The Thames and his Tributaries
by Charles McKay.
Originally published in Bentley's Miscellany (Richard Bentley) vol.5 (1839).
The Two Sisters.—Poets of Barn Elms.—Loutherbourg the artist.—Hogarth's Epitaph.—English love of trees and flowers.—Residence of Joe Miller.—Vanity in death.—Reminiscences of Mortlake.—Queen Elizabeth and the Alchymist.—Pleasant controversy between Swift and Partridge.—Dirty Brentford, Anecdote of George II.—Kew Gardens.—Sion House.
Fulham and Putney churches, which look meekly towards each other from the two sides of the river, are said to have been built by two sisters. There seems, however, to be no more authority for the assertion than popular Tradition, whichin one of its imaginative moods was struck with the resemblance of the two buildings, and called them sisters. Fulham has been known since the Conquest as the manor and residence of the Bishops of London, many of whom lie buried in the church. There are several monuments here to the memory of men who were celebrated in their day for their piety or their learning. There is also one to the memory of Dr. Butts, physician to King Henry the Eighth, who is known neither for his learning nor his piety, but who is familiar to the readers of Shakspere from the part be plays in the drama of that name. Such is the influence of genius,—such is the homage that some enthusiastic hearts are ever ready to pay it—that Fulham has had its pilgrims for no other reason than this. The mention made of Dr. Butts by the great bard is small enough, but is sufficient with these to draw them hither, as to a shrine.
From Fulham the Thames bends towards Hammersmith, and as we sail upwards, we pass through lines of tall trees, and through banks all covered with clusters of wild flowers to the very edge of the water. On the Surrey shore is Barn Elms, famous as having been the residence of Sir Francis Walsingham, of the unfortunate Earl of Essex, of Cowley, and of Tonson the bookseller. The latter built a gallery here for the accommodation of the Kit-cat Club, and adorned the walls with portraits of the members, which have, however, been since removed. The poet Hughes, a man who in his day boasted many admirers, but whom three good judges, Pope, Swift, and Dr. Johnson, classed as "one of the mediocribus," strove to celebrate the noble trees that give name to this place by some encomiastic verses.
We are now approaching that part of the Thames which teems with reminiscences of the poets. For the next fifteen or twenty miles of our course, there is hardly a spot on either shore which is not associated with the names of Cowley, Denham, Pope, Swift, Gay, Collins, Thomson, or the predecessors and contemporaries of these writers. The very stones and trees on the Thames' banks "prate of their whereabouts," and whisper in the ear of the lover of song, "Here Cowley lived,"—" here Pope wrote, and here he took the air in a boat,"—* here is Thomson buried,"— or, "here Denham stood when he imagined the beautiful eulogium upon the river, which has been so often quoted,"—and here King William" showed Swift how to cut asparagus in the Dutch way." We must not, however, digress, but mention all these things in their proper places.
As we draw near to the elegant suspension bridge of Hammersmith, we pass the site of the once celebrated Brandenburgh House, where the luckless consort of George the Fourth ended her unhappy life. Here, during the popular excitement occasioned by the trial in the House of Lords, thousands of persons proceeded daily to carry their addresses of confidence or of sympathy. Sometimes as many as thirty thousand people were known to set out from London on this errand, in carriages, on horseback, and on foot, preceded by bands of music, and bearing banners, or emblems of the various trades that formed the procession. After her death, the place, odious in the eyes of George the Fourth, was purchased by that monarch, and razed to the ground. Some traces of the wall and a portion of the gate alone remain to mark the place where it stood. It was once the property of Prince Rupert, by whom it was given to the beautiful Mrs. Hughes, an actress, by whose charms his heart was captured. It was also inhabited at one time by the Margravine of Anspach.
Hammersmith is famous for a nunnery established in the seventeenth century. About fifteen years ago, the place was noted in London as the scene where an awful ghost played his antics, to the great alarm of all the silly. At the end of the last century, Loutherbourg the artist resided here, and drew great crowds to his house by an exhibition, something akin to the mummeries of animal magnetism as now practised. He pretended to cure all diseases by the mere laying on of the hands, aided by prayer; and it is mentioned that as many as three thousand people at a time waited around his garden, expecting to be relieved of their infirmities by this potential artist. But of all the reminiscences attached to Hammersmith, the most interesting is, that Thomson the poet once made it his dwelling-place, and composed part of his "Seasons" there, in a tavern called the Dame Coffeehouse. Thomson, for the last twenty years of his life, was a constant haunter of the Thames; he lived, died, and was buried on the banks of his favourite river. It may be said, indeed, without any disparagement to the Thames, that it killed this sweet poet and amiable man; for he caught a severe cold upon the water, when sailing in an open boat from London to Kew, which, being neglected, proved fatal a short time afterwards.
Chiswick is the next place we arrive at,—Chiswick, the burial place of Hogarth, and where a monument is raised to his memory, for which his friend Garrick wrote the following inscription:—
"Farewell, great painter of mankind,
Who reached the noblest point of art;
Whose pictured morals charm the mind,
And through the eye correct the heart.
If genius fire thee, reader, stay;
If nature move thee, drop a tear;
If neither touch thee, turn away,
For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here."
This epitaph has been very much admired, but it is by no means a favourable specimen of that kind of composition. In this churchyard are buried also, Mary, the daughter of Oliver Cromwell, and (strange association of names!) Ugo Foscolo.
A little further up the stream stands Chiswick House, the seat of the Duke of Devonshire, almost hidden from the view by the tall trees amid which it is embowered. From this point upwards there is a constant succession of elegant villas, only to look at which, is enough to satisfy the traveller that he is indeed in England. Such neatness, such cleanliness, such taste, such variety of flower and tree peeping from behind or springing on either side, such ivy-covered walls, and such comfort visibly dwelling over all, meet the gaze of the passer-by nowhere else but in England. We have sailed up other rivers in our time, have seen the castles of the Rhine, the châteaux of the Seine, and the villas of the Elbe, the Scheldt, and the Meuse; but never have we met with scenes of such elegant luxury as all England is dotted with. There is more appreciation of the simple loveliness of nature in England than in any other country in the world; even our poorest cots embellish their poverty, and render it more endurable by nicely-trimmed gardens both in the front and rear. Flowers and trees are the poor man's luxuries in England. The gew-gaws of art are beyond his reach; but roses and lilies, violets, hyacinths, blue-bells, anemones, and all the tribes whose very names are pleasant, adorn his humble windows, and show the taste of the indweller as well as the rich vases, golden time-pieces, or choice paintings, that solicit our admiration in the chambers of the rich. How different is it in most of the countries on the Continent, especially in Germany, France, and Belgium! There, neither rich nor poor have that love for verdure and flowers which is so characteristic of all classes of Englishmen. Their rivers show no such embowered villas and cottages on their banks as ours; the country-houses of their gentry are naked and tasteless in comparison, and their cottages are miserable huts, around whose doors or windows the honey-suckle never crept, and even a flower-pot is an unusual visiter.
We shall not attempt here to point out all the villas that adorn the Thames; for we have not undertaken these rambles to make a mere guide-book. Now and then we shall signalize some among them which are dear to the memory of all friends of their country, from their having been inhabited by the great statesmen, historians, or poets of time gone by; but no more. All the rest we shall pass with silent admiration, leaving those whose curiosity may not be satisfied until they know the name of every tenant of every house they see, to consult the pages of some accurate guide-book. We sail in search of more hidden things, of reminiscences of poetry and the poets, of scraps of legendary lore, and the relics of antiquity. We go also in search of rural nooks, where we may inhale the fresh breezes; and, by filling our ears with the sweet song of the birds, and the murmur of the trees and waters, get rid of the eternal hum of the crowded thoroughfares we have left. We go to satisfy the longings we had formed
"In lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities:"
for (to continue the fine lines of Wordsworth, written also upon revisiting a river) we are among the number of those who are
"The lovers of the meadows, and the woods,
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive—"
And see;—our style is as rambling as our subject, and we have wandered away from Chiswick House and the villas near it, without mentioning the fact that on that spot died two of the most illustrious men of modern history. Charles James Fox and George Canning both expired within its walls, and both in their life-time passed many hours in its elegant retirement.
The cluster of houses immediately past the wall of this domain is the hamlet of Strand-on-the-Green, where Joe Miller, the putative father of thousands of other men's jokes, resided and died. His remains, however, are not interred here, but in the burial-ground of St. Clement Danes, in Portugal-street, London.
On the other side of the river are the adjoining villages of Barnes and Mortlake. In the churchyard of Barnes is a tomb, which is a singular example of the fond follies that men sometimes commit in death, and strive to perpetuate beyond it. It is to the memory of one Edward Rose, a citizen of London, who died in 1653, and left twenty pounds for the purchase of an acre of land for the poor of the village, upon condition that a number of rose-trees should be planted around his grave, kept in flourishing condition, and renewed for ever. What a practical vain pun was this upon his name! and what an inordinate price did this dead man put upon his paltry charity. But, we remember the precept, "De mortuis nil nisi bonum;" and we must not inveigh too severely against the wretchedness of his wit, or the emptiness of his vanity. So, may his roses flourish! All we can say is, that if unbought affection, or genuine respect for his memory had placed them there, tended them, and renewed them from year to year, we would have walked ten miles as pilgrims to the spot, and have carried away a leaf as a memento. As it is, we can but smile or sigh, or both, to think that even death cannot put conceit out of countenance.
The village of Mortlake is celebrated as having been the residence of one of the most singular characters of the sixteenth century. Dr. John Dee, the astrologer and alchymist, and one of the pioneers of the Rosicrucian philosophy, lived here for many years, and was buried in the chancel of the church. The ancient people of the village more than a century after his death, which took place in 1608, pointed out the exact spot where his ashes lay; but the curious inquirer would now seek in vain to discover it. Queen Elizabeth always treated Dr. Dee with marked consideration; and, when she ascended the throne, sent her favourite Dudley, afterwards Earl of Leicester, to consult him as to a lucky day for her coronation. She occasionally visited him at Mortlake, and is once said to have expressed a desire to be instructed by him in the secrets of astrology and alchymy. She devoutly believed that he would one day discover the philosopher's stone,—an object to which all his abilities, and he was not without a good portion, were directed. All the money he gained by telling fortunes, predicting lucky and unlucky days, and casting nativities, was melted away in his furnaces in the futile search for the stone, or the elixir, which was to change pokers and tongs, pots and kettles, and even the pump in his back-yard into pure gold. Thus, though he gained immense sums of money, he was always poor; and when Count Laski, a wealthy Pole, who was travelling in England, desirous of making his acquaintance, sent him word that he would come and dine with him, Dee was obliged to apply to Queen Elizabeth to borrow money to treat the stranger with becoming hospitality. Elizabeth sympathized in his distress, and sent him twenty pounds immediately.
It was shortly before he received this visit that he made a grand discovery. He firmly believed that by means of a small black stone with a shining surface, and cut in the form of a diamond, which he possessed, he could hold converse with the elementary spirits, and be instructed by them in all the secrets of science, and all the mysteries of nature. He has himself left a most extraordinary narrative of his conversations with the spirits; part of which was published after his death by Dr. Casaubon, and the remainder of which may still be seen among the manuscripts in the British Museum. He says, that as he was one day in November, 1582, sitting in his study at Mortlake, engaged in fervent prayer, the angel Uriel appeared at his window, and gave him a translucent stone, into which he might summon the angels, and ask them questions whenever he pleased. He also says that an angel appeared to him in the form of a beautiful little maiden, who slid gracefully among the leaves of his books, and fluttered her pretty wings there. The conversations which, as he informs us, he held with this and with many other spirits, were of the most puerile kind; but in Dee's opinion were full of truth, wisdom, and philosophy, and contained precepts which, if the world had followed, would have saved it from the horrors of many bitter and bloody revolutions. He soon found that he could not converse with his attendant spirits and note down at the same time what they said, and he therefore engaged another fortune-teller and alchymist, named Kelly, to act as his seer, and converse with the spirits, while he devoted himself to reporting their heavenly talk. Kelly humoured the whim or the insanity of his principal, and soon rendered himself so necessary that Dee received him into his family, esteemed him as his friend, and was proud of him as his disciple.
When Count Laski came, the two worthies showed him all their wonders. The Pole was highly delighted with the conversation and acquirements of the doctor, and listened with eagerness to his promises that he would find the philosopher's stone for him, and make him the wealthiest man the world ever saw. The doctor was as much pleased with his guest, whom he knew to be rich and powerful; and he and Kelly both formed the design of fastening themselves upon him, and living sumptuously at his expense until they found the philosopher's stone. Laski, after great pretended difficulty, was admitted to the conversations with the spirits, and finally impressed with such high notions of the learning and genius of both Dee and Kelly, that he invited them to go and reside with him on his estates near Cracow. The astrologers desired nothing better; and Dee especially was anxious to quit England, where he imagined he was not safe, the mob a short time before having threatened to break into his house, and destroy his library and all his philosophical apparatus. They all left England secretly—Dee being afraid of offending Elizabeth,—and reached the estates of Laski in safety. The astrologers resided with him for no more than a month, for his finances were in such a state of disorder, and they were such expensive guests that he could not maintain them; and, as he soon abandoned his hopes of the philosopher's stone, he took the earliest opportunity of sending them about their business. They next fastened themselves upon the Emperor Rudolph, and afterwards upon Stephen, King of Poland. They drew considerable sums from the exchequer of the latter, leading him on with false hopes of inexhaustible wealth and boundless dominion, until he grew weary of seeing such vast outlay, and receiving no return for it except in empty promises. Elizabeth felt the loss of her astrologer, and sent for him at various times during the six years that he was on the Continent. At last his affairs beginning to look gloomy, having quarrelled with Kelly, offended or disgusted all his former patrons, and more than once run the risk of perpetual imprisonment, he closed with her offers, and determined to return to England. He set out from Trebona in the spring of 1589, travelling in great splendour, with a train of three coaches, and a large quantity of baggage. Immediately on his arrival, Elizabeth gave him audience at Richmond, and promised to see to his fortunes. Little however was done; for, sanguine as the queen may at one time have been that Dee would discover the philosopher's stone, she soon saw reason to doubt his capabilities. But she never wholly withdrew her favour from him; and, on his repeated applications for relief, appointed a committee of the privy council to inquire into the state of his affairs, and see what could be done for him. Dee then made a claim for the destruction of his books and implements by the mob at Mortlake soon after he took his departure, and furthermore stated that he considered the queen his debtor for the expense of his journey home from the Continent, which he said he would not have undertaken unless at her special command. Elizabeth, however, would not acknowledge her liability, but sent Dee a small sum by way of charity. He at last, upon his representation that he was starving, obtained of her the Chancellorship of St. Paul's Cathedral, which office he held for one year, and then exchanged for the wardenship of the College at Manchester. He was now more than seventy years of age; and, becoming unable to perform with any activity the duties of his station, he resigned it after seven years, hoping that a pension would be granted to him. In this hope he was disappointed. He then retired to Mortlake, and lived upon the bounty of the queen. After her death he tried to propitiate King James I.; but that monarch took no notice of him whatever, and he died in 1608 in a state but little removed from absolute penury. His companion Kelly did not live so long; but, being imprisoned by some German potentate, who by that means attempted to extort from him the pretended secret of gold-making, he endeavoured to escape from his dungeon by leaping from a high window, and killed himself by the fall.
In Mortlake churchyard also lies interred another singular character; no less a man than the famous Partridge, the almanack-maker, whose death was so pleasantly predicted by Swift under the name of Bickerstaff, and so logically and valiantly maintained to be true, in spite of the assertions of the party most concerned that he was "still alive and kicking." Partridge, as is well known, was originally a cobbler, and a very ignorant man; but his reputation was great among a certain class of people, and his predictions, both of the weather and of events in general, were looked to with great respect and anxiety. Swift's wit about this fellow kept the town in good humour for a long time, to the great mortification and anger of Partridge. Let us hear how Swift maintained the living man to be dead, and how logically he proved it. "An objection has been made," quoth he, "to an article in my predictions, which foretold the death of Mr. Partridge to happen on March 29, 1708. This he is pleased to contradict absolutely in the almanack he has published in the present year, and in that ungentlemanly manner (pardon the expression) as I have above related. In that work he very roundly
asserts, 'that he is not only now alive, but was likewise alive upon that very 29th of March when I foretold he should die.' This is the subject of the present controversy between us, which I design to handle with all brevity, perspicuity, and calmness. In this dispute I am sensible the eyes, not only of England but of all Europe, will be upon us; and the learned in every country will, I doubt not, take part on that side where they find most appearance of truth and reason. My first argument is this. Above a thousand gentlemen having bought his almanack for this year, merely to find what he said against me, at every line they read they would lift up their eyes, and cry out, betwixt rage and laughter, 'They were sure no man alive ever wrote such damned stuff as this is!' Now I never heard that opinion disputed. So that Mr. Partridge lies under a dilemma, either of disowning his almanack, or of confessing himself to be 'no man alive. But now, if an uninformed ignorant carcass walks about, and is pleased to call itself Partridge, Mr. Bickerstaff does not think himself any way answerable for that. Secondly, Mr. Partridge pretends to tell fortunes and recover stolen goods, which all the parish says he must do by conversing with the devil and other evil spirits; and no wise man will ever allow that he could converse personally with either till after he was dead. Thirdly, I will prove him to be dead out of his own almanack, and from the very passage which he produces to make us think he is alive. He there says that 'he is not only now alive, but was also alive upon that very 29th of March which I foretold he should die on.' By this he declares his opinion, that a man may be alive now who was not alive a twelve-month ago. And indeed there lies the sophistry of his argument. He dares not assert that he was ever alive since that 29th of March, but that he is now alive, and so was on that day. I grant the latter, for he did not die till night, as appears by the printed account of his death, in ‘a letter to a lord;' and whether he is since revived, I leave the world to judge. This, indeed, is perfect cavilling, and I am ashamed to dwell any longer upon it. Fourthly, I will appeal to Mr. Partridge whether it be probable I could have been so indiscreet as to begin my predictions with the only falsehood that was ever alleged against them, and this in an affair at home, where I had so many opportunities to be exact, and must have given such advantages against me to a person of Mr. Partridge's wit and learning."—"There is one objection against Mr. Partridge's death which I have sometimes met with, though indeed very slightly offered, that is, that he still continues to write almanacks. But this is no more than what is common to all of that profession: Gadbury, Poor Robin, Dove, Wing, and several others, do yearly publish their almanacks, though several of them have been dead since before the Revolution."
One cannot help thinking that Partridge was a most incredulous man to have refused belief in his own death, after such proofs as Swift brought against him. But argument was thrown away upon him; and, to give Bickerstaff the lie direct, he actually knocked down and beat in the street, opposite his own door, a poor fellow who was crying about the town a ballad entitled, "A full and true account of the death of Dr. Partridge." Alas! poor Partridge! he is now dead enough—a mere lump of clay in the churchyard of Mortlake—the gibes of a thousand Swifts can trouble him no more. A stronger adversary has silenced the arguments both of him and his tormentor, and the ashes of the quack and cobbler have mouldered away like those of the wit and philosopher, and he who should compare the two would find no difference between them. The "grim foe," as he is wrongly called, has settled the dispute, and reduced them both to that EQUALITY, a knowledge of whose inevitable approach exalts the humble and pulls down the proud. And yet, after all, how impotent is death. Swift and Partridge are gone, but their thoughts are with us still.
But we are again rambling, and, i' faith, writing a homily, instead of looking at both banks of the Thames, and pointing out the memorabilia of each spot as we pass it. Our digression has brought us to Kew Bridge, and, begging the reader's indulgence we proceed with our task. Of Kew there is but little to be said. Its gardens are a great ornament to the river and its conservatory and pagoda pleasing objects in the view; but there are no reminiscences of the spot upon which it is worth while to dwell. Little matters it to us that scions of royalty have resided there; and it does not form part of our plan to describe the paintings or the statues, or other rarities, which may have been brought together into this, or various other places we may pass.
Immediately above the bridge there is a lovely ait, or island, behind which is dirty Brentford, the county town of Middlesex, situated upon the little river Brent, from which it takes its name. Gay, in his epistle to the Ear] of Burlington, celebrates it as
"-- Brentford, tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legged chickens known."
This place is chiefly famous for a severe skirmish which was fought here in 1642 between the Royal and Parliamentary armies, in which the former were victorious. George the Second admired Brentford greatly; it was so dirty and ill-paved, that it put him in mind of the towns in his native country. "I like to ride dro' Brentford," said his Majesty, "it ish so like Hawnoversh!"
On the left of us extend the gardens of Kew, and on the right is the princely domain of the Duke of Northumberland. Sion House is a naked heavy-looking building. It stands near the site of a nunnery, founded, in the reign of Henry the Fifth, "in honour of the Holy Trinity, the glorious Virgin Mary, the Apostles and Disciples of God, and all Saints, especially St. Bridget." It was one of the first religious establishments suppressed by Henry the Eighth, his ire being particularly directed against the sisterhood for the countenance they had afforded Elizabeth Barton, the Holy Maid of Kent. It was alleged against Sir Thomas More that he visited this impostor at Sion House. After the death of Henry, who reserved it for his own use, it was given by Edward the Sixth to the Protector Somerset, and, on his attainder and execution, to the Duke of Northumberland, Lady Jane Gray, that ill-starred queen of a few days, resided here when she was urged to accept the crown. Her acceptance of it led to her own death, and that of the Duke of Northumberland, when the building once more reverted to the crown, and was restored by Queen Mary to the sisters "of all the Saints, and especially of St. Bridget." Elizabeth, however, dispossessed them, and gave Sion to the Earl of Northumberland, and it has ever since remained in the family.
And now we have arrived at Richmond,—"delightful Sheen,"—the theme of a hundred poets, and the admiration of all England,—a spot on which we have too much to say to compress it within the limits of this chapter. We shall therefore reserve it and all its pleasant recollections for our next ramble.