Charles G. Harper

COWAY STAKES—WALTON-ON-THAMES—THE RIVER AND THE WATER COMPANIES—SUNBURY—TEDDINGTON—TWICKENHAM.

There are some very pleasant places on this Middlesex side of the river: Shepperton Green and Lower Halliford notable among them; Lower Halliford fringing the river bank most picturesquely and rustically. Between this and Walton is the place known as “Cowey, or Coway, Stakes,” traditionally the spot where Julius CÆsar in 54 B.C. crossed the Thames, in his second invasion of Britain. CÆsar himself, in his Commentaries, writing, as was his manner, in the first person, says: “CÆsar being aware of their plans, led his army to the Thames, to the boundary of the Catuvellauni. The river was passable on foot only at one place, and that with difficulty. When he arrived there he observed a large force of the enemy drawn up on the opposite bank. The bank also was defended with sharpened stakes fixed outwards, and similar stakes were placed under water and concealed by the river. Having learnt these particulars from the captives and deserters, CÆsar sent forward the cavalry, and immediately ordered the legions to follow. But the soldiers went at such a pace and in such a rush, though only their heads were above water, that the enemy could not withstand the charge of the legions and cavalry, and they left the bank and took to flight.”

Many of these ancient stakes have been found, during the centuries that have passed—the last of them about 1838—and they have been for many years the theme of long antiquarian discussions. Formed of young oak trees, “as large as a man’s thigh,” each about six feet in length, and shod with iron, their long existence under water had made them almost as hard as that iron, and as black as ebony.

It was Camden, writing early in the seventeenth century, who first identified Coway Stakes as the scene of CÆsar’s crossing, for Bede, writing in the eighth century and describing the stakes in the river, mentions no place. They were said by Bede to be shod with lead and to be “fixed immovably in the bed of the river.” Camden was quite certain that here he had found the famous passage by CÆsar’s legionaries, and expressed himself positively: “It is impossible I should be mistaken in the place.”

But later investigators are found to be more than a little inclined to dispute Camden’s conclusions; and it is certain that whatever may now be the possibilities of fording the Thames hereabouts, between Walton and Halliford or Shepperton, and however deep the river may now be elsewhere, this could not, as Camden supposes, have been the only possible ford. In CÆsar’s time—it is a truism, of course, to say it—there were no locks or weirs, and the Thames, instead of being what it is now, really to a great degree canalised, flowed in a broader, shallower flood along most of its course, spreading out here and there into wide-stretching marshes, through which, however difficult the crossing, the actual depth of water would tend to be small. But in any case, arguments for or against Coway Stakes must needs be urged with diffidence, for the windings of the Thames must necessarily have changed much in two thousand years.

There are not now any of the stakes remaining here, but the disposition of them in the bed of the river has been fully put upon record. They were situated where the stream makes a very pronounced bend to the south, a quarter of a mile above Walton Bridge, and were placed in a diagonal position across it, not lining the banks, as might have been expected. But whether this disposition of them was original, or due to one of the many changes of direction the river has undergone, it would be impossible to say. It seems certain that in the level lands between Chertsey, Weybridge, and Walton the present course of the Thames is not identical with that anciently traced, and that the river has cut out for itself between Shepperton and Walton a way considerably to the north. There still exists a lake, very long and very narrow, in the grounds of Oatlands Park, between Weybridge and Walton, which is reputed to be a part of the olden course of the Thames. It has been pointed out, as a proof of these changes, that there are in this neighbourhood several instances of detached portions of parishes, situated, contrary from expectation, on opposite sides of the river. Thus Chertsey and Walton, both in Surrey, own respectively fourteen and eight acres in Middlesex. Laleham, in Middlesex, possesses twenty-two acres in Surrey, and Shepperton twenty-one acres. Eighteen of these more particularly concern this discussion, since they are part of the ancient grazing-ground of Coway Sale. The name “Coway” has been assumed by some, having reference to the ford, or supposed ford, at Coway Stakes, to be a corruption of “causeway,” while others find in it, according to the spelling they adopt, Cowey = Cow Island, or Coway = Cow Way. The supporters of the last-named form are those who refuse to recognise this place as the true site of CÆsar’s crossing. They point out—ignoring the diagonal course of a ford at this point, heading down river, instead of straight across—that the placing of the stakes more resembled the remains of an ancient weir or wooden bridge than the defences described by CÆsar, and say, further, that their being shod with lead or iron is a proof that they formed part of some deliberately constructed work and not a hastily thrown up defence. The position of the stakes, four feet apart and in a double row, with a passage of nine feet between, has given rise to an ingenious speculation that they formed an aid to fording the river, both for passengers and cattle, instead of being designed as an obstruction. This, then, according to that view, was the Cow Way, principally devoted to the convenience of the cattle belonging to Shepperton, to go and return between that place and the detached grazing-grounds of Coway Sale on the Surrey side of the river.

But that there has been fighting hereabouts is evident enough in the name of a portion of the grounds of Shepperton Manor House, known from time immemorial as “War Close.” At the time when Coway Stakes were driven into the bed of the river, to form a safe passage for the cows, or in the futile hope of withstanding the advance of the masterful Romans, the river must have spread like some broad lagoon over the surrounding meadows, and would have been much more shallow than now. Walton Bridge, in its great length, much of it devoted to crossing those low-lying meadows, gives point to this contention.

The village of Walton-on-Thames is at the end of its tether as a village, and the only interesting things in it are its church, and what is known as the “Old Manor House.” Dark yews form a fine setting to the old church, whose tower of flint and rubble, with repairs effected in brick, survives untouched by the restorer of recent years. The interior, although greatly suburbanised, discloses some as yet unspoiled Transitional-Norman portions. Here, in the stonework near the pulpit, is cut the famous non-committal verse ascribed to Queen Elizabeth, on the sacramental bread-and-wine:

Here is preserved a scold’s, or gossip’s, bridle, otherwise “the branks,” an old English instrument of punishment and repression for a scolding or gossiping woman. On it is, or was, the inscription,

The instrument is now so rusted that it is difficult, if not impossible, to trace the words. The date of it, and who this Chester was, are not known; but legend has long told that he was a gentleman who lost a valuable estate in the neighbourhood through the malevolence and irresponsibility of a lying woman.

The bridle, originally of bright steel, was made to pass over the head, and round it, and is provided with a flat piece of metal, two inches in length and one in breadth, for insertion in the mouth, the effect being to press the tongue down and to prevent speech. It is duly provided with hinges and a padlock.

For many years it hung by a chain in the vestry, and thus became injured and rusted; but in 1884 it was enclosed in an oaken, glass-fronted cabinet; so its further preservation is assured.

On a board suspended against the chancel wall are four small brasses of the Selwyn family, showing John Selwyn and his wife Susan, and their eleven children. He was keeper of the royal park of Oatlands, and died in 1587. On one of them, Selwyn himself, is represented mounted on a stag and in the act of plunging a hunting-knife through the animal’s neck. This traditionally represents an actual occurrence. It seems that when Queen Elizabeth was once hunting at Oatlands, a stag stood at bay and made as if to attack her; whereupon Selwyn jumped from his horse on to the stag’s back, and killed it in the manner shown.

Several elaborate monuments are to be seen here, including that of Richard Boyle, Viscount Shannon, who died in 1740. The life-size statues of himself and his wife are by Roubiliac.

The “Old Manor House” has of late years been rescued from its former condition of slum tenements. It stands off some bylanes, where there is a good deal of poor cottage property, and was long subdivided into small dwellings. A long, low building of timber, lath, and plaster, it dates back to the time of Henry the Eighth, and was then probably the residence of the keeper, or ranger, of Oatlands Park; and perhaps the residence one time of that John Selwyn of whose notable deed mention has just been made. In after-years it was associated with Ashley Park, and in Cromwell’s time was occupied by Bradshaw, President of the Council, and one of the signatories of Charles the First’s death-warrant. If one were to credit the old rustic legends and tales of wonder, this would be a historic spot indeed; for the old Surrey peasantry firmly believed that Bradshaw not only lived here, and was a party to the King’s execution, but that he executed him with his own hands, on the premises, and buried him under the flooring. English history, it will be perceived, written from the rustic point of view, should be entertaining.

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Leaving Walton behind, the Thames Valley is seen to have become the prey of those many water companies which some few years since were all merged into the Metropolitan Water Board. Between them and the spread of London, the once beautiful scenery of the reaches of the Thames has in long stretches been completely spoiled. Not sheer necessity, only bestial stupidity, has caused this truly lamentable condition of affairs. With the immense modern growth of the metropolis, it is specially desirable that the beauty of the river at its gates should have been jealously safeguarded, but it has been given over to those true spoilers, the waterworks engineer and the speculative builder; and the interesting and beautiful old-world villages and forgotten corners that survive do but increase the regret felt for those others that have been wantonly extinguished. The Surrey side of the river between Walton and Molesey has been made monotonously formal with the embankments of great reservoirs; and it is only when Molesey Lock is reached that their depressing society is shaken off. On the Middlesex-side, that part of Sunbury where the bizarre semi-Byzantine modern church of the place stands is the only unspoiled spot until Hampton Court comes in sight, and between the two we have perhaps the very worst exhibition of those outrages of which the water companies have been guilty. There, on either side of the road, a long, unlovely line of engine-houses and pumping-stations stretches; but hideous though it may be from the road, it is worse when seen from the river. There is always an entirely gratuitous ugliness in a water company’s engine-houses, and these examples are not by any means exceptions; being built in a kind of yellow-white brick, with a long series of chimneys and water-towers that have already been proved insufficiently tall and have each in consequence been lengthened with what look like exaggerated twin stove-pipes. It is a distressing and unlovely paradox that the buildings and precincts of waterworks are invariably dry and husky, gritty and coaly places, and these bring no variation to that rule. The roads are blackened with coal-dust, the chimneys belch black smoke, and the poor little strips of grounds that run beside the river, with lawns, and some few anÆmic trees, seem parched up. The Thames Ditton and Surbiton front of the river is in the same manner defiled with engine-houses and intakes, with coal-wharves and filter-beds, and with nearly half a mile of ugly retaining-wall. The especial pity of all these things is that they were not at all necessary where they are. They would have been just as efficient if placed in some position out of sight, away from the river bank, and could so have been placed, with a small expenditure for additional piping, instead of being the eyesore they are.

The village of Thames Ditton still keeps its rustic church, with curious old font, and the Swan by the waterside stands very much as it did when Theodore Hook wrote enthusiastic verses about it; but Surbiton, and Kingston, Hampton Court, Teddington, and Twickenham—what shall we make of these, now that electric tramways have girded them about with steel? Only by the actual riverside is Nature left very much to herself, and there, where the water roars over the weir of Teddington, you do find the river unspoiled. But it is only necessary to walk a few steps back from the river, into Teddington village that was, and is, alas! no longer—for a sadness to take possession of you. There you see not only a surburbanised village, but even perceive the original suburbanisation (an ugly word for an ugly process) of about 1870 to be now down upon its luck, in the spectacle of the villas of that date offered numerously to be let, with few takers. What is the reason of this? you ask. Electric tramways. They are the reason. Also, if you do but explore farther inland, you shall find more reasons, in the discovery that Teddington is now quite a busy town, and therefore offers no longer that charm of comparative seclusion it possessed when those villas of the seventies were built.

But there are yet other reasons, chief among them the very bulky and imposing one of the modern parish church of St. Alban, which rises like some great braggart bully, and utterly dwarfs the poor old parish church opposite, now degraded to the condition of a mortuary chapel, or the like, and doubtless to be demolished so soon as ever public opinion is found to be in an indifferent mood. It is not a beautiful old church, being indeed an Early Georgian affair of red brick, but it is representative of a period, and, with the Peg Woffington almshouses near by, is all that remains of old Teddington.

The neighbourhood of the great new church, built handsomely in stone, in a Frenchified variant of that First Pointed style we are accustomed to name “Early English,” is sufficient to frighten away any would-be resident, for it is as large as many a cathedral, and will be larger yet, when foolish people are found to subscribe toward the completion of its tower. If all this stood for religion instead of merely for religiosity—a very different thing—there would be nothing to say; but when we perceive the clergy, all over the country, striving for funds towards heaping up of stone and brick and mortar, all intended towards the end of aggrandising their own discredited order, and of again bringing about the imprisonment of men’s consciences, we can only imagine that the devil laughs and the Saviour grieves. Meanwhile, the great unfinished building dominates the place, and its long unbroken roof helps to spoil the view up-river, nearly two miles away.

If we may call Teddington a town, then, by comparison, Twickenham, adjoining it, is a metropolis. All this Middlesex side of the river is, in fact, spoiled, but the river itself, and the lawns and parks fringing it, are, happily, little affected, and none, wandering along the towing-paths, would suspect the existence of those great populations on the other side of quite a narrow belt of trees. The only inkling of them is when the wind sets from the streets and brings the strains of a piano-organ, the cries of the hawkers, or the squeaking of tramcar-wheels against curves, yelling like damned souls in torment.

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The older part of Twickenham centres about the church, one of those pagan eighteenth-century boxes of red and yellow and grey brick that are so familiar along these outer fringes of London. The old church sank into ruin in 1713, but the tower of it remains.

In the churchwardens’ accounts of some two hundred years ago we gain some diverting glimpses of an older Twickenham. Thus, in 1698, we find, “Item: Paid old Tomlins for fetching home the church-gates, being thrown into ye Thames in ye night by drunkards, 2s. 6d.”; and “Item: To Mr. Guisbey, for curing Doll Bannister’s nose, 3s.”

The old and slummy lanes that here lead down to the waterside are bordered with houses that date back to the time of those entries.

In the church is a monument to Pope, with an epitaph written by himself, “For one who would not be buried in Westminster Abbey”: the last scornful effort of his bitter spirit. The stone in the floor that marks his actual resting-place is covered over, and many therefore seek his grave in vain. I have, in fact, myself thus vainly sought it; questing in the first instance among the tombs in the churchyard, to the puzzlement of a group of working-men engaged upon a job there.

“What you looking for, guv’nor?” asked one.

“I want to find Pope’s grave.”

“Don’t know the name,” said he. “’Ere, Bill”—raising his voice to one of his mates a little way off—“d’ye know where a bloke named Pope is berried?”

O! horror.

An epitaph upon Kitty Clive, the actress, who died in 1758, may be seen here, among those to other notabilities.

From the crowded streets of Twickenham let us escape by means of Twickenham Ferry. Crossing the river at this point, Twickenham is seen at its best; for here the gardens of the three or four great mansions that yet remain entirely mask the ravages of late years. But even so, those who have known the scene from of old cannot look upon it altogether without regrets for the noble cedars of the estate known as “Mount Lebanon,” among the very finest—perhaps the very finest—in the land, wantonly cut down some few years since.