The Thames and his Tributaries
by Charles McKay.
Originally published in Bentley's Miscellany (Richard Bentley) vol.6 (1839).
Approach to Richmond.—The grave of Thomson.—Wit among the Tombstones.—Richmond Palace.—The Battle of the Gnats.—View from Richmond Hill.—A Song by Mallet.—Gay, the poet.—Traditions of Ham House,—Eel-pie Island.—The Poetical Sawyer.—Anecdote of Kean.
As we passed Kew-Bridge our mind was filled with a multitude of confused thoughts, reminiscences intricately blended, of poetry and the poets; of Jeanie Deans, and the Duke of Argyl; of Richmond Hill, and the charms of its far-famed lass; and of "maids of honour"—the chief delicacies of the place,—which, with a carnivorous appetite, we longed to devour. But, as we approached nearer our thoughts became more distinct, and finally fixed themselves upon the memory of James Thomson, the delightful bard of the Seasons, who is buried upon the spot. "O! yes," said we, quoting the ode of his friend Collins,
"Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid thy gentle spirit rest."
We were thus musing, when a merry strain now broke in upon our meditations. The band which had accompanied the steam-boat from London struck up the familiar air, "The lass of Richmond Hill;" a custom which has been observed ever since steam-boats have plied in this part of the river, to give us notice that we were at our journey's end.
Without stopping to ascend the hill, we struck at once into the lower parts of the town, and, by dint of inquiry, found ourselves in a few moments in front of the ancient, humble, but, in our eyes, beautiful church of Richmond. We forthwith strolled through the churchyard, in search of the sexton or door-keeper, that we might give him his fee, and be admitted inside. One of the first objects that caught our attention was a neat marble tablet upon the wall, with a medallion head sculptured upon it, and inscribed with the simple words, "To the memory of Edmund Kean: erected by his son, Charles Edmund Kean, 1839." We paused a moment, and took off our hat, for we are of the number of those who pay reverence to the inanimate sod, and the senseless ashes beneath it, if those ashes have ever been warmed by the soul of genius, or of goodness. We are also of the number of those who are critical in monumental inscriptions, and we considered this brief one for awhile, and, owning that it was enough, passed on. After inquiry at one of the cottages that skirt the churchyard, we were directed next door, to the pew-opener, and that personage readily undertook to escort us over her little building; as important to her, and containing monuments as magnificent, and as well worth looking at, as either St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey. If we were pleased with the outside appearance of the church, we were still better pleased when we entered within. It is an old-fashioned edifice, just large enough for a village, with a fine organ, neatly carved, and well-covered pews, and walls almost hidden by monumental tablets, and the whole looking as grand and modest as true piety itself.
Our cicerone, like one who was well accustomed to her task, was leading us round the church, beginning from the beginning, and showing us in due order the tombs of the worthies of Richmond, when we broke in upon her established practice, and requested her to point out at once the grave of Thomson. She led the way immediately to the darkest corner of the church, when, opening a pew-door, she bade us enter. We had heard much talk of the munificence of the Earl of Buchan in erecting a memorial over the poet's ashes, and we looked around us accordingly for some handsome piece of monumental marble, which might be worthy of the donor, and sufficient for its avowed purpose,—the satisfaction of the bard's admirers. We could not conceal the expression of our disappointment, when the pew-opener, bidding us mount upon the seat of the pew, pointed out to us a piece of copper about eighteen inches square, so out of the reach of the ordinary observer,—so blackened by time,—and so incrusted by the damp, that it was quite impossible to read one line of the inscription.
"Then you have not many visiters to this tomb?" said we to the pew-opener.
"O! yes, we have," replied she; "but they are not so particular as you, sir: not one in a hundred cares to read the incription; they just look at it from below, and pass on."
We took out our pocket-handkerchief, and began to rub the damp verdigrise from the copper as the pew-opener spoke; which, she observing, mounted also upon the bench, and, taking her own handkerchief from her pocket, rubbed away with as much earnestness as we did. The dirt was an inch thick upon it; besides which, the letters were of the same colour as the plate on which they are engraven, so that, after all, we were afraid we should be obliged to give over the attempt as quite hopeless.
"There," she said, "now I think you will be able to read it," as the rust, by a vigorous application of her hands, was transferred from the tablet to her handkerchief. "I think you might manage to make it out, if you are particularly anxious about it."
We tried again accordingly, and, with some trouble, read the following inscription.
"In the earth below this tablet are the remains of James Thomson, author of the beautiful poems, entitled, 'The Seasons,' 'The Castle of Indolence,' &c. who died at Richmond on the 22nd of August, and was buried there on the 29th, O.S. 1748. The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man, and sweet a poet, should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment for the satisfaction of his admirers, in the year of our Lord 1792.
"Father of light and life! Thou good supreme!
Oh! teach me what is good! Teach me Thyself!
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,
From every low pursuit, and feed my soul,
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure,
Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!"
"We wish," said we to ourselves, "that his lordship's taste had been as good as his intentions, and that, instead of this trumpery piece of brass,—which cannot have cost him much more than five pounds,—he had put up a marble tablet, which one might have read without all this scrubbing. How much better, too, it would have been, if his lordship had not obtruded his own name upon it!" If we had continued our soliloquy much longer, we should have found fault not only with the taste and liberality, but with the motives of his lordship; but we were saved from the uncharitableness by the pew-opener, who broke in upon our meditation to remind us that immediately under the pew on which we stood lay the ashes of the poet.
"What, was he buried within the church?" said we.
"No," replied the pew-opener, "on the outside, just against the wall; but the church has been enlarged since that day to make room for the organ; so that the wall passes right across his coffin, and cuts the body in two, as it were."
"Cuts the body in two!" repeated we, "and, did no charitable soul, when this thing was proposed, so much as hint that the church might have been made a little larger, so that the whole body might have been brought inside?"
"I never inquired," said the pew-opener; "but, surely, sir, you'll go and see the grave of the great Mary Ann Yates? Lord bless you, sir, more people go to see that grave than any other in the church!"
"The great Mary Ann Yates!" said we in some perplexity; for, to our shame be it spoken, we had forgotten the name, and we did not like to expose our ignorance to the pew-opener. "Oh, by all means," said we, making the best of the matter, and following our conductress to the other end of the church towards the communion-table.
"There," said the pew-opener, removing a small mat with her foot, and directing our attention to a plain slab on the floor, "there lies the body. Of course you've heard of her?"
We said nothing, but made a feint of being so engrossed with the epitaph as not to have heard the inquiry.
"She was very celebrated, I've been told," added she, after a use; "and, indeed, I've heard that Mrs. Siddons wasn't anything like equal to her."
This observation enlightened us; our ignorance was cleared up. We gazed upon the grave of the great Mary Ann Yates,—the tragic actress, Mrs. Yates, so greatly admired in her day, and a woman of undoubted genius in the pursuit she had chosen. "And such," thought we, "is fame; a mere matter of circles and classes. Pilgrims come to the tomb of a person celebrated in one sphere, who are ignorant that in the next grave sleeps one who was just as celebrated in another, and who do not even know that such a person ever existed. The worshippers of poetry never heard of the actress; the admirers of the actress, in all probability, never heard of the poet, and so on, through all the various ranks and denominations of society." We were thus cogitating, when the pew-opener told us that she had some other very fine tombs to show us, and with such an emphasis upon the word fine, as impressed us with the notion that she would think we slighted her monuments, (and she was evidently proud of them.) if we refused to look at them. We went round accordingly, and up into the galleries, where several tablets were pointed out to us, with warm eulogia upon the sculptured cherubim, or other ornaments that supported them. But one only struck us as remarkable, a plain blue stone, with a Latin inscription to the memory of Robert Lewes, a Cambro-Briton and a lawyer, who died in the year 1649, "and who," said the epitaph, "was such a great lover of peace and quiet, that when a contention began in his body between life and death, he immediately gave up the ghost to end the dispute." There is wit and humour even in the grave. There is an entertaining French work, entitled "Des grands Hommes qui sont morts en plaisantant;" one as entertaining might be made upon the subject of "Wit among the tombstones." It would not be uninstructive either, and would afford numberless illustrations of that unaccountable propensity of many people to choose the most solemn things as the objects of their merriment. The richest comedy ever penned fails to excite more laughter than the lugubrious jokes of the grave-diggers in Hamlet; and sextons, mutes, and undertakers, are the legitimate butts of the jester and caricaturist all over the world.
Having lingered in the church until we had satisfied our curiosity, we proceeded towards Rosedale House, where Thomson resided, and where the chair on which he sat, the table on which he wrote, and the peg on which he hung his hat, are religiously preserved, as relics of departed genius. Greatly to our sorrow, we were unable to procure admission. It was an inconvenient hour for the family, and we had not come properly provided with an introduction. There was no help for it, and we therefore walked on towards the Green. The house, after the poet's death, was purchased by a Mr. Ross, who had so much veneration for his memory that he forbore to pull it down, though small and inconvenient, but enlarged and repaired it, at an expense of nine thousand pounds. It was afterwards inhabited by the Honourable Mrs. Boscawen, the widow of the admiral, who participated in this feeling of her predecessor, and repaired the alcove in the garden, where the poet used to write in the fine weather. Within it she replaced his table, and inscribed over the entrance,
"Here Thomson sung the seasons, and their change."
Over the back seat at this table hangs a board, upon one side of which are the following words, "James Thomson died at this place, August 22nd, 1748;" and, upon the other a longer memorial, with a strange and unpleasing affectation of fine writing about it, which runs as follows:—" Within this pleasing retirement, allured by the music of the nightingale, which warbled in soft unison to the melody of his soul, in unaffected cheerfulness, and genial though simple elegance, lived James Thomson. Sensibly alive to all the beauties of nature, he painted their images as they rose in review, and poured the whole profusion of them into his inimitable 'Seasons.' armed with intense devotion to the Sovereign of the Universe, its flame glowing through all its compositions, animated with unbounded benevolence, with the tenderest social sensibility, he never gave one moment's pain to any of his fellow-creatures, save by his death, which happened at this place on the 22nd of August, 1748."
From Rosedale House, the present name of this dwelling, we strolled up Kew Foot-Lane, and soon arrived at the Green, a large open space, which does not belie its name, surrounded with many comfortable-looking houses, and rows of venerable trees.
The ancient palace of the Kings of England stood upon this spot. There is little of it left now except the gateway, and that little offers nothing to satisfy the gaze of any but the mere antiquary. It does not look old and venerable enough for the lover of the picturesque, being so patched up by and wedged in between surrounding houses as to have almost lost its distinctive character. Several kings and queens of England lived and died upon this spot, Edward I. and II. resided here, and Edward III. died here, deserted in that last hour by all the flatterers and parasites who had fattened upon his bounty; even Alice Pierce, the mistress of his bosom, flying from his side, and leaving him to die with no more attendance than if he had been a beggar, giving up the ghost in a ditch. Richard II. the next king, passed much of his time at this manor; in whose days, at Sheen, as we are informed by that veracious chronicler, Stowe, "there was a great fighting among the gnats! They were so thick gathered," says he, "that the air was darkened with them, and they fought and made a great battle. Two parts of them being slain, fell down to the ground, the third part having got the victory, flew away, no man knew whither. The number of the dead was such that they might be swept up with besoms, and bushels filled with them." With what a gusto does the old historian describe this battle! how persuaded he seems of its truth! and, with what a relish for the marvellous, and expectation to find the same in his reader, does he note every circumstance! Many of the battles between the rival houses of York and Lancaster, are dismissed by him with hardly more notice.
Anne, the queen of Richard II. died in this building. She was so tenderly beloved by her husband, that he cursed the place where she died, and would never afterwards inhabit it. The very sight of the building so moved him to grief, that he gave directions that it should be pulled down. The order was only partially executed, but the building remained in a ruinous condition until the time of Henry V. who repaired it, and founded three religious houses near it. It was destroyed by fire in the reign of Henry VII, who built it up again more magnificently than before, and first altered the name of the village from Sheen to Richmond, which it has ever since borne, Henry VIII. also resided here in the early part of his reign, and once instituted a grand tournament on the Green, at which he fought in disguise. He afterwards exchanged it with Wolsey, for the more magnificent palace of Hampton Court; but, after the fall and death of that minister, the palace again reverted to the crown. Elizabeth was confined in it for a short time, during the reign of her sister, and here she died broken-hearted for the death of the Earl of Essex. During the dissensions of the revolution, this palace met some rough treatment from the hands of the republicans, and the greater part of it was pulled down. It has never since held up its head in the world, but has gradually pined away to its present condition.
There are few, and those few must be insensible to the charms of natural beauty, who ever pass Richmond without ascending its far-famed hill, and gazing upon the landscape which stretches beneath it. How beautiful is the oft-quoted exclamation of her poet.
"Enchanting vale, beyond whate'er the muse
Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung!
O, vale of bliss! O, softly-swelling hills,
On which the power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonder of his toil.
Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around
Of hills and dales, and woods and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams!"
We have read many descriptions of this favourite spot; and, before we had seen it we were almost afraid to visit it, for, like Wordsworth and the Yarrow, "we had a vision of our own," and dreaded lest the reality should "undo it." But curiosity was at last triumphant, and we went, and found reality more lovely than the pictures which had been drawn of her either by the pencil or the pen. The first time we ever ascended the hill, the landscape was illumined by the rays of a bright noon-tide sun, and the waters of the Thames, stretching out right before us, were illumined with a long streak of light, and the far forests gleamed in the radiancy as their boughs were waved to and fro by a strong, but pleasant, south-west wind. Distant Windsor was visible; and, hundreds of neat villas, and other pleasing objects, gratified the eye, to whichever side it turned; the Thames freshening and enlivening the whole. As we stood the sky became overcast; dark clouds arose upon the horizon; the wind blew colder than its wont; while a few large drops of rain gave notice of an impending storm. The Terrace was soon bare of its visiters; all sought shelter from the rain; but we remained to watch the tempest, and the changes it wrought upon the landscape. It was glorious to see how the trees waved, like fields of corn, as the storm blew over them, and the smart showers whirled around; now hiding one spot by the thickness of the rain, and now wheeling past another, and obscuring it in like manner. The distant heights were no longer visible, and we could just see the Thames winding at the foot of the hill, and curling itself into tiny waves under the breath of the storm. The blossoms of the wild chestnut trees fell thick around us, as we stood, diffusing a more delicious fragrance through the air; and the very dust of the ground seemed odorous as the moisture fell upon it. Suddenly there was a flash right over Windsor Castle, and all its towers were perceptible for an instant, and then hidden again. Successive flashes illumined other spots; and, while the rain was piercing through our garments, we had no other thought than a strong desire to become an artist by the inspiration of the moment, and at one touch of our pencil, to fasten upon enduring canvass a faithful representation of the scene.
It was admiration of this spot that inspired the now neglected Mallet, the friend of Thomson, and a dweller in the neighbourhood, to write that beautiful song of his in praise of the Thames, which deserves to be better known.
"Where Thames, along the daisy'd meads,
His wave, in lucid mazes leads,
Silent, slow,—serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing,
There, in a safe, though small retreat,
Content and Love have fixed their seat;
Love, that counts his duty pleasure;
Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.
"From art, from jealousy secure,
As faith unblamed, as friendship pure,
Vain opinion nobly scorning,
Virtue aiding, life adorning,
Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
May those whom Truth and Reason guide,
All their tender hours improving,
Live like us, beloved and beloving."
Descending the terrace, and crossing the bridge, how pleasant is the walk along the Middlesex bank of the river to the village of Twickenham, and its old grey church, where Pope lies buried! But, pleasanter still is it to take a boat, and be rowed up the middle of the stream, unlocking the stores of memory as we pass, and saying to ourselves, "Here, on the right, lived Bacon.—Yonder, at West Sheen, lived Sir William Temple; and there was born the celebrated Stella; and at the same place Swift first made her acquaintance.—And here, again, is Marble Hall, where the beauteous Lady Suffolk kept open house for all the wits of the neighbourhood."
Among the most conspicuous of the places we pass there is a neat little rural hut, called Gay's Summer-house, where, according to tradition, that amiable poet wrote his celebrated fables for the infant Duke of Cumberland, currying court favour, but getting nothing but neglect for his pains. "Dear Pope," he wrote to his brother poet, "what a barren soil I have been striving to produce something out of! Why did I not take your advice before my writing fables for the Duke, not to write them, or rather to write them for some young nobleman. It is my hard fate,—I must get nothing, write for or against them." Poor Gay! Too well he knew, as Spenser so feelingly sings in his Mother Hubbard's Tale,
"What hell it was in suing, long to bide,
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To fret the soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat the heart through comfortless despairs;
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone!"
Yet one cannot help thinking, after all, that it served him right; for, according to his own confession, he was ready to wield his pen either for or against the court, as might be most profitable. Who but must regret that a man of genius should ever have been reduced to so pitiful an extremity? Who but must sigh that he should, even to his bosom friend, have made such a confession?
At a short distance beyond Gay's Summer-house, and on the same side of the river, stands Ham House, formerly the residence of the noted Duke of Lauderdale, and where he and his four colleagues, Clifford, Ashley, Buckingham, and Arlington, held those secret meetings, which acquired for them a name infamous in English history, the Cabal,—a word which their initials happened to compose. In the house, now the residence of the Countess of Dysart, are preserved many memorials of the Lauderdale family. According to tradition, this is one of the places in which Charles the Second took refuge after the battle of Worcester; and it is also said that the great gate leading to the Ham avenue, has never been opened to any meaner visiter since the hour when the fugitive king, after he left the wood of Boscabel, was admitted within it for a night's shelter. Another tradition, which is still more questionable, asserts that here also, as at Boscabel, he hid himself among the branches of an oak to escape a party of his eager pursuers. A shattered trunk of a tree in Ham Lane was formerly shown to the visiter as the identical royal oak; and a fair which is annually held on the spot on the 29th of May, has tended to countenance the belief among the people of the neighbourhood, who have no notion that any incredulous and too precise examiner into dates and facts should deprive them of their traditions. However, "truth is strong," and truth compels us to say, that their royal oak is only a counterfeit.
Just before we arrive at Twickenham, there is a small island in the middle of the river, called by some "Twickenham Ait," but better known to the people of London as "Eel-pie Island." The tavern upon the island is famous for its eels, and the mode of dressing them, and during the summer season is visited by great crowds from the metropolis. Clubs, benefit societies, trades' unions, and other confederations, frequently proceed thither, each member with his wife and children, or his sweetheart, to feast upon the dainties of the spot. On a fine Sunday especially, Eel-pie Island is in all its glory, thronged with "spruce citizens," "washed artisans," and "smug apprentices," who repair hither, as Byron has it, "to gulp their weekly air,"
"And o'er the Thames to row the ribbon'd fair,"
or to wander in the park, which, thanks to the public spirit of one humble individual, is still open to every pedestrian. Though somewhat of an episode, the history of the right of way through this pleasant park is deserving of mention. In the year 1758, the Princess Amelia, daughter of George the Second, who was ranger, thought fit to exclude the public; but an action was brought against her by Mr. John Lewis, a brewer, and inhabitant of Richmond, which he gained, and the princess was forced to knock down her barriers. The public right has never since been disputed, and the memory of the patriotic brewer is still highly esteemed in all the neighbourhood, and his portraits sought after, as memorials of his courage and perseverance.
But to return again to Eel-pie Island. The place was the favourite resort of Kean for a few months before his death. The boatman we were fortunate enough to hire was the boatman generally employed by the great actor, and from him we learned, that after the fatigues of the night were over at the theatre, he often caused himself to be rowed to Eel-pie Island, and there left to wander about by moonlight till two or three o'clock in the morning. The tavern used at that time to be frequented by a poetical sawyer of Twickenham, whose poetry Kean greatly admired. The first time he heard the sawyer's rhymes, he was so delighted that he made him a present of two sovereigns, and urged him to venture upon the dangerous seas of authorship. By his advice the sawyer rushed into print, and published a twopenny volume upon the beauties of Eel-pie Island, the delights of pie-eating, and various other matters of local and general interest. Kean at this time was so weak, that it was necessary to lift him in and out of the wherry,—a circumstance which excited the boatman's curiosity to go and see him in Richard the Third at the Richmond theatre. "There was some difference then, I reckon," said the honest fellow; "so much, that I was almost frightened at him. He seemed on the stage to be as strong as a giant, and strutted about so bravely, that I could scarcely believe it was the same man. Next morning he would come into my boat with a bottle of brandy in his coat-pocket, as weak as a child, until he had drunk about half the brandy, when he plucked up a little. One morning he came on board,—I shall never forget him,—he was crying like a child, and sobbing as if his heart was breaking,—'twas the morning when his 'lady' ran away from him, and he told me all about it as well as he could for his tears. He had a bottle of brandy with him then. He gave me a quartern of it, and drank all the rest before we got to Twickenham, and then he was much better. But he was never the same man afterwards; he said his heart was broken; and I believe it was, for he never held up his head again, poor fellow!"
We thought the boatman (we should mention his name—George Cripps) seemed affected at the thought, and we asked if Kean had been kind to him.
"Many's the time," replied he, "that I have carried him in my arms in and out of the boat, as if he were a baby:—but he wasn't particularly kind. He always paid me my fare, and never grumbled at it, and was very familiar and free-like. But all the watermen were fond of him. He gave a new boat and a purse of sovereigns to be rowed for every year."
"Ah! that accounts for it," said we.
"When he died," continued the boatman, "a great many of the watermen subscribed their little mite towards his monument.
"Was there much gathered?" inquired we.
"About seven or eight hundred pounds, I think," replied the boatman, "and it was to have been placed in Richmond church; but we hear nothing of it now, or whether it's ever to be erected at all. But here we are, sir, at Twickenham church; and if you please to step ashore, I'll wait for you, and then row you up to the Grotto."
This was exactly the arrangement that suited us, and we walked into the dirty village of Twickenham, to pay our homage at the grave of Pope.