battersea Bridge " " 5 0

Chelsea Bridge " " 4 0

Vauxhall Bridge " " 2 7-3/4

Lambeth Bridge " " 2 3-1/4

Westminster Bridge " " 1 7-3/4

Charing Cross Railway Bridge " " 1 4-3/4

Waterloo Bridge " " 1 2-3/4

Blackfriars Bridge " " 0 6-1/4

Southwark Bridge " " 0 2-1/2

Cannon Street Railway Bridge " " 0 1-1/4

=====================================================

BELOW LONDON BRIDGE.

_m_. _f_.

Thames Tunnel to London Bridge 1 4

Deptford Dockyard " " 3 5

Deptford Creek " " 4 2

Blackwall Pier " " 5 7

Woolwich Arsenal " " 9 3-1/2

Barking Creek " " 11 1

Erith " " 15 6

Dartford Creek " " 17 3

Greenhithe " " 20 4

Grays Thurrock " " 22 3-1/2

Gravesend " " 25 1

Mucking Creek " " 30 5

Yantlet Creek " " 40 3-1/2

Yantlet Creek to the Nore 5 miles (nautical)

/Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London,

E.C./

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: On this subject _see_ Goldie: "A Bygone Oxford;" and

Fletcher: "The Blackfriars in Oxford."]

[Footnote 2: Macray: "Notes from the Muniments of St. Mary Magdalen

College, Oxford."]

[Footnote 3: Wordsworth: "Scholæ Academicæ."]

[Footnote 4: Macaulay, "History of England."]

[Footnote 5: The old "Garter" Inn stood in the High Street, nearly

facing the Castle Hill, and adjoining the site of the present "White

Hart" Hotel. "Annals of Windsor" (Tighe & Davis).]

[Footnote 6: Pennant's "History of London."]

[Footnote 7: Tennyson's "Lotos-Eaters."]